A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction, A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction, A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction, A Magazine of Poetry, Fiction,

and Artand Artand Artand Art

Wingspan Fall 2009 Wingspan Fall 2009 Wingspan Fall 2009 Wingspan Fall 2009

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VOLUME 9 FALL 2009 Jefferson State Community College

Editor…………Sharon DeVaney-Lovinguth

Editorial Policy Wingspan is an annual literary and visual arts publication of Jefferson State Community College in Birmingham, Alabama. Its purpose is to act as a creative outlet for students, faculty, alumni and residents of the surrounding area, thus encouraging and fostering an appreciation for the creative process. The works included in this journal are reviewed and selected by a faculty advisor on the basis of originality, graceful use of language, clarity of thought and the presence of an individual style. The nature of literature is not to advance a religious or political agenda, but to raise universal ques-tions about human nature and to engage reaction. Therefore, the experience of literature is bound to involve controversial subject matter at times. The college supports the students’ right to a free search for truth and its exposi-tion. In pursuit of that goal, however, advisors reserve the right to edit sub-missions as is necessary for suitable print. Appropriateness of material is defined in part as that which will “promote community and civic well being, provide insight into different cultural perspectives and expand the intellec-tual development of students.” The opinions expressed are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of the college administration, faculty or staff. Letters to the editor or information on submission guidelines can be obtained by e-mail at lovinguth@jeffstateonline.com All rights revert to the author/artist upon publication.

Photography/Art Bethany Mitchell cover photo (front) 36 Lorie Schumann “Healing” cover photo (back) 45, 49 Sarah Luckadoo 3 Sharon Nelson 7, 14, 15 Susan Dennis 20, 21 Sandra Pugh 25, 31

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Volume 9 Fall 2009

Wingspan Wingspan Wingspan Wingspan

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CONTENTS

POETRY

Lisa Stewart 8 “Driven By Rejection” “The Great Paradox” “Grief” “God” Michael Waldrop 16 “Why Aren’t You Me?” “I Didn’t Mean to Think” Elisha 18 “Love Stands Still” “Broken Pieces Restored” Bettie Cox 22 “Earthborn” “Written Across Canvas” Mary Kaiser 26 “The Light, That Evening” J. T. Bullock 28 “Love Comes Unexpected” Bob Whetstone 30 “Signed by Author” “A Short Poem” Stephanie Menendez 32 “There Is A New Smell In The Air” “I Feel As If I Am Two People” Robbie Mentes 34 “Ember” “Ashes” “Forgotten Scent” Nicole Whitfield 36 Three Untitled Poems About Love

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Danny Brister 38 “The Garden” “The Cross Bearer” Bethany Mitchell 40 “The Silence of Peace” Drew Watson 41 “The Passing of a Great Man” “The Fatal Mistake” “The Poet” John Hagadorn 44 “I’m Doing It For Me” Klinton Helms 46 “The End of the World” “True Value”

FICTION Tom Edwards “Holy Possum” 52 Michael Waldrop “Off a Cliff” 64 Thomas Shaw “Red, I Stop” 68 Jill Deaver “What the Water Gave Me” 76 Garrett Smith “This is Life . . .” 91 S. DeVaney-Lovinguth “And this is life, too . . .” 92

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Poetry

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Sharon Nelson

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Driven By Rejection

All the effort All the time

Working my way up Overachieving Being the best

Yearning to be average but unable to accept Trying to be perfect

Always doing the right thing Making up for mistakes in an never ending journey

Finally arrive The game changes

Crueler mistakes made The stakes of self worth higher

Unable to attain Course changed

New goals Weary, tired but not giving up

Giving my all to everything/everyone Wondering why I have to work

So hard to prove Why average can’t be enough in anything

Finances, career, relationships Taking it all is taking all of me

Can’t seem to figure out who I am or what I want Being driven to prove drains my life force

So I retreat – Come out as needed Survival forces my actions but proving I’m not who I am

Lisa Stewart

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Steals my soul When will I be enough to myself to reject – rejecting self

Put an end to hiding, settling, and analyzing self Proving, achieving, working, staying in others graces is the armor I

hide behind Too scared to stand up and be me

Because I am invisible Therein lies

The me I reject

Lisa Stewart

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The Great Paradox

My bones are getting weak Metabolism slowing down

Skin losing elasticity – wrinkles forming Brown spots Blurry eyes

Gray appearing Tired – needing naps

Enjoyment = relaxation Recognizing aloneness in world

Grieving the past The meaning of God/Life become more elusive and more important

All this happens slowly and quickly At the same time your spirit is screaming

“I’m in here and I haven’t changed!” “Stop It!”

“I don’t like this!!” I am still young, strong and full of life and dreams

I want to run, play, yell, and sing. Why is my house trapping, suppressing and trying to smother me?

I am the same now as I was at 10, 15, and 20 I haven’t changed but my house is collapsing faster than I can make the repairs

As the changes continue the more futile my resistance becomes I am the spirit that screams, “I am alive and well in spite of this body that deliber-

ately destroys me in the end!” I will never stop fighting to be heard and I hope that others will always know that

when I’m 70/80/90 I am the same as I am now at 40 Please don’t treat me old

Don’t let my appearance make you forget me at 20 because I am the same me Spirit doesn’t age! Don’t forget me!

Lisa Stewart

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Grief

Black, heavy, overwhelming Sucks your spirit out of you

Reality and fear crash in upon you The will to go on seems meaningless

Everything is questioned No relief anywhere

Insane thoughts and ideas race rapidly in your brain Your anger rises and you want and some will abandon God

You want relief but you don’t want to go on and be o.k. without the person you lost

The betrayal pierces your heart Everything is a haze

It’s an out of body experience A dream

You suit up and show up for life but no one is home The people around you have no idea what’s going on inside you

You can’t explain – no words Your soul screams in agony and no one can her it but you Reality and your mortality confront you with no mercy

You are slammed with the meaning of your life You hope and pray that there is a loving God

and that death is a new beginning and not the end Your are forced with a vengeance today goodbye

and your mind fights it with all the rebellion within When the beginning of acceptance begins,

you are in the truest and rawest regions of your heart You finally meet your true self

Lisa Stewart

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GOD

God – that’s the question Intellectually impossible to believe

Omnipotent – Omnipresent – Impossible! Arrogance to believe he cares about my selfish goals/plans in this life

Preposterous to believe this omnipotent force has a plan for each individual human

Even more unfathomable is a God that loves everybody yet everybody is divided because of God

What about the free will theory As used to explain all the suffering of humanity and the proof of God’s di-

vine love? We are to reject our intelligence and knowledge and be ignorant like chil-

dren To experience God except this is called humility

Which means -to be ignorant That is the spiritual challenge

Now we are asked to trust this God with no manners, this silent, all wise God As life kicks our ass we become desperate enough to twist our minds enough

to accept all this nonsense Now we are totally confused

We start this prayer thing and talk to this Impossible God Everything starts looking like a sign to prove this God is listening and more

important answering Now we are on a quest We become obsessed

Seeking peace within our souls

Lisa Stewart

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God is where we find this Once obtained, the world can’t touch us

Defying our logic To our amazement

The miracle happens We know we are ok no matter what we have eternal hope

No matter what happens You can never leave this God

In spite of all doubts – thoughts and emotions Faith has grabbed hold of you

God is found, Peace has saturated the soul You are now doomed to swimming in the abyss of the un-

known hope Until the end of your life when you uncover the truth –

Lisa Stewart

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Sharon Nelson

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Sharon Nelson

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Why Aren’t You Me?

What can I say, do I have to rhyme to make it all okay And if I go on Will I have to stay Is the songwriter a poet if his lyrics disagree And here is the question is why aren't you me? What are my dreams, are things really as they seem Why do I want to be the things I want to be And here is the question is why aren't you me? In this life what is it meant to be, are people more than what we see I see you there and your looking back at me And what is the question it's why aren't you me? What is it to be, do I really see the things I think I see In this life I wonder or, I guess I disagree, But still the question is why aren't you me?

Michael Waldrop

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I Didn’t Mean To Think Where Am I Now? Don’t Tell Me I did this please . . . But The Answer is the same I’m the one to blame One little thought to destroy my world Where is my soul? The eyes perceive pictures that deceive Do they want to destroy? The lamp the mirror see the inner sanctum, of what? A feeling, an illusion? Please don’t tell me it’s over Please don’t tell me one thought did this so that I may lose it all, based on an accidental thought that I didn’t mean to think When the fire goes out, and you’re out of matches . . . what’s the point? Is there one anymore . . . From a perfect circumstance to nothing but a future oblivion What’s the point The mind wanders as we contemplate and our minds think what we dare not say but how could a silent thought do this to me? Where, why, how the futility if such can do this to me . . . forgive me, for thinking . . .

Michael Waldrop

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Love Stands Still

Love is always here, it will always stand Still. Love stands still. Love is in the air, You can feel it here and there. Love stands Still. Love is pure, love is true, if you Believe, it’s in you. Love stands still. You can feel love, you can hear love. Love Stands still. Joy is here, love stands Still. Love is everywhere, in every place, And every heart, and every race. Love Stands still. Love is in the air, Love is by your side, let your heart come out, you don’t have to hide. Love stands still.

Elisha

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Broken Pieces Restored What don’t kill you makes you stronger. I have been in many places in uncomfortable situations since the age of 5. Here’s a poem to describe my story. I was raped at 5 years old, hurt by someone big and bold. I’m still scared from shock and pain, my heart was bruised and stained. From place to place I’ve been put down, raped and molested and left with a frown. My own father was the main one, he violated me like it was fun. After moving in with my grandmother, my cousin did the same as my father. Then my grandmother died after two years, I hated myself with blood and tears. I was talked about at school, dogged out and fooled, pushed around, and picked on. I was treated as if my heart was a stone. With my 5 sisters and one brother, I watched my father abuse my mother. He hurt her in many ways, with rapes and licks to the face. My father left home, I woke up and he was gone. My mother moved with a friend, the nightmare didn’t end. We moved with a drunk person, she watched and stared when we were hurting. She locked us out and threatened us bad, left us hurt and sad. At 14 I moved away, I been re-stored and now I have faith. I love myself with peace and good health, I’m now sixteen and my heart is free. I stand strong and believe, God says peace be still, believe in him and you are healed.

Elisha

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Blue Dandelions Susan Dennis

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Consciousness Susan Dennis

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Earthborn

In violent Beauty Earth was Born. The Child of Universal Skies, Born unto Starlight and Galaxies reaching beyond imagination— A Planet blue-green coming forth from dreams of Abyss— Given its own Star to shed warmth and light. Depths of Oceans were Created— Sea Animals cried and reveled in freedom and fear, As land Animals cautiously hunted and bred Among verdant Forests, humid Jungles, and jagged Mountains towering in blue. Seas always rolling in emeralds and aquas, Frothy Waves curling and crashing onto Shores Of Timeless Sands

Bettie Cox

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Thus Earth was born by the Hand of God— Designed to exist Then, Now, Forever, And beyond

Bettie Cox

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Written Across Canvas

An artist’s palette drenched in colors untold swirling and dancing to the rhythm of its soul Delving into fathoms yet unknown drowning in purples aquas and golds Bursting in splashes of reds and siennas while dreaming in colors yet unknown So many hues soon to unfold as stroke by stroke the artist’s heart is told As it is written across canvas . . . an enigma that can only be his own

Bettie Cox

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Sandra Pugh

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The Light, That Evening

traced like a beveled blade the outlines of homebound fishers, the weathered pier,

slatted backs of Adirondack chairs on the west-facing lawn, and inside too, chiseled the rims of goblets, the wicks

not yet lit and even our profiles turned toward the window, as one of us

remembered a song he stole from a motel Gideon east of Omaha.

And even after we fell silent it held so firm, its line so true that we’d left the table

and drifted in twos and threes back to town before it trembled, tipped,

and gave itself up to the moon.

Mary Kaiser

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Love Comes Unexpected For Liesl

Love comes unexpected it isn't something that exactly falls in our laps but we always hoped for it anyway letting life lead the march of its own parade we tried our best not to rush the procession But somehow it eluded us standing with arms crossed as others got swept away holding our breath until blues became the only lullabye we could ever sing And still we longed for all of it Tossing it aside as a pleasure reserved for the precious few because human beings often occupy the same circumstance forcing desires upon each other clinging to the notion that acting now is better than missing the ship letting the tick of time strong arm a surrender of all that was ever yearned for in exchange for what can be accessed

J.T. Bullock

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Liesl, you and I wanted none of this would rather sit on balconies with arms empty of anything except for promise strong willed in our belief that alone is the lot we must live until love finally settles in So tell me what was it like when it actually happened Did it resemble an onslaught a car crash from nowhere broken spider web glass and smoke stacks so thick it struck you blind did clouds burst like piñatas spilling brightly colored confetti to cover the dust was it like becoming famous your first big break a sleeper hit turned box office smash a meteoric rise so swift that everything in its wake was pure vanity Please forgive me I know I ask a lot of questions it's just that I've searched the entire span of this earth for evidence but if love found you, my friend then I believe it truly exists

J.T. Bullock

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Signed by Author

She inscribes her book of poetry with hope the words will speak to me. They do. Inner thoughts of aging anatomy that resists sanguine restoration: temple tempore. Subtext cries loneliness, surrogates replenish ephemeral affections: cat, dog. Optimistic phrases transform ordinary objects into idyllic icons: skillet, chair. Thoughts run deeper than mused woods with unblazed pathways and return to expose a psyche beyond her words so artfully crafted; boldly signed.

Bob Whetstone

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A Short Poem

This poem is very brief, rich with imagery, subtlety. Imagine that!

Sandra Pugh

Bob Whetstone

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There Is a New Smell in the Air There is a new smell in the air Something so fine and rare Irresistibly it pulls me in All I can do is grin My stomach fills with a million butterflies I find myself lost in your eyes You gently place your hand on my cheek My body goes weak Why do I feel this way? Should I run away? As I start to turn The wind catches my ear Gently it whispers “I love you” Is that my cue? The wind awaits my answer What am I waiting for? “I love you” slips my lips And you softly place your hands on my hips You lean in and your lips smoothly touch mine I knew it was time The love was in the air And it brought us here The east and the west have met And they are in love

Stephanie Menendez

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I Feel as if I am Two People I feel as if I am two people In front of everyone I am one But when I am alone I am another I fake a smile in front of the world But really die when its only me Rain constantly falls inside when on the outside only sun shines I want to be me without the glares and judging But I know I cant so I stay in hibernation I cry myself to sleep every night No one knows the true pain I feel I want to run so far away from here But my other keeps pulling me back Everyone sees a perfect life full of happiness and greatness But no one ever cares to ask for the real me So I stay behind this mask Everyday enter this masquerade ball Where I win the prize for best costume When the sun sets I begin to come out I put away my costume Hide behind a notebook and pen Rain escapes my body and I begin to drift away Yet to wake to another day I stand up and once again put on my costume I become my other me I step into the world that is set for me Put on my smile and walk through yet another day

Stephanie Menendez

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Ember

A fading ember in the background, Hiding behind the trees.

Wind is brushing against my face And dancing with the trees. Storm clouds are gathering

But all I feel is peace.

Your Love is all around. Silently, You comfort me.

I can feel Your warmth near me. .

Inside, the embers are igniting And I’m finally seeing what you see.

Please, Stay with me.

Outside, the sky is growing darker But I know the stars will come.

Wind chimes are singing, Their voices resonating through the night.

Resonate in me,

Spread through my veins, I give my self away.

Robbie Mentes

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Ashes A fire is burning deep within her mind. Slowly consuming her entire life. Memories are turning into ash, Leaving her with nothing left to grasp. She doesn't know me anymore. But I remember the way she was before. All of the love and laughter, Will she ever receive her Happily Ever After?

Forgotten Scent

I breathe in a forgotten scent. Close my eyes and you arrive. My world slows as I surrender. Memories of me and you, Why did you have to go? I'm breathing deeper As you begin to fade. My eyes are moist, For all I have are memories and forgotten scents.

Robbie Mentes

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Three Untitled Poems About Love

#1 There’s just something about your eyes, And the truth in the skies, Arm around my hips, The touch of your lips . . . The smell of your hair, The chill of your stare, Dusk into dawn, And I just can’t move on. #2 A bug scampers across the floor, I hear a knock upon the door, A leaf will fall, an eagle will soar, And I have always loved you more.

Bethany Mitchell

Nicole Whitfield

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#3

It’s not that I live once, But that I live a thousand times.

Life is nothing But analogies and rhymes.

And what pains once Will pain again.

Once . . . Twice . . . Three times the friend.

And not that I cry once, but that I cry once more. Not from my eyes,

But straight from my core. The wonderful knowledge,

It shakes me still. I feel it within, I follow at will.

And not just that once, But a thousand times.

I just can’t learn From the poem’s last lines.

And I go back, Regress, if you will.

And I get hurt, But I regress still.

I’ll have a laugh now, And then I do another.

But no one sees how I smother. I’ll live once,

And a thousand times, And tell my story

Through redundant rhymes.

Nicole Whitfield

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The Garden

Deep down by the rivers that flow there is tall grass where flowers grow, The valley high and the mountain low overlook the greenest pastures that reside down below, the weather always just right to sustain, No caretakers needed Mother Nature will maintain, The deepest roots with the freshest fruits, From green leaves to fig trees the atmosphere is always inviting to the perfect mixture of sunshine and rain. The Garden’s beauty can be seen from vine to vine, The divine presence that the garden commands causes all people to drop down in amazement. The Lilly, Roses, and Tulips are all in anticipation of their time.

Danny Brister

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The Cross Bearer

The betrayal by a kiss on his cheek so sweet, a weight that he carried so we wouldn’t repeat. An act of kindness and love so true, a sacrifice that was made just for you,

The price he paid for your life so dear is the same thing that draws him near. A brother, a friend, a lover and a savior so true,

Who else would have done what he has done for you? He bled, He suffered, and He was beat till his skin turned blue,

To take your sins so would be made new. Your life was changed from that very day,

To be a new creation and not have to live life the same way. The request in return for that debt is small; all he asks is that you repent and stand tall,

Live life with joy, peace’ and faith. To know that you already have been given what it takes.

Run the race strong and run it with care, Know that no matter what you through he’s always there.

These things that he asked compare no to what he went through. He did this out of love for me and for you.

Danny Brister

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The Silence of Peace

Blue spray flies

as the waves rock

back and forth, back and forth.

The white gull soars

as the wind howls

all around, all around.

Across the tranquil sea

are faint whispers of peace.

The war is over. It is over.

Bethany Mitchell

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The Passing of a Great Man

I knew a great man once Who made me into a man He had a plethora of friends But I was his number one fan And though he passed at sixty I knew him only twenty-five years He got to live a wonderful life But his funeral will only bring tears One of the wisest people I've known Something many others could also say He taught me everything I know And I will think about him everyday If I could talk to him again Although it would make me sad I would only have one thing to say And that is.......... I Love You Dad

Drew Watson

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The Fatal Mistake A figure approaches, cloaked and black, With skeletal features and eyes ready to exact, His gestures are vague and lack emotion. A sinister calling is his grim devotion. Instead of running, I stay there curious. The closer he gets, his eyes appear more furious. A stench of rotten flesh plagues the air, As he moves forward the ground turns bare. Alone we are, no others around, If I were to scream, no one would hear the sound. He stops moving about three paces away, Lifts his head, a sight I will remember every day. He talks in a language I don't understand, So he beckons me closer, with his skeletal hand. Obviously not a costume, so could it be, The Reaper himself here to take me? My life flashes before my eyes, As I begin to fear my coming demise. I trip as I begin to move in, With his scythe he catches me, my life is over. Fin. .

Drew Watson

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The Poet Poetic in nature, most creatures cannot be, With one exception, which happens to be me. Instinctively inspired to carve a rhyme, Timelessly translucent they expose me for all time. No hunting for a topic, as they come with ease, However all are the same, designed to please. Cultivating mental creations and incarnations, Luring you away from your dreaded work stations. Words are our world, the creation of all, Mine are merely a cushion, for when you fall. Magical transactions from me to you, As catchy as the wide-spread swine flu.

Drew Watson

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I’M DOING IT FOR ME

IT HAD BEEN SO LONG, SINCE I HAD ATTENDED SCHOOL I HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN, THE OLD GOLDEN RULE

READING, WRITING, AND ARITHMETIC ALL LEARNT BY THE HICKORY STICK

WELL THAT SURE DIDN’T SOUND, LIKE MUCH FUN TO ME SO AT THE DOOR OF THE SCHOOL, I STARTED TO FLEE

YOU KNOW I HAD MADE IT, THROUGH LIFE THESE 40 SOME ODD YEARS AND HAD MADE A PRETTY GOOD LIVING, THROUGH BLOOD, SWEAT AND

TEARS SO WHY SHOULD I GO BACK, AND RACK MY LITTLE BRAIN WHY I HAD ENOUGH SENSE, TO GET IN OUT OF THE RAIN TWO NIGHTS EACH WEEK, FOR WHO KNOWS HOW LONG

AND THEN TAKE A TEST, THAT WAS NOT AS EASY AS SINGING A SONG WHY PUT MYSELF THROUGH, THIS PAIN AND AGONY

THE REASON BECAUSE, ITS NOT FOR YOU, I’M DOING IT FOR ME HEY IT WAS FOR ME, I KNEW THAT GUY

HE WAS THE FIRST ONE IN THE MORNING, THAT I LOOKED IN THE EYE HE WAS THE VERY ONE, THAT I CHERISHED AND FED

I EVEN SLEPT WITH HIM EACH NIGHT, AS I LAID IN MY BED I PETTED AND PAMPERED HIM, EACH TIME HE WAS SICK OF ALL MY GOOD FRIENDS, HE WAS ALWAYS MY PICK

I KNEW WHEN HE HURT, AND I KNEW WHEN HE WAS SAD I KNEW ABOUT THE GOOD TIMES, AND THE THINGS THAT MADE HIM GLAD

I KNEW THINGS ABOUT HIM, THAT NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW IF HE WAS THIS IMPORTANT, THEN I REALLY SHOULD MAKE HIM GO SEE I HAD THE POWER TO GUIDE HIM, IN ALL THE RIGHT DIRECTIONS

TO HELP HIM MAKE HIS GOALS, AND TO REACH FOR GREATER PERFECTION SO THIS NEXT STEP IN LIFE, OF RECEIVING MY GED NO IT’S NOT FOR YOU HONEY, I’M DOING IT FOR ME

John Hagadorn

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Lorie Schumann

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The End of the World Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four,

Klinton Helms

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Three, Two . . . I was having too much fun. I never heard “one.”

Klinton Helms

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True Value

Lookee, lookee, at what I’ve found What I’ve found on a bookstore’s ground: A first edition In great condition. For just a buck Or is it four? I hope my luck Will bring me more. Lookee, lookee, at what I’ve got What I’ve got in a parking lot: A first edition In good condition. I read it once And once again. Would you consider That a sin? Lookee, lookee, at what I’ve read, What I’ve read upon my bed: A first edition In used condition. A weathered book Covered with earth Has finally Proven its worth.

Klinton Helms

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Lorie Schumann

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Fictions

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52

Holy Possum

“Get up boys, time to get ready for church,” Maw hol-

lered. Maw started every Sunday morning the same way, rousting

all six of her children out of bed and into the kitchen for breakfast.

“Jim, Jim, where are you? Has anybody seen Jim?” Maw asked as

she stomped out on the porch looking for Paw. “Jim Johnson, I

know you can hear me! It’s time for church.” But Paw didn’t an-

swer. Maw stormed back inside mumbling something about a hea-

then.

All of us kids were at the table munching down on a good

Sunday morning breakfast. Cathead biscuits, salt pork, grits, eggs,

and blackberry jelly. Maw really knew how to cook and we weren’t

late for the table very often.

Meanwhile, Paw had slipped out the back while Maw was

cooking. He heard Maw calling him, but kept on paddling, because

he was going fishing; Paw loved to fish on Sunday morning. He

always said that most everybody else was at church and he had the

whole river to himself. Besides, he really didn’t like listening to

Reverend Jones. He said that Reverend Jones went on and on so

long that it would put a soul to sleep, except that Reverend Jones’

whiney voice was so irritating that you couldn’t sleep.

Tom Edwards

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Paw talked to the Lord in his own way and I know this to

be a fact, because every time he caught a fish, he would say,

“Thank you Lord,” and put it on the stringer.

Back at the house, Maw had fed us all and was making

sure that we were all dressed properly. With this done, she lined us

all up and made any last minute adjustments if necessary. Then she

would look at us and throw her hands up in the air and shout,

“Thank you Lord Jesus for these fine children and look after my

heathen husband, wherever he is. Amen.”

We all knew to start walking as soon as she said Amen, so

we headed off down the dirt road toward Chissom Creek Baptist

Church. It was about a two mile walk and we made it every Sunday,

unless it was lightening. Maw didn’t like lightening. She said it was

the Lord’s sword striking down evil spirits and that we didn’t need

to be out on the battlefield, less we might be mistakenly struck

down. She said that the Lord was getting pretty old and she didn’t

know how good his eyesight was anymore.

We arrived about thirty minutes early as always and we

were in fairly good shape. Little Bob had jumped in a mud hole and

had mud all over him, but it really didn’t matter because I don’t

think anyone at church had ever seen Bob without mud on him

somewhere. John had a knot on his head, where Will had hit him

Tom Edwards

54

with a rock and Will had whelps on his legs, where Maw had

switched him. All in all, it was one of our more successful walks to

church.

We walked into the churchyard and Maw was speaking to

everyone about anything new that had happened in the community

that week. The older men were gathered up on the far end of the

yard exchanging cuts off of assorted plugs of tobacco. That’s where

I headed, hoping that Mr. Watson would give me a cut of his

Brown’s Mule without Maw finding out.

Reverend Jones walked up to Maw and said, “Good

morning Mrs. Johnson and how are you on this fine morning?”

“Very well Reverend Jones, I’m just proud that the Lord

has given us another day.”

“That’s the spirit Sister!” Reverend Jones smiled, “And

where is Mr. Johnson today?”

Maw’s face drew on a concerned look, “Reverend, I don’t

know what I am going to do with Jim. He slipped out of the house

this morning while I was cooking breakfast. He’s probably down on

the river fishing.”

“Maybe I should go and talk with him next week,” Rever-

end Jones offered.

“Oh, no,” said Maw, “The last time you talked to him, he

Tom Edwards

55

started slipping out on Saturday and didn’t come home until Mon-

day. At least now he’s home on Saturday.”

Reverend Jones frowned a little and said, “Everyone

come inside now, it’s time for the service to get started.”

The women and children started in first, as the old men

lingered while they spit their tobacco out and wiped their faces as

best they could. Maw guided us to our regular pew and lined us all

up before we could sit down. She always wanted the three youngest

on her right because she was right handed and could twist an ear if

necessary. The three oldest were on her left and we knew that if we

cut up, we would get cut down later.

Reverend Jones made the usual announcements and

started on the prayer list. When he got to the end of the list he said,

“And we need to say a special prayer for Jim Johnson. That he

might see the light and come to church on Sunday morning.”

John spoke up and said, “We can’t even see the church

from our house preacher, much less a light in the window.”

All the men and children busted out laughing and the

women cut their eyes at John and frowned, while Maw was putting

a twist on John’s ear to silence him. Reverend Jones interrupted,

“Let’s have reverence in the Lord’s House. That’s not the kind of

light I was talking about.” The laughter stopped and everyone’s

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56

attention was on the preacher.

It kind of caught him off guard and he had to explain

himself. “It’s the light from the Lord.” We were all thinking about

lightening and sat there with bewildered looks on our faces as Rev-

erend Jones continued. “The light of the Lord, you know, from

heaven.” He paused with a shortage of words. “Brother Mims,

would you come up and lead us in a song.”

Brother Mims was a happy, cheerful man in his fifties that

everyone liked. He hopped up and grabbed a hymnal and we were

off and singing. We all loved to sing and it made Maw proud to see

us all join in. We were probably the loudest pew in the whole

church.

Brother Mims led us in three songs and then he said,

“Lets sing Heavenly Sunlight,” which was my favorite and he knew

it. He asked me to come up and help with the song and I did. That

song set the tone for Reverend Jones. The whole congregation was

ready to worship the Lord.

Reverend Jones started preaching and he was really let-

ting the hammer down. Over half of the congregation had their feet

pulled back under the pews because he was stepping on some toes.

Mrs. Davis was feeling guilty because she had been gos-

siping and vowed never to gossip again: which lasted until church

Tom Edwards

57

services were over and she found someone to talk to. John Moore

felt ashamed because he had been looking at Chet Walker’s wife.

The list went on and on as Reverend Jones was on one of his Tell it

all brother sermons.

Allan Morris jumped up and confessed, “Lord, forgive

me. I haven’t been as good of a husband as I should have.”

“Tell it all brother!” Reverend Jones responded with

much enthusiasm.

“Lord, forgive me. I received more change than I should

have at the grocery store and I kept it.”

“Tell it all brother!”

“Lord, forgive me. I stole one of Bob Rush’s goats and

sold it back to him yesterday.”

The whole congregation stood up and looked at Allan as

Reverend Jones broke the silence saying, “I don’t believe that I

would have told that brother,” with a very concerned look on his

face.

Meanwhile, Bob Rush had started out of his pew with a

message for Allan, who wasn’t hanging around to receive it. He ran

out of the front doors of the church with Bob right on his heels.

Reverend Jones finally controlled the situation, as Allan and Bob

were conducting their business outside, he continued his sermon.

Tom Edwards

58

Well, Reverend Jones went on and on and on. I was start-

ing to get hungry and little Bob was fidgeting around like he had

ants in his pants. I liked coming to church and the singing. I even

liked the first forty-five minutes of the preacher’s sermon, but the

other hour was hard to take.

Mrs. Wilson was sweating and had her hand fan going

wide open when something wet touched her leg. She looked down

and there was a possum, baring his big teeth and slobbering on her

leg. She jumped up on the pew with a loud “Lord, help me!” Then

other people started standing up and shouting, “Yes, Lord help

her!”

There was a whole lot of repenting going on and that

possum had started it all. About that time, that possum ran across

the aisle and I saw him. I guess it had been hiding under one of the

pews and had took all he could take of Reverend Jones’ sermon and

was trying to get out of church before he went crazy.

I jumped up and headed up the aisle to catch the possum

and Reverend Jones shouted, “Come on my son.” I was headed up

that aisle pretty fast and took a hard right as Reverend Jones was

coming down to meet me.

I caught up with the possum at the edge of the first pew,

which I really don’t know why we needed it, because nobody ever

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59

sat there. As I grabbed the possum by the tail and snatched him up,

Reverend Jones was coming to meet me with open arms. When I

turned around with that possum bearing those big teeth, Reverend

Jones fell out, flat of his back.

Mrs. Wilson, seeing what had happened to the preacher,

passed out cold and she was still standing on the pew. She fell like a

wet rag, right in George Lucas’ lap. When Mrs. Lucas, who had

been praising the Lord with her hands up in the air and her eyes

shut, opened her eyes and saw Mrs. Wilson in her husband’s lap,

well, it wasn’t a pretty sight. She picked up a hymnal and was beat-

ing poor George over the head with it.

It sure was a sight, women screaming and running out of

the church doors. Most of the men were laughing their heads off,

while some of them were screaming and headed out the doors with

the women. “It’s just an old possum,” I hollered, but that didn’t

seem to calm anyone down.

Well, I was standing there in church holding that possum

and I figured that I had better get him out of there, so I headed out

the front doors with him. As soon as I got out the doors, everyone

that had run outside screaming, took of running and screaming

again.

I stood there grinning like the possum that I was holding,

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60

at such a sight. All the boys gathered around me to get a good look

at the possum.

“Look there, that possum has got a notch in his ear,” one

of the boys said. I looked down and sure enough, there was a notch

in his right ear and I knew that notch.

I had been possum hunting with Paw many times and if

he caught one that he didn’t want to keep, he would notch his ear. A

lot of the old timers did that so they would know if they ever caught

that particular possum again. Well, that notch was Paw’s notch, but

I didn’t say anything. Paw was in enough trouble as it was.

Reverend Jones and Mrs. Wilson finally came to and

realized that it wasn’t a one of Satan’s demons, but just an old pos-

sum. Some of the congregation was straightening up the mess in the

church while I was about to release the scared possum at the edge of

the woods. Mr. Watson walked up to me right before I turned the

possum loose. “I sure would like to have that possum. I’ll trade you

a plug of Brown’s Mule for him.”

That was a deal that I couldn’t afford to turn down. So I

took the plug of tobacco and Mr. Watson headed home with his

possum. Meanwhile, Maw had rounded all her children up and we

headed home. All the way home, Maw kept saying over and over, “I

wonder how that possum got into the church. It just don’t make

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61

sense.”

When we got home, Paw was sitting on the porch and

Maw was so bent out of shape about that possum disrupting the

service that she didn’t even ask Paw where he had been. She went

on and on about the whole ordeal and Paw would say, “No, you

don’t say,” and try to look real serious, but I could see the twinkle

in his eyes.

Maw finally quit ranting about the possum and how Rev-

erend Jones had fell out cold and went into the house to start sup-

per. With Maw inside, Paw couldn’t hold it anymore. He just busted

out belly laughing so hard that I started laughing too.

Paw grinned and his eyes sparkled all evening long and I

knew what he had done. Paw had went down to the church on Sat-

urday night and put that possum in the church. I guess it all worked

out just as he had planned it, too.

I just couldn’t stand it anymore and asked, “Paw, how do

you think that possum got into the church?”

Paw rubbed his chin for a moment and said, “Well, a

possum is always looking for something,” then paused and said, “I

guess he was just looking for the Lord. He must have been a holy

possum.”

Tom Edwards

62

We laughed and went inside for supper. This had been a

Sunday to remember.

***

The moral of this story is…

A creature as simple as a possum,

can sometimes arouse the soul of man.

***

Tom Edwards

63

64

Off a Cliff

They said, "Stop! You're running off a cliff!" Foolishly our

hero didn't listen, but luckily as he was falling our hero hit a

tree which saved him from an untimely demise. He was so

high up and so far away from his friends that he knew that he

was stranded and inevitably would have to wait there for an

extended period of time. And he did for two days, and our

hero finally decided to climb down himself.

Unfortunately, our hero became very lost in the

woods that surround the cliff. Then he remembered some-

thing as if it were a cartoon flashback:

"Look at this," said his dad.

And our young hero replied, "What is it?"

"It's a compass; the needle always points north, and

if you happen to run off a cliff, get lost and start having car-

toon flashbacks you can use it to get home," his father re-

plied.

So he looked in his pocket for a compass, but didn't

find one. So he became very frustrated, and thought about

ways to navigate his way out of this wooded area. Then he

Michael Waldrop

65

thought to himself, "I know. I'll use a G.P.S.!" He remem-

bered what his uncle always said, "real men don't use G.P.S."

Then he exclaimed, "Forget that, I'm going home!" So he

sprinted toward the tree which he had spent two days at ear-

lier, but as he was about to get close enough to touch the

tree, he remembered that his backpack flew off his back

while he was falling. Then he said to himself, "This is impos-

sible. I'll never get out." However, he remembered his spe-

cial powers, which he used to open a portal to another di-

mension and transported himself to the top of the cliff. Then

he thought to himself, "Why didn't I do that when I was stuck

in the tree two days ago?" Then a mysterious voice ex-

claimed in a humorous manner "'cause you're stupid."

After transporting himself to the top of the cliff, our

hero noticed his friend's car was gone, and said to himself,

"What friends! You get lost for two days and they drive off."

So our hero walked homeward through the brush and sud-

denly bumped into a wall of glass. He looked out and saw a

seemingly infinite desert of red sand, and he realized he was

on mars! Yes, he was in fact on mars because the woods he

Michael Waldrop

66

had been lost in had been incased in a glass dome by aliens

in order to study the life forms inside. Then our hero thought

to himself, "How am I going to get home, what do the Mar-

tians want to do?"

He quickly hatched a plan to defeat the Martians.

He picked up the first sharp things he could find, a stick and

a rock, which he would use to defeat the Martians. But then

he thought to himself, "Why am I doing this?" Then a myste-

rious voice exclaimed in a humorous manner, "Because

you're stupid!" The mysterious voice continued, "The Mar-

tians don't want to conquer the world just yet, they just want

to probe you."

"No not a probe!" our hero shouted. He was think-

ing, "How am I going to get home, what are the Martians

going to do, and who is this mysterious voice that calls me

stupid in such a humorous manner?" Then he remembered

his special powers and opened up an interdimensional portal

that took him home. Then he thought to himself, "Why didn't

I do that earlier?"

Then a mysterious voice exclaimed in a humorous

Michael Waldrop

67

manner, "Because you're stupid!"

Then our hero said to the mysterious voice, "Who

are you, and why do you keep calling me stupid in such a

humorous manner?"

"Who says you have to know?" said the voice.

Then our hero said, "I say I have to know." Then

they paused for a while. Then our hero said, "Seriously why

are doing this?"

Then the voice said, "Because the writer told me

to." Then they paused for a while. Following this extensive

pause, our hero heard a mysterious whistle followed by the

voice saying, "Well, that's the end of my shift, see ya." Then

he heard footsteps and a mysterious door close. Then he just

stood there for a few seconds due to his utter confusion.

Then he said "I'm hungry I think I'll go to McDonald's."

Michael Waldrop

68

Red, I stop

I drive through the Birmingham city limits edging

closer to full speed. The rocks left from fresh cement shake

my car. The city skyline is beautiful on a night like this--

cloudless, full of stars. The buildings reflect the light from

the moon with grace.

Each turn I hit glues me to my seat with a firm pull.

Valet parking restaurants and haute nightclubs are left in the

dust. Blood drips down from my windshield. I blink once.

The blood is rain, not blood at all. Biting my nails, I look to

the rearview mirror. The cops are still not tailing me. I wish

they were.

Traffic lights blaze overhead.

Green: I press my foot down.

Green again: I press harder.

Red: I stop.

Thomas Shaw

69

A stretch of sidewalk lines the entrances to jewelry

shops and gun stores on both sides of the street. The street

signs read Richard Arrington Boulevard. A boy skips past

my car to my left lit by a moonlit spotlight. His polo of blue

and white stripes seems so familiar. His short brown hair

stirs memories. He stops, turns to make eye contact with me.

The boy looks like my son. It’s him! I panic. It can’t be. I

roll down the window.

“Michael, go home!” He runs away. I blink once. The

boy is now wearing a little league baseball outfit—his hair is

blonde. I roll up the window.

Green: I go.

The strip approaches. I know it well. My eyes veer to

the left. D’Angelo’s Bar and Grill. Somerset Clothes and

Accessories. A pizza joint has opened. There is no time for

food. I try to squeeze in some sightseeing to my right. Mi-

chael is in the passenger seat.

“Why am I dead?”

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70

“Dead? Why are you in my car, Michael.”

“Why are you driving so fast?”

“I don’t have to answer you, I am your father.”

“That’s fine. Don’t worry; the cops are just a mile

away,” I blink once. He is now in my lap. I cannot see the

road. I look into his eyes. Hollow. Empty.

“Get off me!” It does me no good. Memories stir.

“Are you asleep, Michael? I walk into his room. My

vision blurs. Every time it comes into focus I see the assorted

stuffed animals on his bed. A cookie monster lamp rests on

his nightstand. A bookcase sits parallel to dresser draws

against the light blue wall.

“Almost, Daddy.” He tucks himself under his Sesame

Street covers. He is wearing a blue and white striped polo

and blue pajama bottoms.

“Anything the matter?”

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71

“Read me a story.”

“Any story?”

“Any story.” I grab the first book I see from the book-

case. Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. Mi-

chael is busy situating himself. I place the dagger I slide

from my pocket in between the pages…

“Stop it!” I punch through empty air. There is no one.

My car continues to take me deeper into the city. Lights be-

come dimmer. Active establishments become rare. Buildings

sport broken windows. The doorways are cracked in. Look-

ing to my rearview mirrors, I see the lights.

Red: I stop?

White: Oh, no.

Blue: Shit.

Thomas Shaw

72

Thomas Shaw

They have found me. One patrol car leads the pack with two

friends trailing behind. I cannot go any faster. My surround-

ings are unfamiliar. Trees are the main attraction. I give it

two months till they are pushed aside for corporate America.

I see no traffic lights. There is a sign on my right. Interstate

exit. I take it.

There is no one on the road. My gas is on empty. I am

fast. The cops are faster. The lead cop bumps my tail. I

stomp my pedal but gain no ground. I can only do one thing.

I hit the brakes. Time stops. The first car crashes into my car

going vertical. The second car slams into the first’s front

wheels leading the third to veer off and slam into the guard-

rails setting its exterior ablaze. My windshield opens for me

like a gate inviting me to a new world. I am flying. Heaven

waits. I blink once. My son is flying with me.

“Do you have any confessions to make?”

“No.”

73

“He won’t let you in.”

“Why not?”

“First, you murdered your own son—“

“I don’t even care anymore. You were sick. We couldn’t

afford to take care of you.”

“Watch out for oncoming traffic.”

‘What?”

I am not dead. I crash into the pavement. I stand up. My

knees are bleeding through my jeans. Skin is missing from

parts of my arms. I am alive nonetheless. The next exit is just

ahead. I check the sign.

Exit 17: Turn around, asshole.

Thomas Shaw

74

I turn around. A cop survived. Blood drips from his nose

and uniform. His hair is a little disheveled. He is alive none-

theless. A trigger is pulled. The nightmare stops.

Thomas Shaw

75

76

Jill Deaver

What the Water Gave Me

It is early when we board the plane to Philadelphia.

Janet is afraid to fly, she says that she knows too much about

plane crashes. I do not pretend to know what she means, and

I do not ask her. I do not see how it is possible for her to

know about plane crashes, but perhaps she has done some

research. The way I see it, the worst thing about a plane

crash is surviving it. I am not afraid to fly. We place our

bags under the seat in front of us. We settle in. I decide to

try to make something artful out of an itinerary.

May 4, 2008

8:05 AM- We are buckled in and ready to take off.

8:30 AM- We are in the air. Janet is trying to relax. She is

listening to music on her iPod. Her lips are pursed and her

head is nodding to a rhythm I can’t hear. I imagine this is

what she looked like as a teenager. She takes deep breaths

and looks out the window.

8:40 AM- We lift off the ground and I glance over at Janet.

She sees me and she forces a smile. She’s afraid, but likes

77

the window seat—I’m not afraid, and hate the window seat.

8:47 AM- There is some turbulence now. Some people gasp.

I write, “but I’m OK being in the air and I think I should

write this down because now I might die.”

8:50 AM- I stop reading my book because I realize it is just

for show. There’s no way to concentrate on a plane with a

book. It’s better to sit and watch as people adjust their air

vents, or try to find cosmetic cases in their overhead luggage.

On a plane someone going to the bathroom is a study in hu-

man behavior. I like to make direct eye contact when people

pass by. Especially when I know the bathroom is already

occupied.

8:55 AM- Drinks are served. Jill= Ginger ale; Janet= noth-

ing. She tells me that she wants to consume less. She says,

“I need to simplify my life.” I do not understand what she

means. What is more simple than six ounces of ginger ale? I

hold the plastic cup in my hand; I feel the sharp edge of the

rim; I brace myself to cough from the effervescence, and I

am forced to question my own desire for airplane hospitality.

Am I another monkey eating peanuts?

Jill Deaver

78

3:00 PM- I can’t keep up with this itinerary idea. I will make

up something up when I get home. Though, it might be im-

portant to mention that we have boarded our connecting

flight to Philadelphia. We are in Cincinnati; buckled in and

ready to go.

3:20 PM- One more thing, a woman has boarded with a

chocolate ice cream cone and I wonder what kind of person

can lick an ice cream so close to strangers. She struggles to

place her carry-on in the overhead compartment. Ice cream

melts down her wrist. After she heaves her bag in place, she

pauses to lick at the stream of dark brown cream. Her

tongue licks upward into the palm of her hand and sits down.

I think I can smell her sticky wrist. She sits next to me.

3:30 PM- I like to watch the heads of everyone in the plane

as we take off (and when we land too). They all bounce and

shake in unison. Everyone’s body shakes. Everyone is

quiet. Some people close theirs eyes. I always tighten my

seat belt and squeeze my hands together. If I could I would

reach down through the plane and claw our way to a stop.

Jill Deaver

79

When did I first separate myself from myself? When

did I become two?

I began taking pictures of myself in college—sprung from an

urge to calculate my unhappiness. My boyfriend did not

love me, my friends did not like me, and I did not know what

to do with myself. I spent a lot of time in my studio apart-

ment. Sometimes I would go out to a house party on Middle

Street, or to the local bar. Sometimes I would start to go but

was unable to leave the apartment. I would become afraid

that one would want me around. Sometimes I would go back

to my full length mirror, look at myself all dressed up, get out

my camera, take a picture and put a movie into the VCR.

The night would become me in a tiny, white-walled apart-

ment, watching a movie, drinking wine and playing with

sleeping pills. Sometimes I watched my reflection watching

a movie. Sometimes I would take a picture of it. Sometimes

I would cry at the most sentimental episodes on TV.

Here it is. I want to make sense of it. I take all

these pictures out of a box. I lay my self-portraits down in a

row in front of me: Me in Store Window, Me in Pink Sweater,

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80

Me on the Floor, Me in the Park by the Lake, Me in Gas Sta-

tion Bathroom Mirror. I work to read the image but I cannot

make sense of that face. The eyes large; arms, skinny; hair,

brown. There is nothing I recognize, no exact feeling I can,

for certain, retell. It is a picture of me as I was then, which

must say something to who I am now.

Frida Kahlo surrounded herself with her own re-

flection. Here is a self, she might say, but that is not me. But

it is. It is one of many.

Janet and I touch down in Philadelphia and we call

Susan and Jennifer from the train. They had arrived earlier

that day. They give us walking directions to the hotel and

we meet them in the lobby. Jennifer greets us with arms up

and her adorable squeal; Susan, with her ever casual, ever

sing-songy, “he-ey.” We all hug. And I think that if I can

hug them for longer, I will keep myself from floating above

this scene, because I feel myself struggling to be in this

place, in this moment.

We are all uprooted. In a city to see an artist’s

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81

work. The largest Frida Kahlo exhibit in the United States. I

have come for answers. My friends have come for their own

reasons.

We go in search of dinner. As we walk around I

feel myself pull inward almost instantly. A foreigner in this

city, and somehow a foreigner to my friends. Or they are to

me. It is wrong of me to feel this way. I invited them all

with me. While booking our plane and hotel on Janet’s com-

puter, we felt so grown up. We sat there, in our 30s, starting

at the screen, waiting for my credit card to be approved. We

marveled aloud: “We’re almost like adults!”

At dinner, I could not join them in their ooohs and

ahhhs over the wine and organic salad. Janet must feel re-

lieved to not be the only vegetarian. When I first thought of

the trip, I imagined one trip to the street vender, Tony Bour-

dain style, eating a Cheese Steak with Jennifer, the only

other meat eater. But I heard the news right before the trip,

she had become a vegetarian. I dislike converts, and so I am

always suspicious of new vegetarians. Like born-again

Christians, new vegetarians are over zealous, and protest too

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82

much over their past sins of carnage. They make too-

dramatic faces and unnecessary protests to show their disgust

over bacon, pork carnitas, or a medium-rare filet mignon. I

imagine they have to do this to convince themselves that it

doesn’t taste good anymore. But Jennifer is not a zealot,

though does ask, “Is there any meat in it?” I reject their love

of the fresh, organic beets, the perfect vinaigrette, their desire

for the waiter to tell us everything about the wine we were

tasting. Susan adores our waiter. He tells us that if we want

more good wine, that we should visit his boyfriend who

works at a vintage wine bar. Feeling that I have a purpose, I

write in my journal: 15th and Spruce, ask for Josh. But now I

see that there are also two other names on this page: Bou-

mont and Antonio. The girls share their food. My mozza-

rella sandwich is full of crispy prosciutto. It is delicious, but

I cannot share.

I had anticipated seeing Kahlo’s work in person. I

wondered if I would be blown away, and awe struck. Would

it feel like I was experiencing something? I wanted it to.

My journal is dated April 5, though I know this must

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83

be wrong. I know this for two reasons. One, because we left

immediately after my semester at Montevallo ended, and two,

because I had been, since February, getting the dates wrong

on everything.

May 5, 2008

Janet and I are waiting in the lobby for Susan and

Jennifer. We have admitted that we miss our husbands.

When Susan and Jennifer are ready, we go sight

seeing as we walk toward the day’s destination—The Mutter

Museum. Walls of empty skulls and tiny inscriptions of oc-

cupations and causes of death; the cancerous breast with nip-

ple hair seemed to flower somehow as the edges, where it

had once attached itself to a body, ruffled cloud-like and

hovering, in the pale green solution. I must have stared at

the aborted and miscarried babies for half an hour before the

high-school field-trip interrupted me. The eight-month-old

fetus seemed to communicate cryptic warnings, or messages

of comfort, un-lived and preserved and floating—one eye

closed the other half-closed. I’ve been told that my eyes do

the same thing when I sleep. My husband took a picture of it

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84

once to show me. Ghostly, and dead.

May 6, 2008: Inside the Frida Kahlo Exhibit

I wanted to connect. Had I anticipated it being too

great? I felt detached. There were so many people at the

exhibit that the only thing that made me feel that I was actu-

ally there was the bright blue scarf I was wearing. I wanted

Frida Kahlo to answer questions for me, like why do I need

to see my own reflection. Why does it comfort me? What

does it answer for me? The museum was warm and I had on

too many clothes. But I could not take off my new scarf.

It’s what I had picked out to wear for when I saw Frida’s

work, in person, for the first time. The line was long and I

felt the need to occupy myself, I wanted somehow to get into

myself, trick myself into thinking that I was alone, and that it

was just going to be me and Frida when I went through the

entrance to the exhibit. I wrote in my journal: I can see that

she’s waiting for me, peeking out over the crowd. She says,

“We are the same. We like to document our sadness, but

we’ll never be satisfied with it.”

Jill Deaver

85

The line slowly inched forward and I think to my-

self how I’m going to refuse the head phones for the guided

tour. I didn’t need someone telling me about Frida’s life and

why she painted this or that. Wasn’t it obvious that every-

thing she painted was an attempt to figure herself out? But

as we got to that spot, I didn’t object. The woman handing

out the machines complimented me on my scarf, and how I

contrasted my colors. I said, “Thank You,” and “Oh,” as if I

had just realized it myself. But I put this outfit together on

purpose. Wide legged blue jeans, black heeled, mary-jane

shoes, a red-orange tank top (to match the land where Frida

grew up) and a turquoise blue scarf (like the house she lived

in) and a red purse (for something strong and unexpected).

During my acting so flattered, I was distracted and took the

headphones from the young woman, who was now compli-

menting my friend Jennifer’s earrings. I placed the head-

phones around my neck and I walked forward with everyone

else. I can see the first painting, and everyone is tall and I

worried that I wouldn’t be able to see anything. It reminded

me of when I was young and in the concession line at the

Jill Deaver

86

ball park, people—adults—would step around me. They

thought I was younger than I was. Eventually, I just had to

say that I was the next in line. They always backed up. Eve-

ryone crowded around Frida, Self-Portrait with Monkeys, the

one I saw peeking over the heads when I was farther back in

line. There were people all around me. I felt like I couldn’t

take my time. Why did I think that I would be alone in front

of this portrait? The braids in Frida’s hair look like monkey

hands. The monkeys look like they are protecting her.

There was a room full of photographs, and there

were so many people in that room.

Someone said, "She's much prettier than she makes

herself out to be."

Another woman, "She looks angry." Another

woman sighs.

People placed their delicate fingers over their

mouths. They attempted to get closer and closer to the wall.

Everyone was bumping into everyone else.

I had imagined what seeing her paintings would be

like—I expected more, I expected to be able to experience

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87

something. I wanted inside of it.

Before I left the exhibit, I took these notes: I stand

at this painting and look into the eyes of Frida Kahlo. My

eyes fall into her eyes. Eyes fall into eyes. My hair grows

long and dark and into a long pony tail, or bun tightly

cinched at the nape of my neck, her neck. My skin smells of

mole and masa flour. There is a celebration in my mem-

ory. Time Flies and the plane takes me with it. The clock

always stops here, and this dress is my dress. The paint

dries around me and I am still. I am looking out in the

room. People walk by and look at me, but they like the other,

more deconstructed, portraits better. Like the one about my

miscarriage, or my broken back, or my twin. I am here and

quiet. My skin turns to paint, and I become still and staring.

I look back at myself still drying, and I don’t believe that it’s

me. How am I supposed to understand myself if my own re-

flection doesn’t make sense?

* * *

We are on a plane again, this time we all fly out

together. Janet asks me if I know what I’m going to write

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about. I say that I have no idea. We become silent and I feel

guilty for wanting to be away from her. I have never felt so

tired. My feet are throbbing and my whole body wants to

give in and recoil into itself. If could, I would find a corner

and fold myself there and hide. The best that I can do is hide

my face in my hands. I lower the serving tray and rest my

head on my hands. It had been a long and terrible semester.

There was a death and conflict over a grade, and a need to

break away from scholarly writing, and a desire to piece my

whole life together somehow. Turn it in to something artful.

There was a choice to make. I need to either close both eyes,

or open them. I should quit or continue floating.

* * *

At home, I float in the bath. My feet, a mirror im-

age of themselves. Slowly memories surface in the water. A

dress, a gift, I received on my first birthday. Mom and Dad

holding my old brother, years before I was born. Mom never

smiles in pictures. My father lets me trace the lines in his

hand as we sit in church. I fall into the nicotine and oil

stained creases.

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89

I stretch my body out in the park three times: once

to watch the meteor shower, once to picnic at midnight, and

once to lie naked, then rise up from the cold wet grass,

bruised around the neck. My underwear had shown neon

white in the moonlight as I walked away from it.

Tightrope walking, studying trees and dead birds. I

am perceived as a failure for simply floating here.

I slip down, submerging myself. My ears fill with

water. I allow the pressures and sounds of all these memo-

ries and images to grow and fill my head. My eyes close and

are weighted by the importance of every little detail, every

crawling insect that ever crawled past, every childhood re-

alization, every dream that I never remembered right, every

drop of water I sucked into my lungs. Every thought of

death, and every actual death.

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91

This Is Life . . . “This is life in the 9th month. I feel more discomfort as comfort approaches. I picture myself angry but all I do is stand. My blood is boiling, but only because it’s been left on the stove. I’m drowning myself in intelligent thought, but it only makes sense to me. I have a big problem associ-ating people with their appearance. I’ve told myself I’m a good judge of character, on the same hand I’m unfair and judgmental. I’m constantly analyzing my environment and the people that occupy it. People are shallow but I guess it’s not their fault. They didn’t choose to be born into the shark pit that is southern upper middle class suburbia. Mothers in makeup who are more concerned about gossip than the crip-pling state of the economy. Fathers that work themselves tirelessly and draw their only happiness from boats and tree stands. Children that drink on the weekends because they’re bored. My angst has been born and it is slapped on the ass by a woman in an SUV that buys her daughter birth control. Wal mart is breeding ground for ignorance, but who can pass up those prices, right keep your eyes to the side and watch that mouth child, god is listening. I feel like the ghost of a man. Is this nature or the product of nurture? I’m only a maid and a blacksmith’s son.”

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And this is life, too . . . “If I have to push a grocery cart up the aisles of a store one more time, I think I will shatter into a thousand points of unhelpful light, glowing nowhere. Already my eyes tear up as I approach the vegetable and fruit aisle, smile firmly in place, I wonder if I will measure my life in the number of bananas I have left to eat before I die. I’m sure there’s a for-mula somewhere to predict it and price it—the banana, my apple in the garden of Eden that is suburbia. I don’t blame Walmart. I do blame SUVs. They just reflect what we are, ourselves. But I can see that a kid would blame me. When I was a kid, I would’ve, and I would’ve hated being called a ‘kid.’ But that was before I had this strange late, middle of life per-spective: Adults have very little control and power for all their blustering and big cars and furniture and fancy dress balls to raise money for diseases. Everyone gets dropped into the game like a foreign football, and figures their way around from there. I am an American football on a Chinese field, and it all seems strange to me. It isn’t like there’s a real plan, you know? I get the angst, though, I really do, especially knowing that it can’t be fixed by lower prices, lots of alcohol, or the moon shining in some guy’s eyes, or even a tiny, sparkly pair of ruby red slippers. I feel like a ghost, too, child of a lost mother and lost father of unspecific origination.”

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93