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RENAISSANCE The Writers’ and Artists’ Magazine of Wayne Community College Goldsboro, North Carolina Volume 23, April 2007 Dedication This twenty- third issue of Renaissance commemorates the fi ftieth anniversary of Wayne Community College and is dedicated to Dr. Edward H. Wilson, Jr. President, 1992- 2007 for his leadership and service and for his support of Renaissance STUDENT AWARDS Cover Design Sze Man Eva Chan Essay Charles Owens Poetry Christian Turnage Ann E. Spicer Memorial Award Becky Holloman Thomas Sahn EDITORS Rosalyn Lomax Kathryn Spicer Jeff Williams Marian Westbrook, Editor Emerita ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Faculty Gene Smith, Margaret Boothe Baddour, Torey Romero, Patricia Turlington Staff Theresa White- Wallace Student Sze Man Eva Chan Educational Support Technologies Department Thomas J. Garrou Wade Hallman, Brent Hood, Ron Lane Alice Wadsworth Student Government Association Kornegay Printing and The Artists and Writers No part of this magazine may be reproduced without permission. Copyright 2006 Renaissance Views expressed are those of the individual contributors and do not necessarily refl ect the views of the editors or this institution. i Table of Contents Ponte Vecchio Sunset ........................................................................... 1........................................ Jeff Williams, English Instructor 2000 B. C. ............................................................................................. 1................................... Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Sunrise over Serengeti ......................................................................... 2.............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Yi’s Pendant ......................................................................................... 3........................................ Thomas Sahm, Associate in Arts The Breakfast Table ............................................................................. 4....................................... Charles Owens, Associate in Arts Dedication to Dees ............................................................................... 5...................................... Diane DeBruine, Dental Assisting Winter Is Not Burl Ives ........................................................................ 6........................................ Jeff Williams, English Instructor Sin ........................................................................................................ 6....................................... Kelley Thomas, Associate in Arts Thoughts About You ............................................................................ 6................................. Brittany Verner, Associate in Science Mill Town Nightshift ........................................................................... 7........................................ Jeff Williams, English Instructor Sky View 1 ............................................................................................ 7.......................... Joy Pearce, Volunteer Wayne Coordinator Angels? ................................................................................................ 8.............. Theresa White- Wallace, Secretary, Language and Communication, Developmental Studies Department Field of Dandelions .............................................................................. 8...................................... Diane DeBruine, Dental Assisting An Angel ............................................................................................... 9................................. Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts PS2 Lover ............................................................................................ 10................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Fate ...................................................................................................... 11 ................................... Becky Holloman, Associate in Arts Rose ..................................................................................................... 11 ................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Cupboard Guitarist ............................................................................. 12................................................ Jon Ortiz, Associate in Arts Credo ................................................................................................... 12........ Janet Carmichael, Developmental English Instructor Good Morning, Warden! ..................................................................... 13........................ Al Boone, Air Conditioning, Heating, and Refrigeration Technology Pin Point ............................................................................................. 13..................................... Diane DeBruine, Dental Assisting A Hummingbird Pantoum ................................................................... 14.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor A Moment in a Loud Crowded Room ................................................. 14.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Fall, Your Time of Year, My Dear ....................................................... 14............................. Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities and Creative Writing Instructor Pond of Koi ......................................................................................... 15........................................ Brytani Fraser, Associate in Arts Hidden ................................................................................................. 15................................... Becky Holloman, Associate in Arts Invisible: My Trip to Saudi Arabia ..................................................... 16.................. Janice Nelson, Medical Offi ce Administration Butting Heads ...................................................................................... 17............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Where Would We Be? ......................................................................... 18..................................... Valerie Stephens, Criminal Justice Masai Girl ........................................................................................... 18............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Ancestors ............................................................................................. 19.............................. Korreain Cummings, Associate in Arts Masai Welcome Dance ........................................................................ 19............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Brooklyn of the Mind .......................................................................... 20....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor Mantis Wire ......................................................................................... 20................................................ Jon Ortiz, Associate in Arts World of Ash ....................................................................................... 20....................................... Thomas Sahm, Associate in Arts Rickshaw, Red, and Ritual .................................................................. 21................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Bird of Paradise .................................................................................. 21................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Summer ............................................................................................... 22...................................... Kelley Thomas, Associate in Arts Mirror .................................................................................................. 24...................................... Kelley Thomas, Associate in Arts Dragon Fly Wire ................................................................................. 24............................................. Jessica Pitt, Associate in Arts Flower or Female? .............................................................................. 25........ Terri Coley Carraway, Associate in Applied Science Out to Dry ........................................................................................... 25......................................... Angie Waller, Associate in Arts The Old................................................................................................ 26.................................................... Brent Hood, Web Master A President’s Memory ........................................................................ 26.................. G. Herman Porter, President of WCC 1986- 92 The New .............................................................................................. 27.................................................... Brent Hood, Web Master Memories ( 1980- 83) ........................................................................... 27............. Kay Albertson, Vice President, Academic Affairs / Student Development WCC Memories .................................................................................. 28.............. Miriam Wessell, Interim Developmental Studies Department Head My Favorite Memory .......................................................................... 29.................... Kay Bradley, Campus Information Specialist Memories from the Seventies ............................................................. 30.................... Carl Brow, Counselor, Student Development Renaissance and the Old Campus ....................................................... 30.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor ii Sitting Up with the Dead ..................................................................... 31......................... Dave Meador, Retired Forestry Instructor Old Campus ........................................................................................ 31.................. Marian Westbrook, Retired English Instructor Memories ............................................................................................ 32................................. Banks Peacock, Computer Instructor Memories of the Old Campus ............................................................. 34......................... Alice Wadsworth, Chief Financial Offi cer South Campus ..................................................................................... 34.................................... Sharon Smith, Executive Secretary Old Campus Memories ....................................................................... 35.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor Diversity .............................................................................................. 35............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Memories of the Old Campus ............................................................. 36............. Theresa White- Wallace, Secretary, Language and Communication, Developmental Studies Department Memories of a Friend .......................................................................... 37............. Theresa White- Wallace, Secretary, Language and Communication, Developmental Studies Department Serenity ................................................................................................ 38......................... Joy Pearce, Volunteer Wayne Coordinator The Class ............................................................................................. 38................................... Rebecca Sewell, Medical Assisting April 5, 1999 ....................................................................................... 39................... Ann Spicer, English Instructor / Planning and Research, deceased Miss Ann Spicer .................................................................................. 40........................ Wendy H. Smith, Business Administration To Ms. Ann .......................................................................................... 40.................................... Angelo Edwards, Associate in Arts The Pain of Servitude .......................................................................... 41....................................... Thomas Sahm, Associate in Arts A Song for Joey ................................................................................... 42............................................ Linda Sugg, Associate in Arts Unspoken Words ................................................................................. 42....................................... Joyce Jernigan, Associate in Arts Life Untouched ................................................................................... 43.............................. Wendy K. Womble, Medical Assisting Generations ......................................................................................... 44........ Terri Coley Carraway, Associate in Applied Science The Father That I Never Knew ........................................................... 45........................... Joshua Dale Lane, Livestock & Poultry/ Agribusiness Learning Process ................................................................................ 45............................................... Eva Chan, Associate in Arts My Childhood in Tampa ..................................................................... 46.............................. Korreain Cummings, Associate in Arts City Map ............................................................................................. 47....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor Anxiety ................................................................................................ 47....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor No Leaves in Autumn ......................................................................... 48........ Andrew Rasjski, Wayne Early Middle College High School Downstairs .......................................................................................... 49................................. Bobbie Stringfi eld, Associate in Arts Saved by the Bell ............................................................................ 50........................ Al Boone, Air Conditioning, Heating, and Refrigeration Technology Timeless ............................................................................................... 51............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head For Just a Moment .............................................................................. 51.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor Camoufl age ......................................................................................... 52.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor Sharing Our Space .............................................................................. 52............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Sitting Proudly .................................................................................... 53............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Passerby .............................................................................................. 53.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Ode on a Vampire ................................................................................ 53.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Vanity’s Place: A Modern Myth .......................................................... 54........ Janet Carmichael, Developmental English Instructor Forgiveness ......................................................................................... 56....................................... Travis Jenkins, Associate in Arts Solitude Standing ................................................................................ 57............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Number ............................................................................................... 57............................. Nichelle Jackson, Information Systems Sandy Soul .......................................................................................... 58.......................................... Jacob Jessee, Associate in Arts Sky View 2 ........................................................................................... 58......................... Joy Pearce, Volunteer Wayne Coordinator Life Moves On .................................................................................... 59............. Amanda Sternberg, Wayne Early Middle College High School Sanctuary ............................................................................................ 59........................ Wing Ka Angela Leung, Associate in Arts Garden Party ....................................................................................... 60....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor If You Were A Dancer ......................................................................... 60.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts 1 Ponte Vecchio Sunset Jeff Williams 2000 B. C. The great majestic towers Touching the sky with ease Might Babylon live forever May no one sack your towns And no one raze your cities The famed gardens shall stand As long as the sun and rain persist Make all the world your own As far as the eye can see The gods of no nations Can stand against you Hail Nebuchadnezzar Your empire is secure Christian Turnage 2 Sunrise over Serengeti Gene Smith Editors’ Note: Gene Smith, 2005- 2006 Distinguished Chair, used his award to visit Africa. His photos in this issue of the Renaissance are from his trip. 3 Yi’s Pendant The golden sun is heavy in the late Thai afternoon. Outside dozens mingle where white casket stands covered with fl owers and silk against the concrete house. In the old house I stare at the wooden mantel and bare bed. In the corner, colorful yet simple is a necklace. The braided yellows, blues, and reds grab me. My vision urges me to reach out and pull it free from where it sits alone and forgotten. The necklace is worn and torn but it holds together defi ant of condition. So much like Yi, willful and wise. Delicate with age but stronger in spirit. The pendant it holds is also worn. The oval once rich in color is now Only a blackened hue of bronze, the engravings too worn to read. An old man smiles from the pendant. He is a monk, happy with simplicity so much like Yi, simple but content poor in life but rich in soul and love. Thomas Sahm 4 The Breakfast Table Charles Owens When I think of a place that is special to me, I am immediately transported back in time. I can hear the familiar cracking and popping of something fi ghting against the heat of grandma’s cast iron skillet. Then, the smell of frying bacon fi lls my nostrils. In an instant, I hear the creak of the oven door, and the aroma of fresh baked biscuits dances with that of the bacon. A hint of coffee lingers in the background. My senses are aroused and lulled all in the same breath. I also hear the newspaper pages being turned. Each page is scanned slowly and carefully. When the pages are turned, they get a stout fl ick to keep the folds in place. There’s a distinct rhythm to the goings on down the hall. With the knowledge of what awaits in the kitchen, I try to struggle from the comfort of the feather tick bed and patchwork quilt I’m buried in. I pause to savor the smells closer to me. There’s a bit of a moth ball or cedar scent coming from the quilt. I’m sure this is left over from time spent in the cedar chest at the bottom of the bed. My favorite quilt is made from patches of old, worn out clothing that I can easily recognize with my eyes shut: my grandfather’s shirt, my grandmother’s apron, my sister’s Easter dress, and my own corduroy pants. I rub my fi ngers absently over the squares with my eyes closed to test myself on recognition of which fabric is which. After doing this for so long, I have worn a bare spot in one of the squares. It is the square made of my grandmother’s apron. It has a slightly silky feel with small raised dots. I remember her telling me that it’s called “ Swiss Dot” material. The smell of breakfast begins to win, and the covers magically pull back allowing me the freedom to move. It’s still a struggle for me to force myself out of the bed. But I know that it’s fi rst come fi rst serve here, so I need to get up. The chill in the air compared to the warmth of my nest startles the rest of me awake. I rub my eyes, wiggle my toes, and before my feet can hit the fl oor, I am buried once again. My grandmother wraps me in her arms, kisses the top of my head, and tells me good morning. I return her hug eagerly and let my head fall into the softness of her belly. She puts her hand on the back of my head and pulls me closer, scratching the back of my head lightly, an area she calls my “ kitchen.” I never did fi nd out why she called it that. I could fall back asleep in the comfort of her arms, but I know she’s not going to let that happen. My socked feet shuffl e easily against the hardwood fl oor as she takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. Grandpa is already sitting at the table sipping his coffee and reading the Saturday morning newspaper. I can hear him slurping the hot steaming cup as if he were sitting here right now. He picks the cup up ( one of those old Corelle cups, white with a green border), blows one breath across the coffee, then slurps a drink. Every now and then he will “ humph��� at something he reads and announce to us what has caught his interest. No one reads the newspaper before Grandpa; he likes his paper crisp and neat. While he updates us on current events, my grandmother shuffl es from stove to table until the table is brimming with breakfast. There is a mound of bacon, another mound of buttermilk biscuits, an enormous bowl of scrambled eggs, and enough pancakes to feed an army. A glass pitcher fi lled with ice- cold milk sits beside a stack of plates on one end of the table. Out of another pitcher fi lled with orange juice, she pours me a cup in one of those real small juice glasses I never seem to see any more. I drink it quickly so I can have another. 5 Soon the front door gives way to a couple of uncles, some cousins, and even neighbors. Everyone who can make it to the breakfast table does. The room fi lls with chatter, laughter, the sound of silverware clinking against plates, and a sense of comfort. The table is elbow to elbow, serving plates emptying quickly and bellies bulging with fullness. The comfort of my grandmother’s kitchen expanded farther than me. Many people over the course of many years have found their way there on Saturday mornings. I got smart quick and spent Friday nights at my grandparents’ house, so I would be the fi rst one at the table. The memories of those times comfort me to this day as I’m sure they do many others who frequented the breakfast table. The memory of the smells, the people, the food, the laughter, all of it still brings a smile to my face all these years later. Dedication to Dees Diane De Bruine 6 Winter Is Not Burl Ives Winter is not Burl Ives worming through our frosty lives his tenor, by golly, holly jolly knives grating at windows on cold winter nights. No, winter is not Burl Ives his tired, musty, dusty jibes no match for more cynical drives and colorful, spinning commercial lights. I tell you, forget about Burl Ives. He cannot fi ght with blue tail fl ies pitchers, tea cups, and clear ice. No ukulele can resist our modern tides. So it’s R. I. P. to Burl Ives and his long gone simpler times. Goodbye to his pleasant country rhymes drowned out by the horror in the headlines. Jeff Williams Sin What should I have done? I wanted to break its skin. Should I have always wanted And never have tried? If time started again Would I make the same sin? A talking snake… What would you have done? Kelley Thomas Thoughts About You Sunfl owers so full Smiles soaring through tree tops Things that are never dull Wanting to grab a few pops Planting seeds Getting down and dirty Playing with beads Hoping we won’t turn thirty Mixing drinks Soaring so high Working out the kinks Wishing to fl y I’m falling Nothing like a dove For I know I’m in love Brittany Verner 7 Sky View 1 Joy Pearce Mill Town Nightshift I’ve never seen the sun beyond lavender shadow and orange shades, not for a long chain of twenty- fi ve years, link after link, a dedicated daysleeper, third- shift, halogen and plasterboard. The pink angel came with its message of love, my paper wing: bridge by the river, wind through my shirt, embrace of the water. After decades in darkness I couldn’t fathom thoughts of light. Jeff William 8 Angels Theresa White- Wallace Late one summer night, music was heard from the house below. The old couple that owned the house was no longer living. The house had been empty for years, but it was still visited weekly by family. A knock came at the door. The person at the door had heard some music and was afraid, and she wanted someone else to confi rm what she was hearing. At fi rst it was thought that someone was playing a guitar. Where was the music coming from? Was it coming from inside the house? Was it coming from the barn or from somewhere in between? Who was playing this low, soft, mystical music? The music stopped and all went inside. The music was heard again the next night. Again, there was a knock at the door. The music is back. Call other family members. In the dark of the night stood grown men and women who were listening to the music that mesmerized them by its sound. Why would no one investigate? The following night children were left behind as their parents stood atop the hill where the music could be heard. Almost on cue the music began to play. On this night the men decided to investigate. With fl ashlights in tow they started down the lane that led to the house below. The ones left behind watched as the men disappeared into the darkness. The four men didn’t speak as they made their way toward the music. The men stopped after they arrived at the barn and turned off their fl ashlights. The light pole nearby gave them enough light to see the house in the distance. The music could be heard more clearly now. It wasn’t someone playing a guitar; it was someone playing a harp. The music began to fade in an upward direction as the men approached the front yard. All four men stood still as the music slowly faded away. How were they going to explain what had just happened? “ The music has stopped,” someone said from the hill top. It was a while before the fi rst fl ashlight could be seen. Why had the men waited so long to come back after the music had stopped? Was someone drunk, playing a guitar? The men explained what they had heard, and everyone returned home. The music was never heard again. Field of Dandelions Diane De Bruine 9 An Angel Sze Man Eva Chan 10 PS2 Lover Sze Man Eva Chan 11 Rose Sze Man ( Eva) Chan Fate Becky Holloman His eyes are cold and hard, never wavering, never fl ickering with indecision or emotion. How can he remain emotionless through all this turmoil? Do the blows of the whip not affect him as they do the other prisoners? Has he already lost hope for a miraculous rescue or to be freed on some noble’s whim? Numerous people have I seen pass through these wrought iron doors into my hands as Head Executioner of the King. Some come with stark raving terror already etched upon their faces. Others enter quietly praying that they are not where they think they are. A few enter these doors with the arrogance that they are going right back out again. So many have I seen and dealt pain and fear to. Their faces, clothing, screams, pleas, everything about them has already begun to blend together to form one large mass of a nameless body in my mind. Why then does this one man draw all of my attention unto him? He is nothing special. Medium height, broad shoulders, and a lean physique. Hundreds like him have already come through. Wait, there is a mark on his right wrist that was previously hidden by the ropes binding him. The symbol of a phoenix in fl ight, clutching a rose in its talons. Please, by all the gods, let me be mistaken! Do not let the youth have a burn mark on this right ankle! With great trepidation I lift the cuff of his pant leg and fi nd… a burn mark. It is with the last ounces of hope that I shake the youth in an attempt to rouse him, to get some form of an expression to cross his eyes. Nothing. His head lolls back, and it rapidly becomes apparent that he choked to death upon his own tongue. My fate is sealed. For I have inadvertently killed the Crown Prince. 12 Cupboard Guitarist Jon Ortiz Credo Alone at last, for the rest of my life. Yep, that’s the way to go. No one left to lean on. I should have thought of this before. It won’t be too hard, I bet, To do everything by myself. Who needs a helping hand? Goodness knows, I certainly don’t. I have everything under control. So I won’t need your advice or support. The loneliness I feel now will fade with time. Or so I have been told. I’ll never count on another To do what I can do alone. It’s better to be self- suffi cient And do everything on my own. So, forget it; don’t come near me. I’ll only make you go. Isn’t it so very obvious That I just want to be alone? Janet Carmichael 13 Pin- Point Diane DeBruine Good Morning, Warden! Al Boone It is the edge of night; the glow of the sun creeps upon the sky in the east. As it tries to overtake the darkness, I drive down a bumpy path. The rattle clanks and clunks of the Toyota truck are a testament of the dues it has paid. Coastal Bermuda hay stretches from each side of the bumpy path to the shadowed tree line of the woods. I can see the bubble of the dew on the strands of hay. The dew is thick on small splotches of webs the spiders have spun throughout the fi eld. They give a ghostly appearance. I can tell that the wind is still by the way the strands of hay stand at attention. A pungent odor seeps into the cab of the truck. I see its source up ahead— four long narrow buildings with rooftops of shiny tin and sides of wire and cinder blocks. Gray tarp- like vinyl curtains are rolled halfway up covering most of the wire on the building’s sides keeping its occupants out of sight. A lagoon of water and muck separates the buildings from the hay fi elds. A foggish smoke fl oats above the lagoon in the morning air. The doors to the buildings are numbered “ one,” “ two,” “ three,” and “ four” with bright red paint. Long, narrow, wood plank load chutes stretch out from each door. They are hoisted in mid- air with rusty chain wenches to keep them out of the way until they are needed. Round slender galvanized feed tanks stand on the front corner of each house. These giant ice cream cones supply the feed continuously to the occupants of each house. I park in front of the house “ one” and walk to the door to start my daily inspection. I open the door and step in. The body heat and odor of each occupant hits me hard in the face. I have startled the occupants. They squeal, snort, and scamper into tight little groups in their separate rooms in an attempt to distance themselves from my intrusion. Their rooms consist of twenty creel pens on each side of a main aisle. I begin to walk the aisle like a guard in prison checking the caged inmates. My inmates realize it is I and come to greet me at the bars of their jail. 14 A Hummingbird Pantoum Hummingbird ballet or battle At windowpane I hold my breath Dainty pair dart, swoop, and soar Then merge as in a pas de deux At windowpane I hold my breath They blitz each other as at war Then merge as in a pas de deux And make their exit from the stage They blitz each other as at war Then reconcile in arabesque And make their exit from the stage Encore! Repeat the exercise Then reconcile in arabesque Dainty pair dart, swoop, and soar Encore! Repeat the exercise Hummingbird ballet or battle Rosalyn F. Lomax A Moment in a Loud Crowded Room Sitting on an ottoman Van Gogh fl ashing in front of me Not knowing what to play Hearing change drop in a bucket Van Gogh fl ashing in front of me Foam and froth fl owing Hearing change drop in a bucket Trail of faces in and out Foam and froth fl owing Trying hard to stay on beat Trail of faces in and out A smile I’ll never forget Trying hard to stay on beat Not knowing what to play A smile I’ll never forget Sitting on an ottoman Christian Turnage Fall, Your Time of Year, My Dear Fall, your time of year, my dear when leaves weave lacy valances the maple fl ames like your hair and seems to take its chances. When leaves weave lacy valances Your voice sounds– faint but near and seems to take its chances. Now your call echoes– blue and clear. I hear your voice, faint but near. Amber light, a sword, lances. Now your call echoes, blue and clear. Colors layer like phalanxes. Amber light, a sword, lances the mountain mist that shrouds the air Colors layer like phalanxes. But shadows fall. No color here. The mountain mist shrouds the air. The maple fl ames like your hair But shadows fall. No color here. Fall, your time of year, my dear. Margaret Boothe Baddour 15 Pond of Koi Two gold eagles fi ght in midair I watch from the forest with others On the moon now, colors go negative Next dream I watch from a forest with others I carry a little girl down a snowy peak Next dream Buddha looks away and tells me I’m dying I carry a little girl down a snowy peak Bullets melt in my fi st Buddha looks away and tells me I’m dying I jump into a pond of koi Bullets melt in my fi st I’m a prisoner, breaking free I jump into a pond of koi They want me to fi ght back I’m a prisoner, breaking free On the moon now, colors go negative They want me to fi ght back Two gold eagles fi ght in midair Brytani Fraser Hidden Echoing fi re, tinged in green Sparking sword dance away Death in the light, death in the dark Moments of time before twilight fades Sparking swords dance away Silver and red droplets fall Moments of time before twilight fades While Phoenix song fl oats as life ebbs Silver and red droplets fall Eyes of fi re defy, eyes of Ice While Phoenix song fl oats as life ebbs Tilting scales sway as good and evil waltz Eyes of Fire defy, eyes of Ice Who is right, who is wrong Tilting scales sway as good and evil waltz Swivel, jump, fl ip, avoid the light and dark Who is right, who is wrong Death in the light, death in the dark Swivel, jump, fl ip, avoid the light and dark Echoing fi re tinged in green Becky Holloman 16 Invisible: My Trip to Saudi Arabia Janice Nelson It was a week after Thanksgiving; the year was 1995 when my travels took me to Dhahran Air Base in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I prepared for this trip as I had done many times before. I had traveled to many other countries without incident: Australia, England, France, Japan, and Korea, just to name a few. Only this time, I was uneasy for many reasons. Although I was trying to convince myself that this trip was the same as all others, somehow I knew in my mind it would be a challenge; this time it would be different. I had gone through the normal medical evaluations and braced myself for another long, boring intelligence briefi ng when I focused on the speaker’s rather monotone voice. The words did not seem quite right; they were almost foreign to my ears. “ Maintain your military bearing and you will be fi ne,” the briefer said. “ Maintain my military bearing?” I mumbled to myself. “ What have I gotten myself into?” I asked the girl sitting next to me. “ I was asking myself the same question,” she quickly replied. This briefi ng was unlike any I had attended. It was a crash course on situational awareness for females traveling to the Arabic region. The discussion included proper clothing, concealment of females’ hair, segregated eating establishments, and no driving privileges. Males were also required to escort females when traveling in the local community. Upon my arrival, I was assigned to the fuels accounting offi ce for the 4th Fighter Wing’s fl ying mission. My job required I travel weekly to the ARAMCO compound to reconcile millions of gallons of aviation fuel provided by the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. This task proved to be an awkward situation because as a woman I could not speak, shake hands, or make eye contact with any male Saudi national. As I made my way to the compound, I was speechless at the mere beauty of this place. It was magnifi cent with all its splendor. The building stood tall against the barren desert skyline. It was as if it were suspended in mid- air. Enormous swaying palm trees surrounded its grand entrance as if all who passed through its doors were considered royalty. A huge solarium caught my eye with blossoming exotic fl owers, hanging vines, and fl owing water that soothed and relaxed all who paused to behold its beauty. Exquisitely etched glass, hand- woven silk rugs, highly polished marble, and detailed gold inlay embellished every room, entrance, and hallway. It was hard to imagine anything sinister about this place. It was in stark contrast to the sometime blatant disregard and inhumane treatment of women in the Islamic community. I moved hesitantly towards the elevators and then to the second fl oor where I met with the Saudi accountants. I was uneasy. I was perplexed, but I was not sure why. My eyes darted swiftly around the room as if I were in search of someone, something. I remained restless. I made my way to the offi ce of the Saudi accountants with documents I had systematically scrutinized and made sure not one gallon of aviation fuel was questionable. I gave the documents to the accountant, but I was shooed away accompanied by a rather demeaning scowl. I was startled, and after much thought, I was painfully aware I had offended him. My male escort stepped in, smoothed over an extremely awkward situation, and handed the documents to 17 the accountant. He seemed pleased with the work, my work, and with one swift movement of his hand directed my escort to a small cozy seating area for a cup of tea. I looked on in silence as the tea ceremony continued; it was at that very moment I was aware for the fi rst time that I was invisible. I was but a mere shadow that fl oated beside my escort, powerless and unimportant. I regained my composure and, with great restraint, continued with the business as usual. It was not until I was back in the confi nes of the car that I made known my utter displeasure with the events of the day. I felt humiliated. “ I cannot believe he did that to me,” I said. “ How did you expect him to react?” my escort asked. “ He waved me off as if I were a pest, a fl y, buzzing around his ears!” I yelled. “ Their custom does not allow business transactions with women,” he replied. “ I know; I don’t know why I was so upset,” I said in a much softer tone. I was no longer in denial of cultural differences between the two countries. Reality had set in. This trip would be my routine for the next three months. I would travel to this very location every week and replay this awful scene many times over as if I were watching a horrible movie. Although my experience was traumatic and demeaning, I found clarity in the events of that day, and I knew my life had changed. I never again took for granted the freedoms afforded me by my native country. I never forgot that trip. I returned to the United States grateful, and as I stepped from the plane and onto the tarmac, I literally kissed the ground and broke down in tears. I was home; my journey had ended. Butting Heads Gene Smith 18 Where Would We Be? Valerie Stephens Africa. A whole world away it may seem to some, but to me it is my origin, a place that could have been my home. Africa is not just a continent; it is a land of many countries with different cultures and traditions. Africa is the motherland, the start of civilization, and the place of a life changing movement that has changed my life and millions of other African- Americans just like me. It all started many years ago, and even though times have changed, some people have not. This movement was called the slave trade. Millions of people, families, and even communities as a whole were uprooted from their village, their countries, and a world that they knew and forced to come to a different land and work for their survival. This movement turned people, my people, against family, friends, and in some cases, themselves. I guess Darwin was right, even before his time. Survival of the fi ttest, “ Help me catch them or you will DIE.” My people were forced into slavery by my people to survive. They were packed deep into the bellies of hundreds of ships like sardines being put in a can for retail. Their long journey of hunger, torture, disease, infections, and death had begun on the shores of Africa and ended on the soil of America. The place we know now as “ The Land of Opportunity,” or is it? Days, weeks, months, years, and even decades of hard labor were beyond what the mind can imagine. The men were beaten badly and some to death. The women were treated less than men, and some were made to work side- by- side with the men in the fi elds doing hard work. They were working to pay for their own lives, which, by now, they didn��t want to live. During the night, while they slept dozens to just one room, the women were snatched up and taken away, and what little dignity they had was raped from their souls with great force. The slave owners, for whatever reason, did not respect the sacred temple of a woman, an African woman. This may be hard to read for some, but to me, it is my history. Africa may be my origin, but it is not my home. Through the decades that followed the abolishment of slavery, my people still had to fi ght to survive. Don’t look this way, act this way, and even speak this way. We were robbed of our traditions and African soul and were forced to adopt the ways of the Europeans. The fi ght to survive is no longer a hardship, but a way of life. Africa is now so under- developed, constantly at war. The people are starving, and thousands are dying every day. AIDS is out of control with no solution to the problem. The kids are forced to dig in diamond mines, plow through garbage to eat, and sleep on the streets. African- American people, I ask you, do you really want to be in Africa? I do not deny that slavery was wrong, but if it had never happened, where would we be? Masai Girl Gene Smith 19 Ancestors Korreain Cummings One thousand years ago, my ancestors roamed thick rain forests and savannahs under a blazing sun and braved the threats of wild beasts and surrounding rival tribes. My ancestors with their faces painted white and red gathered around an outdoor fi re dancing frenziedly as their chanting voices blended together and made harmony with beating drums. Their voices rose to the skies amidst the billowing cloud of smoke from the fi re as they sought to appease the spirits of some unknown entities that they wished not to offend. My ancestors also dwelled among castles and manors, lords and ladies. My ancestors took advantage of the skill of blacksmithing and making iron. They used their own specialized skills to trade and barter. When in combat, my ancestors savagely wielded swords while clad in heavy armor, yet they knew how to show chivalry toward a lady. My ancestors also endured extreme cold. They battled terrible blizzards and bone- rattling winds in search of a better land. They traveled a small strip of land connected to larger bodies of land and continued migrating south. Once they were settled, they respected the land and paid homage to land. They lived off the buffalo and wasted nothing of a kill after hunting. Who are my ancestors? You do not know? My ancestors are from Africa, a land that to this day remains mysterious to the outside world. My ancestors are from Europe, a land that infl uenced the entire Western world. My ancestors are native to America before there was any place called America to the rest of the world. Little did my ancestors know that one day their vastly different worlds would collide and all their varying attitudes, beliefs, customs, and cultures would come face to face with one another. They had no way of knowing that at some point in history in the distant future one race would enslave another, one would be their slaves, and another would have its homeland snatched from beneath its feet. Not only did they not know all this, but they also did not know that after centuries of hurting and hating one another, they would all come together to create one energetic, outgoing beating heart— a heart that has learned to love and respect all people— the heart that lives inside me. Masai Welcome Dance Gene Smith 20 Mantis Wire Jon Ortiz Brooklyn of the Mind Everyone says it was such a happy time, the Dodgers in town, streetcars, signs, Chock Full O’Nuts. We must be forgiven our cynicism at the cry of “ Coney Island! Coney Island! Coney Island!” We, after all, have our Brooklyn of the mind, the place we left behind after the fl ood of years began to recede, the great aquariums, fi sh darting fast, zig- zag lines, our own Wonder Wheel spinning. Jeff Williams World of Ash Lost amongst the ruins cracked pillars, empty towers Wandering through showers of ash sulfur clouds, burning horizon Skeletons of silence fi ll this world no one lives, but all remain Thomas Sahm 21 Rickshaw, Red, and Ritual Eva Chan The current wedding ritual of the Chinese is altered from its ancient ritual. Some rituals have been eliminated, and some new ones have been added. Some traditional rituals existed only a thousand years ago. On the wedding day a thousand years ago, the groom’s family sends to the bride’s home a rickshaw powered by eight men, a group of music players, and a woman. This woman’s responsibility is to bear the bride on her back whenever she needs to walk so the bride will not need to stand on the fl oor until she arrives at the groom’s home. The bride leaves the house with a red cloth covering her head and face and gets into the rickshaw. Before the bride gets into the rickshaw, the father holds a red umbrella by her side. The music players play a music which is only for weddings on the way to the groom’s home, so all neighbors know it is the wedding day of the couple. When the rickshaw reaches the groom’s home, the groom kicks on the rickshaw’s door and then opens the curtain so the bride can come out. The bride walks over an iron vessel with coal fi re inside when she goes into the house. This ritual means the bride brings thriving and richness to the groom’s family. Then in the sitting room of the house, the groom’s parents sit in the middle and the guests on the sides. The couple bows to the sky, to the parents, and fi nally to each other in a specifi c order. After the bowing rituals, the bride waits in the bedroom with the red cloth still covering her head until the reception at the sitting room is fi nished. When the reception is fi nished, the groom goes into the bedroom and fl aps off the red cloth of the bride. The couple now fi nishes the last step of the wedding ritual, drinking a toast. Bird of Paradise Eva Chan 22 Summer Kelley Thomas “ This is going to be the worst summer ever,” I yelled at my roommate. “ All because my parents are having a severe case of empty nest syndrome, there’s going to be a stranger living at my house for me to entertain for the whole summer. My summer with my new boobs! A foreign exchange stranger. He’s not even here yet and already he has ruined my summer!” I had just started packing up my dorm once all of my “ turn your brains into jelly” exams were done when my parents made their fourth daily call. “ It’s them!” laughed my roommate Laura as my phone rang to the tune of the Mission: Impossible theme song. “ Hello, hello!” I answered, laughing. Laura had met my mother and father on the fi rst day of school. They told her that they would be calling me at least a couple of times every day, and if I didn’t answer, they would call her to check in. They were very up front about being over- protective parents and have yet to prove otherwise. They also said that my tracking device would shock me if I left a certain radius. I remember Laura laughed hysterically and asked me later if they had been joking; I told her honestly that I really didn’t know. They also started calling Laura every day just to say hello and see how everything was going. Laura loves it and has the same feeling I do about them. I’d rather have them care too much than not at all. They also like to call and be on the phone at the same time. See, I’m a miracle baby to my parents. In their twenties, they had started a clothing chain that really took off. They ran it for a good fi ve years, then got an offer they couldn’t refuse and sold it, and have been comfortable ever since. They say they were blessed with money but not with healthy pregnancies. After trying for a few years to have a baby with miscarriage after miscarriage, they came to terms with the fact that they weren’t going to have kids of their own and were thankful for the fact that they never had to work again and could live and travel anywhere they wanted to. Then at 35, my mother found out she was pregnant with me, so I am an only child with two stay- at- home parents in their fi fties. I am their world. They are mine, too. They were having a hard year without me at home. I knew this, but I was shocked when they called and told me what they had decided to do about it. “ Hello, my Sophia!” squealed my mother. “ We forgot to tell you something when we called before,” said my father. “ Is it bad?” I asked, fearing my fl ight must be even earlier in the morning than I thought. “ No, no,” my mother said, “ we forgot to tell you that when you left for school last year your father and I signed up for a foreign exchange program through your high school, and, well, they picked us to host a young man from South Africa for the summer, so he will be staying with us while you’re home!” “ Isn’t that great, Honey?” yelled my father. “ It will be like having a sibling— or a twin since he’s about your age.” “ We just wanted to tell you because we’re both so excited about— Bob, what’s the young man’s name again?” “ I don’t remember, Lynn. Where’s the sheet with all his information on it?” “ On the kitchen table.” “ Where? I don’t see it.” “ I am pointing to it right now, Bob. Follow my fi nger!” “ Where? All I see is magazines!” “ RIGHT THERE! Oh, never mind. I’ll reach and get it.” I could hear them both trying to sound out his name. They probably were both holding the paper and both had on their reading glasses. “ Well, Sophia,” my mother said, fi nally taking a break from the name test, “ I am not quite sure how you pronounce it, but he sounds like a very nice boy. Are you excited?” To be honest, I was in a state of shock; it had always been me and my parents, and now I had to— share? Share my space, my car, my time, and my parents. I probably was going to have to take him out with my friends and me. This was going to be embarrassing. Did he even speak English? Was I going 23 to have to be his babysitter all summer? I had really been looking forward to going home and having a nice relaxing summer. I had really worked hard this year at school I had fi nally developed some breasts; my freshman fi fteen had gone straight to my chest, and I wanted to show them off to my ex. Actually, my luck was already used up once I met Laura. I got the best roommate ever. She was clean and funny and would rather rent movies than go out and get wasted and bring home some dirty bar rat. She worked a lot on weekends, too, and I usually got some time to myself in the dorm. My fi rst experience in sharing a home had turned out great. I didn’t think I was going to be that lucky again. And that foreign student was a boy. The boys in this dorm were so gross; I felt like I had to wear a mask just to walk down their hall. I had to use their bathroom once because the girls’ was full, and I am still having fl ashbacks. “ It’s great, you guys. I can’t wait to meet him. It’ll be really interesting learning about where he’s from,” I told them, trying not to sound too disappointed that my summer had just turned into a 3- month-long babysitting gig. “ Oh, good, Honey,” my mom said. “ We were so nervous, but we knew you would be ok with it. We can’t wait to see you tomorrow at the airport. Get to bed soon. You have an early fl ight.” “ Ok, bye, see you tomorrow.” “ I can’t wait!” “ Me, too, Dad.” * * * * * * * * * There was only one good thing about my fl ight, and he was sitting in C12. I was in E16. I had the best view of the most beautiful guy I had ever seen in my life. He had messy light brown hair, blue eyes, and a soccer player’s body. He had on jeans and a black fi tted tee- shirt. He was already in his seat when I boarded. It was open seating, so I should have sat next to him, but I was so shocked by the fact there was such a hot guy on my plane that I had to sit a few rows behind him. Thank goodness there were not a lot of passengers, and they were all asleep because of how early it was. No one could witness me spying between the seats. There never are hot guys my age on planes. This didn’t even happen in the movies. I think he knew I was staring at him like my girlfriend’s younger brothers when we go swimming. I should have stopped. He kept looking back. I sat up, stared out the window, and realized that the fantasy of this guy might help me get through the summer of babysitting. I put my headphones on, picked out a soundtrack to C12��� s and my future life together, and closed my eyes. Four songs into it, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “ Excuse me, miss,” said C12 with what I thought was a British accent. I must have stopped breathing. Since I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t answer him. “ Your singing is a little loud.” Was I singing? “ That lady over there keeps giving you dirty looks, so I wanted to tell you before she jumped over the aisle and silenced you with her hands.” He was smiling as he said this. “ Thanks” was all I was able to mutter out to him. He smiled again and went to the bathroom. Once he was in and had shut the door, I banged my head against the window. How embarrassing! “ Shhh!” said the lady with the dirty looks. “ Sorry,” I whispered from inside my sweatshirt which was now my new hideout. Suddenly, the pilot came on over the speaker and told us we would be landing soon. Good, maybe we could land while C12 was still in the bathroom and I could get off without ever having to face him again. He came out and walked down the aisle to his seat. I knew because I heard him through my sweatshirt. I waited until everyone had left the plane. I didn’t want to chance running into him again and acting like an idiot. I was really excited to see my parents. Starting to walk faster as I came out of the gate, I stopped dead. There, getting a warm hug from both of my parents at the same time, was C12. This was going to be the best summer ever. 24 Dragonfl y Wire Jessica Pitt Mirror Two dark caterpillars That never seem to rest Accompany two blue marbles That like to look their best. A witch’s hook Caught in the middle Changes the character From every angle. Broken, chipped and crooked pieces Sit inside the soft pink creases. A brown version of connect- the- dots Covers the huge white spot. Shiny maple strands Pull all together So that on a good day I am my biggest fan. Kelley Thomas 25 Flower or Female? She can be found any and everywhere All you have to do is look and she’s there She survives from the Atlantic to the Pacifi c She can be poisonous, but most are not She’s admired for her beauty; for some, that’s all they’ve got After you have picked her out of many She must be properly cared for from beginning to end Having her around really compliments a setting And she plays a signifi cant role in the majority of weddings Her fragrance can be pleasant, soothing, desire- inciting It can also be too strong or heavy, overpowering She comes in a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors Many are alike and many are like no other She can be as sweet and as fragile as any child But be careful where you fi nd her, for she may be wild Terri Coley Carraway Out to Dry Angie Waller 26 The Old Brent Hood A President’s Memory G. Herman Porter, President of Wayne Community College, 1986- 1992 One of my favorite memories of the old campus was the quality of programs. The faculty and staff put up with roof leaks, cramped space, noise, and goodness knows what else to teach and help students establish and reach their goals. Learning was possible because of caring and committed people who fostered the idea of “ being” rather than “ seeming.” Community colleges need special people to carry out the diverse mission. WCC is blest to have such people who give more than they take. A big thanks to all of you. 27 The New Brent Hood Memories ( 1980- 1983) Dr. Kay Albertson I was sharing the trailer on the back side of the campus with Dr. Ed Hogan, my immediate supervisor, whom I forced to say good morning to me. I believe my exact words to him were, “ You may not be a morning person— I am— but just say ‘ good morning’ each day, even if you don��t mean it.” He did just that, said “ good morning,” nodded his head, and kept walking to his offi ce. As our friendship grew over the years, we often laughed about my insistence that he greet me daily. The buildings had letter names ( A, K, B). My two- year- old son Clayton called K Building “ Mommy Building.” It was on the old campus that I began my community college experience in 1980. I was very smug, coming to North Carolina from professorships at two universities in Virginia, Old Dominion and UVA. However, it took only about three months before I recognized that if one loved teaching and students, the community college was the right place to be. It didn’t matter that I ruined numerous pairs of shoes walking through mud and on uneven gravel in unpaved parking lots or that my offi ce was in a trailer or that I might not have had every instructional material I wanted. I’ve never doubted my decision to remain with the community college system, and it began on the old campus on Highway 70! 28 WCC Memories Miriam Wessell Memories. I have so many memories of my tenure with Wayne Community College. I have witnessed many colleagues come and go. I have shared laughter and joy with those who have become like family as we have celebrated marriages, births, graduations, and other happy occasions. Unfortunately, I’ve also shared tears and sorrow at divorces, departures for greener pastures, illnesses, and the inevitable fi nal exits into life triumphant. I remember June 1, 1971, the day I was hired by then president Dr. Clyde Erwin and vice-president Dr. Charles Poindexter, both of whom probably had reservations about hiring someone as inexperienced as I. My department head, Eleanor Powell, made me feel right at home, though, and welcomed me into the English Department— as did Bea Balkcum, Doris Ward, Doris Gurley, and Ruth Boyer. The college transfer program at WCC offi cially began that fall in 1971, and with that transition came the best of the best: Alice Lancaster, Dr. Ron Taylor, Doug Royal, and many others. We were no longer a technical institute. We were a community college! I remember walking into the offi ce ( trailer, actually) that I shared with the Fish and Wildlife/ Forestry guys in the 70’ s and fi nding a pot of beans and some unidentifi able ( to me, at least) animal cooking on the stove at least once a week. Dr. Terry Humphrey, Dave Meador, Bob Goodman, and Gary Woodyard were quite interesting offi ce mates, especially for a young woman who was not as enamored as they of snakes, lizards, muskrats, and other fascinating creatures of the wild. I remember, too, my offi ces on second fl oor K- Building, fi rst with June Wharton and Fred Mauk ( the three of us crammed into a tiny two- person offi ce), then with Anne Croom and Stephen Hunter, again, a two- person offi ce. Finally, in the 80’ s, I graduated to an offi ce of my own on the fi rst fl oor of K- Building, right beside the one shared by Rosalyn Lomax and Liz Meador. The energy and the activity Liz, Rosalyn, and I brought to the fl oor made Mike Saylors avoid his across- the- hall offi ce as much as possible. Come to think of it, maybe escaping us is the reason he, Ed Potter, Gerald Simmons, and Ray Brannon spent so much time behind closed doors in K- 6. Ann Spicer was right around the corner, keeping us all organized and calm, or trying to. At the same time, June Wharton, Kathryn Spicer, Marian Westbrook, Anne Croom, John Vincell, and Pat Wright did their part to keep the energy level high on the second fl oor of K- Building— not to mention all those science types and, for a short time, Dr. Kay Albertson and Alice Lancaster, Liberal Arts wannabes, I’m sure. I remember moving to the new campus with each of us “ Arty Liberals” bouncing off the walls of our own private offi ces all on one fl oor and hearing the late, great Dr. Ed Hogan announce, “ My worst nightmare would be waking up with all of you on the third fl oor of Dogwood.” I have so many stories, but the funniest probably involves the time that a rumor circulated the old campus that a young man was hiding in ladies’ rooms, even, according to Lynda Bundy, in the ceiling tiles. I taught in the trailers behind K- Building, and with back- to- back classes, any opportunity to make it to K- Building’s second fl oor ladies’ room was welcomed. I waited so long one day that I literally ran to that second fl oor sanctuary. After a minute or two of blessed relief, I realized that there was quite a bit of activity in the stall next to me, so I did what any inquisitive ( or nosy) person would do – I looked under the stall. To my amazement, a pair of men’s shoes met my startled eyes! Well, I just knew that I was a goner, trapped with the WCC 29 “ ladies’ room peeper.” When I fi nally could, I ran to the only phone on the fl oor and called Security. Big “ Mac” McArthur ( 6 feet 5 inches, at least) came to my rescue, arriving just as the young man walked out the door. If anyone could put the fear of God and man into him, it was Mac! Mac asked him if he could read, pointing to the “ Women” sign hanging over the door. The young man’s coke- bottom glasses were so thick that he truly might not have been able to read the sign, but at the time, I was sure that this young man was the dreaded “ ladies’ room peeper.” It has been so long that I don’t even remember what happened to the young man, but I do remember the fun my colleagues had with the story. I remember teaching vets who came to WCC straight from the horrors of Viet Nam in the early 70’ s. One day, I was so intent on the lesson I was trying to teach them that I actually fell into and bounced right back out of a trash can that had been placed under the blackboard. I did not bat an eye and they did not laugh – until they were out the door at the end of class, that is. Then, you could hear them hooting and hollering all over campus! Another student from that same era politely came up to me after class one day to tell me that I might want to zip my slacks since my polka- dotted bikini briefs were showing! Again, the laughter rang through the woods surrounding those wonderful trailers. Unfortunately, some of the guys are still around to tell those stories. I remember the students – always the students – so many students who have enriched my life immeasurably. Those students have given my life meaning and have made every day at Wayne Community College a day to be remembered! I am so proud of the outstanding educational institution Wayne Community College has become and am so thankful that I have been allowed to be a part of its growth. I treasure my years here and all they have entailed, but I especially value the friendships, the family that so many of its people have become. Thanks, WCC, for the memories. Happy 50th! My Favorite Memory Kay Bradley The WCC Association of Educational Offi ce Personnel presented the one and only “ WCC All Male Beauty Pageant” on our campus back in the early 80’ s. Dr. Fred Sproul, Dental Department Chairman, was a participant, and I was selected to help him dress. Finding a bra for a man his size was almost impossible, but, after many excursions to various consignment shops, and fl ea markets, I found one at the Salvation Army that I thought would fi t around his ample body. There was a supply closet in my offi ce big enough for him to try the contraption on, so I called him over for his “ fi tting.” Once in the closet with the door closed, we snapped the garment around his body, and by George, it fi t perfectly. The conversation behind those closed doors was nothing less than jubilant with all the wordy conversation to describe how wonderfully the bra fi t. With laughter and total relief, we opened the door of the closet to fi nd a very somber Dr. Charlie Powell, Vice President for Academic Affairs and my boss, staring at us as if we were on trial for murder. Fred literally ran ( which was a feat in itself) back to his offi ce, leaving me the chore of explaining this whole very embarrassing situation to Dr. Powell. In the end, he found it very amusing and enjoyed tremendously teasing me about my experience as a “ fashion coordinator” for Dr. Fred Sproul. 30 Memories from the Seventies Carl Brow When it rains on our “ new” campus, I always think back to my days as a student at Wayne Community College, some twenty- nine years ago. The old campus was beside Hwy 117, hence the nickname “ Bypass U.” The water table there is high with low spots in the ground, so when it rains, the ground quickly is saturated with nowhere for water to go. I remember once after several days of raining, the campus fl ooded so badly that people were in small boats in the large unpaved parking lot on the side. The center of campus had about two or three feet of water with occasional waves going through it, making us take long and winding paths to get from one part to another. Nobody complained much: it was just something we dealt with. Back in the late 1970’ s, we had around 500 students, and we knew just about everybody on campus by name or face. I made friends with a lot of different people, and between school, girls, cars, jobs, and planning for the weekend, something was always going on. There were not that many teachers in the college transfer program, so we had a chance to know our instructors in and out of class. I remember many times stopping by Ray Brannon’s offi ce for an hour or so at a time, just to talk. He always indulged me no matter what he had going on. Ed Potter, Gerald Simmons and Mike Saylors would be holed up in some offi ce, making endless jokes about everything and everybody. Faculty, students, staff, administration and they themselves were all fair game for their brutal but hilarious humor. Lafayette Westbrook taught history as one long story, and in three courses, I never once saw him use notes. Rosalyn Lomax once came to a literature class with laryngitis and could speak only in a whisper; still she kept the biggest smile on her face and never lost her enthusiasm. In my mind, that day she locked in as a teaching legend. People smoked in buildings, offi ces, and even classrooms without comment. The halls were narrow and the offi ces cramped, but the size gave a sense of community and belonging that our bigger and more sprawling campus has lost. The problem with these “ I remember” pieces is just that; these memories are what I remember. Other people had other experiences, but for me, they were good times that had lasting value. Twenty- nine years ago sometimes seems like yesterday, but those experiences refl ect a part of what I try to give to the students who are here now. I hope it will be enough for them to want to come back and help build new memories for another generation. Renaissance and the Old Campus Rosalyn F. Lomax When Liz Meador, Marian Westbrook, Anne Croom, and Bill Bennett founded Renaissance in 1985, the preparation of the magazine was quite a different process from what it is today. Even as recently as 1988 when I became co- editor with Marian Westbrook, no one ever emailed a submission to us, for there was no email; hardly anyone ever submitted even a typewritten poem. With hands stuffed full of various scraps of paper with various levels of legible handwriting on them, we would race over to A Building to work with Grace Lutz, a legend in Media. We would give her an idea of where we wanted the writing on each scrap of paper to appear and leave her to work her magic. Years later, computers and email and zip disks and such technology would make the process less stressful and the editors’ lives much simpler. Today, Theresa White- Wallace, Tom Garrou, and Kornegay Printing add their magic to make our magazine! 31 Sitting Up with the Dead Dave Meador, Retired Forestry Instructor During spring quarter in 1972 or ’ 73, fi sh and wildlife student Pete Kornegay decided to have some fun. Pete knew that Mr. Lee Edwards, counselor in the Dean of Students offi ce, took prospective students on an introductory tour of the campus. Edwards usually brought these groups to the lab room in the Agriculture Department at the east end of the hall in A Building where a freezer held assorted specimens— fi sh, deer heads, snakes, birds— used as training aids in the fi sh and wildlife program. Knowing that the group was only a minute or two from entering the lab area, Pete climbed into the freezer and lay down, folding his arms over his chest after lowering the lid. Just as Edwards began his usual spiel of “ You never know what you’re going to fi nd in here…,” he raised the freezer lid with a fl ourish, only to have Pete rise up, expressionless and like dead! Edwards screamed, and the visitors, making doors where there were none, vacated the premises. Old Campus Marian Westbook, English Instructor, 1971- 1998 The campus was built in a low- lying area, and when we had a big rainstorm, it was likely to fl ood. One time I had a class in a trailer beside “ K” Building, and when I got there, the steps were covered by water, and the students were standing outside. Not wanting to dismiss the class, I had them follow me over to “ A” Building, where I asked for another room. By the time we got one, it was so late that my only words that day were “ Class dismissed.” For years President Clyde Erwin and his team planned for the move to the new campus. They had a fancy architectural fi rm from out of state draw up plans for us, and the faculty and staff were seduced by those plans long before we could start building. They fi nally did put up the Hocutt Building on the new site, sort of a “ token” building to keep us hoping that something better was down the pike. The dream of a new campus was frequently stoked at faculty and staff meetings. During one Q& A period, Ed Potter, speech instructor, asked in his inimitable way, “ What I want to know is, when we move to the new campus, what’s going to happen to the trailer industry?” Dr. Erwin vowed that the buildings on the new campus would not have fl at roofs. The leaky roofs on the old campus led to many headaches for him. Also, he wanted a single energy plant, which became a reality. He was fond of saying that we had 42 different heating and cooling systems on the old campus, and some were always in need of repair. If you think this is an exaggeration, you’re not aware of how many mobile units we had. 32 Memories Banks Peacock I worked on the old campus as a part- time computer instructor in the 1980’ s. For some reason, someone in the Business Division gave me a pass key so I could get into computer classrooms and the computer lab, but why I got a pass key and not just room keys, I don’t know. As lab monitor for a Sunday open computer lab, I came out one Sunday at the time that the lab opened to fi nd a number of very upset people standing outside the door to B building wanting to get in. Security was supposed to open up for us, but the weekend open lab was fairly new, and apparently no one knew to let us in. Reacting to the impatience of the crowd, I did the polite Southern thing of trying to immediately please people, without thinking of the possible consequences. The thought process went something like, “ Hey, I’ve got a pass key! I’ll try that!” The main door would not open, so I tried the pass key around the building. I fi nally managed to get in through the automotive area, then back through various other doors where the pass key worked. I worked my way through a maze back to the hallway of B building to open the main door from the inside, letting the crowd into the lab. ( It’s nice that the students were so eager!) Apparently the security guard had been checking the Airport or Hocutt Building. When he returned, he was none too pleased to fi nd a bunch of folks inside B building happily computing away. He was even less pleased to fi nd out that some “ person” had a pass key and was using it to go through doors over half the campus. J. B. Toler defi nitely gave me the evil eye when he spoke to me about it. Despite the furor this caused, no one took my pass key. I kept it until I went back to school at North Carolina State in 1988 and stopped teaching part- time. And for those complaining about their slow computers, a few war stories from the good old days. The classes in the fall of 1981 were the last regular computer classes at WCC to use punch cards. One room on the south end of the building had several punch card machines where students keyed their programs. Regular punch card machines had no backspace key; each keystroke immediately punched the card. If you mistyped, you didn’t worry about hanging chads, you chunked out the card and used another. Of the cards I bought, I wasted about one-third with typos. WCC had one “ high- end” punch card machine that everyone wanted to use because instead of punching immediately with each keystroke, the machine would accept an entire line and then gang punch the card. This meant we could start over if we made mistakes. To run our programs, there was no “ play” button on a tool bar. We physically took our stack of cards to a card reader, hoping not to drop them and get them out of order. Our Computer Literacy classes used to watch a mock video from the period of a nerdy computer user committing suicide after spilling a two- foot high deck of punch cards and scattering them down a hallway. Some card readers were very fast, but the one at WCC read 2 cards a second; I timed it. After submitting our cards, we would wait for our programs to come back on the printer. We didn’t know how long this would take since our programs were sent by phone lines to a computer at TUCC ( Triangle Universities Computation Center). Since WCC was at the low end of the priority list, the printouts might come back in a minute or two, or maybe the next morning. We 33 might then discover that a misplaced job card or a period missing in our programs had caused failure to compile. So we re- punched the cards, sent our stacks through the reader, and waited. Desk checking programs was a far more important skill back then as was typing with no errors. In winter of 1982, we got the Prime minicomputer. This was a time- shared system, and all campus computing was on this one machine: students and administration shared a CPU and a whopping 48 megabytes of disk space. For comparison, my current offi ce computer has almost 800 times the disk space and even 10 times more space in main memory. I carry over 20 times the storage on the USB drive in my pocket. Time sharing meant the screen ( monochrome, of course) and keyboard in front of you were not a computer, but just a terminal to connect you to the central CPU. That one CPU had to handle the processing of everyone logged on to the system. Normally, this was not a problem. I checked the CPU usage rate of my computer just sitting here, and it was around 1%. Virtually all of the time a computer is on, its CPU is idle, waiting for input from the user. Even as I type here in my offi ce, the CPU usage goes up to only about 4% to handle the keystrokes. This computer is so much faster than a person it can handle normal typing with only one twenty- fi fth of its processor power. Think of the CPU as a short order cook. At 3: 00 in the afternoon, the cook takes orders, gets several things cooking at once, and all of the orders can be quickly served. But at lunch time, as the orders pile in, the cook can get backed up. The same thing would happen on campus. Some activities are CPU intensive and require a great deal of processing power. One good example is compiling a computer program, the process by which the program the student creates is translated into the language that the computer actually understands. When the computer lab was full of students, compiling their programs the day before the due date, computing all over campus by students and administration would slow to a crawl. A few words would fl ash up on the screen as students got their bits of CPU time, then a several second wait, then a few more words. It could take several minutes for a process to complete that might fi nish in seconds if one had the CPU all to oneself. In memory of our beloved Ken Neal, one more story of “ Bypass U.” One morning back in the 80’ s, I got a phone call about 6: 30 a. m. I normally didn’t get up until around 7: 00 a. m. “ Who the heck is calling so early?” I picked up the phone and the fi rst words I heard were “ But, uh…” Of course, I should have recognized the pattern. Classes started at WCC today. It was Ken Neal calling to ask if I wanted to teach a part- time class starting that same day. Ken often started conversations in the middle, even on the phone. He also had a phobia about even contracting a part- time teacher until a class had made, so he would normally call us early on the morning the class was supposed to start. I had occasions where he would ask me to start a class I had not even taught before that night. I’d show up at 5: 10 in the afternoon after my day job, get the textbooks, and fi gure out enough to get through the fi rst class, which usually started at 5: 30. Then I might have a week before the next class to actually start preparing for the class. Editors’ Note: We mourn the death of Ken Neal, former Business Department Head, on March 17, 2007 34 Memories of the Old Campus Alice Wadsworth At 18 years old and without very much business experience, I was hired to work in the business offi ce as a work study student. When the bookkeeper, Catherine Thompson, left for lunch one day, she gave me the bank statement and asked me to get the checks in order. I did just that but in alphabetical order instead of numerical order. Just as I fi nished getting the checks in order, it dawned on me that they should be in numerical order. I just started over again but fi nished just as Mrs. Thompson came back from lunch. When I fi rst started to work, we had only one maid and one janitor. Our maid, Ms. Beulah Farrell, was such a good, respectful employee who always did as she was told. Ms. Beulah’s only fault was that she would come into the offi ce to vacuum while Mr. Cox, VP for Administrative Services, was working. He told her not to run the vacuum while he was in the offi ce, so being the good employee that she was, Ms. Beulah would stand outside the business offi ce door waiting for Mr. Cox to leave for lunch, no matter how late it was when he would fi nally leave. Our offi ce was moved from the front entrance of “ A” building to the back wing down from the library and very close to the Ag Department. Janice Clark’s new cashier’s offi ce replaced the men’s room! Because we were so close to the Ag classrooms, we often saw students sitting in the hallway just outside the business offi ce. One day, I noticed a girl in the Ag program one day sitting on our fl at bed dolly playing with a snake. At that point we bolted the doors and sent out a cry for help. Our librarian for many years, Scottie Cox, was very sick with cancer but always had such a happy, cheerful outlook on life. The last day that she worked, I saw her standing at the side entrance to the library waiting for Mr. Cox to come by and pick her up. She was too weak to walk very far. As we left work that afternoon, she waved and smiled at everyone who went by. This is such a beautiful memory for such a lovely lady. Christmas memories: Harriet Wessell’s punch bowl that changed colors as the day passed. George Tyrone walking down the halls of “ A” building wearing a pink teddy. The business offi ce staff and the state auditors going from offi ce to offi ce singing Christmas carols. Jimmie Ford joining the group because he felt sorry for us. Janice Clark’s Christmas gift from Carl Cox, a sweat shirt inscribed “ Madam Vice President” because he could give a title but not a salary increase, wrapped with the funny paper. South Campus Sharon Smith South Campus was full of cheer as we went up and down the hall and to and from the other buildings along with trailer sites for Continuing Education ( since we were expanding in our area) backed up behind the main building. At Christmas we wandered from offi ce to offi ce to fellowship and share refreshments. In Continuing Education, we typed each contract for part- time instructors ( approximately 75 each quarter) on 4 pages on NCR— on a typewriter. Now that we have computers, I wonder how we managed back then. We were located across from the switchboard where Virginia Lancaster kept the switchboard going. Bomb threats were numerous on the old campus, but we survived by walking to Hardee’s to stay warm and drink coffee. Persons like Dr. Fred Sproul, Barbara Porter, Dr. Ed Hogan, and Coach Dave McClenny were such assets to WCC, and WCC remains an integral part of our community. 35 Diversity Gene Smith Old Campus Memories Rosalyn F. Lomax On the old campus of WCC, teaching and learning varied little from what goes on today with the exceptions of setting and technology. One hot debate in a trailer among English 151 students ( now 111) about the place of women in society made the trailer rock when an otherwise mild- mannered male antagonized his female classmates by telling how he had “ trained” his wife. We discussed King Lear in the back of a pickup truck on early spring evenings when bomb threats plagued the college, jeopardizing our journey through The Canterbury Tales, King Lear, The Tempest, and Paradise Lost. My family knew to keep things neat and keep some cookies handy in case my Major British Writers students and I resorted to our home as an alternate classroom. No paperwork accompanied such moves in those days— just a note to students with my home address in case of emergency. Security Chief J. B. Toler kept us straight through dear Captain Harvey Hines and the late dear Captain Clarence Jay Simmons. Harvey was my student along with numerous other current staff: Norma Dawson, Carl Brow, Lorie Waller, Kay Bradley, and Phyllis Radford among others. Mr. Simmons and I loved to joke about our history as partners in crime after we spent a fruitful half hour experimenting with all the car keys in the Security Shack; we fi nally found enough cars to replace the ailing bus and take students to a Shakespeare Festival production in Kenansville. Fortunately, enough staff members were along to drive those state cars legally. At a ground- breaking ceremony for Hocutt Building in the summer of 1976, I sang “ Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” in a quartet with music instructor Fred Mauk, history instructor Alice Lancaster’s husband ( later our Congressman and currently the president of our community college system), and community singer Trixie Smith. Later, Kathryn Spicer, Ed Potter, and I commuted together from K Building to Hocutt so that students on the new campus would not have to do all the commuting for English and speech. Everyone remembers trailer classrooms and frequent fl ooding. Both heat and air conditioning sometimes ran simultaneously in one trailer; a third distracting factor was the mower which bumped the cinder blocks holding the trailer off the ground; some days I truly feared our classroom would take fl ight. Despite my pride in the beauty of our new campus, I know the quality of faculty knowledge and dedication cannot possibly be greater than on that old campus. Our “ new” campus is now thirty years old, but we old- timers still distinguish between old campus and new. Some old things are indeed worth keeping— good memories of the old campus and the quality of the teaching and learning that happened there. 36 Memories of the Old Campus Theresa White- Wallace I became a student at Wayne Community College in 1984. At that time there was no College Transfer Advising Center or online registration. The line on registration day went down the hallway of A Building and wrapped around the other side. I stood in line at least an hour before I fi nally reached the window where two ladies were standing, ready to key my classes into the computer. I was then told, “ This class is closed, go back and see your advisor.” I was given a pass card and sent on my way. I returned to the window with a different class and was told that my new class had just closed. With pass card in hand, my sore feet and I headed for my advisor. I had arrived at WCC at 8: 30 that morning. It was after 2: 00 that afternoon before I left. My favorite teacher at WCC was Lafayette Westbrook, who taught American and North Carolina history. Mr. Westbrook never used notes in class. He would fi ll up two blackboards from memory. Afterwards, Mr. Westbrook would start lecturing. He taught history like a story. An example would be the time he was telling us about Lawrence Washington. He talked about Lawrence for a few minutes, and at the end he said, “ Now Lawrence had a younger brother named George.” This is the way he introduced the class to George Washington. I became a work- study student for the music department in 1985. The single wide music trailer was located away from the other buildings in what was called the compound, which had a chain link fence around it. The front of the trailer was the classroom and the back half is where the instructor’s offi ce was located. The music trailer was the only trailer that had a bathroom, complete with tub and shower. One evening when I was working, I heard a siren go off. WCC didn’t have an intercom system. Instead, we had one very loud siren that could be heard from very far away. I can’t remember how it went, but one long siren meant a fi re drill or bomb threat and two short ones meant bad weather. When I heard the siren I assumed we were having a fi re drill until I looked out the window and saw everyone running to the buildings. Once I got to K Building, I was told that a tornado had been spotted. There really was no safe place to hide in K Building, so we sat on the staircase located near double glass doors. In 1987, I started working part- time in the K14 Lab. There were only four computers in K Building. The two department heads had computers, and the division secretary and I had one. My computer screen was approximately 8 or 9 inches wide, and with each keystroke one would hear a clicking sound. There were no mouse, windows or laser printer in those days. The copy machine we had in K Building was huge. It opened like a coffi n and looked like one when the top was closed. I have a lot of memories of K Building and the people who walked her halls. K Building was the only two story building on campus. None of the buildings on campus had carpet, including K Building. All of the classrooms had blackboards. The men’s room was outside of K Building and the ladies room was upstairs, but inside. Everyone had to take the stairs because there wasn’t an elevator. Ed Potter and Gerald Simmons shared a small offi ce. On any given day you would see them talking and laughing with Mike Saylors and Ray Brannon. All four of them would cram into that one offi ce. Liz Meador and Rosalyn Lomax also shared a small offi ce. I am sure there was a wall in that offi ce, but I never saw it. Books and papers seemed to go to the ceiling. They used every inch of that offi ce from top to bottom. And yet, they were organized. They always knew where everything was. 37 Memories of a Friend Dressing Purrl the cat in her seasonal best Copying handouts on fl uorescent colored paper A book bag with different colored pens strapped to its side Hearing and seeing her go the extra mile to help a student Hearing students say, “ You need to get Ms. Ann Spicer; she is really good.” Spider web earrings hanging from her ears Hearing her say, “ Now, Darling,” to students, faculty or staff when the right way of doing something was about to be said Standing in the doorway with reindeer antlers on her head Blowing her car horn, so she could show off her newly bought PT Cruiser Driving her PT Cruiser 40 mph in a 55 zone Waiting 15 minutes for her to decide what she would like to order at the restaurant Deciding which restaurant to go to Shopping at the Polka Dotted Flamingo Opening our pink bags at lunch and sharing what we had bought Looking at china on the Macy’s website Bags of treats left on offi ce doors every holiday Exchanging gifts on birthdays and at Christmas Seeing her put her head down on her desk, because she felt so bad Seeing her step upon a curb, something she couldn’t do when she wasn’t feeling well Seeing her walk a steady pace and feeling good Seeing her in pain the day she went into the hospital for the last time Hearing her say, “ I saw someone in white,” and knowing an angel was getting her ready Seeing her at the end – restful, peaceful, asleep and with God See you later, my dear friend Theresa White- Wallace 38 Serenity Joy Pearce The Class I’ll never forget my fi rst day of class I was so afraid that I would not pass I struggled to make it to the top of the line My instructor kept saying, “ You’re going to be fi ne.” I did not give up and I am here to say I passed her class making an A If it were not for the encouragement of one who cared The success of my grade I could not have shared The words she spoke could not have been nicer That is why I will always remember Ann Spicer Rebecca Sewell 39 April 5, 1999 Dying is the hardest thing I’ve ever done How wrong they all are – I do not fi ght death I wrestle with life its grip all iron – a bright fi gure clothed in love and family disappointment success joy sorrow every mundane minute of life lived and loved and I fi ght to ease my way out of its grip The secret is not to fi ght but to go limp and slide away arms outstretched in welcome The ones I love surround me they whisper, “ Fight, fi ght. Don’t let death win.” They do not know the fi ght is with life Ann Spicer Editors’ Note: We mourn the death of Ann Spicer, former Liberal Arts Department Head, on January 29, 2007. 40 Miss Ann Spicer There once was a lady that really did care. She taught me about topic sentences, Antecedents, subjects and verbs But most didn’t know about the cross she had to bear. There once was a lady who was gentle and kind. She taught me about noun topics, clauses and Phrases, sentences, fragments, and run- ons Because she didn’t want any students left behind. There once was a lady whose life was slowing down. She taught me about brainstorming and outlines, Paragraphs, and writing a draft. With body failing, her spirit circled her like a crown. There once was a lady God came and took away. The things she taught me may fade, I may forget about English 090 in time, But the lady who taught me, her memory is here to stay. Wendy H. Smith To Ms. Ann Angelo Edwards When I thought I was falling apart, Ms. Ann Spicer kept me together. When bolts became loose, she tightened them. It was she who had a generosity that pulled me to the side to say, “ Hey! I know! It’s going to be all right! Don’t worry!” I had it really tough without ideal transportation, a job, or a way to raise a family. But Ms. Ann totally understood and acknowledged that I was still trying to be here at Wayne Community College. Because I started catching rides with my mom, I had to walk from the hospital to the college every morning. During that walk, I would be thinking that it wasn’t enough to have absolutely nothing; it could still get worse. She knew there was something that kept me here regardless of the hardships. She felt I was a highly intelligent individual, one of the smartest students in her class. So I gave it back in return by passing her class with an “ A!” She was my encouragement, and I was her smile those mornings. After I passed the class, I still dropped by to see her giving other students the same guidance she gave me, making me feel someone believed in me. Now that our fl ower of the campus has wilted away, she’s not to be forgotten. Her roots are still in the ground. She has not gone anywhere; she’s just enjoying the benefi ts of the earth’s peace in her special place. I miss her a lot, but she should truly be remembered for her teaching and honored as a most precious jewel emanating glow like no other upon this campus. Thanks, Ms. Ann! We love you! I’m still here and you are, too! 41 The Pain of Servitude Thomas Leon Sahm Rusting chains alerted him to their presence. The young boy listened to the jingling as someone played with the locks that sealed the wooden tomb. Turning carefully to avoid splintering the rotten wood beneath him, he watched intently as the door’s crevice widened, allowing the bright searing daylight into his prison. Flinching away from the burning light, he used soil- stained hands to shield his eyes from the brightness. “ Filth.” The familiar high pitch of the master voice burned into his ears. “ After only three days, you’ve already broken and soiled yourself.” Grabbing the boy’s arm, the master yanked him into the sun, allowing the boy to collapse onto the dirt. “ Get up! Or I’ll feed you to my dogs!” With eyes burning, the boy slowly forced weight onto his weak legs, forcing himself up at the master’s command. His emaciated muscles buckled under the pressure of body weight while his bones strained to move, sending an untold amount of pain through his body. The open sores which covered his legs began to ooze and drip crimson tears under the hot sun as his sweat loosened scabs. Visibly upset, the boy maintained composure fearing the end of a whip or another day in that horrid dungeon. The pain he was feeling did not compare to the fear of the man in front of him. “ See?” The noble lifted his cane, pointing it at the boy while smirking. “ Let this be a lesson to all of you. Never steal from me or squander my generosity.” Turning away from the smell of excrement that emanated from the wooden cell, the noble coughed, covering his nose and mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “ I hope you’ve learned?” he muffl ed through the handkerchief, directly addressing the boy. As the boy’s vision adjusted to the pain and compensated for the brightness, he was blessed with the full breath of scenery. Looking upwards, the boy’s fragile grey eyes locked onto his master. The weasel- faced noble had become plump through richness and arrogant through fl attery. Unable to fi nd the energy to speak from his dry throat and cracked lips, he only gave a nod to answer his master’s question. “ Good.” The noble smiled and took a few more steps back to alleviate the nauseating smells that surrounded the boy. “ Kigan, you may not know this, but the servant who was to take Julen’s place in the guard met with an unfortunate end, and I’m afraid we have no replacements except you. The other servants are too old and valuable, but you will suit the guard perfectly.” Kigan? Was that his name? The heat had played many tricks on him in that prison; his exhausted mind was uncertain. The noble wanted him to take Julen’s place— That name was familiar, but it was impossible to recall why. “ Taki,” the noble called to one of the servants who rushed up, quickly bowing to his master. “ You called?” “ Yes, take Kigan to the river and make sure he is clean. I don’t want to present this fi lth to the guard. Once he is washed, take him to the stables and tell Sorin to deliver him to Arlot— in one piece this time.” Taki nodded a second time and turned to grab Kigan but stopped immediately. “ You won’t be able to walk with your legs like that; I’ll carry you.” He spoke quietly out of the noble’s ear reach. Still in a daze, Kigan didn’t protest when Taki lifted him up, carrying him to the river. 42 A Song for Joey The lullaby she sings whispers softly on her breath. Back and forth she rocks, empty is her breast. A presence so tiny and so very small is snuggled within her arms but isn’t there at all. Broken is her spirit for the babe she cannot hold. Such warmth he gave her, who could have foretold the quick ticking of the clock, the passing of his soul leaving bitter years of yearning, a heart of icy cold. Back and forth she rocks, empty is her breast. The lullaby she sings whispers softly on her breath. A song sung just for him, in her arms he’ll always be the babe that sleeps forever for only her eyes to see. Linda Sugg Unspoken Words You left at such a tender age, in such a tragic way. There was no time to say goodbye, so much I need to say. Even if you already know, I want to say I love you so. Your life brought endless joy to mine. Why did you go and leave me behind? Life again will never be the same. Sometimes I still hear you calling my name. I smell the scent you used to wear. I turn and look, but no one is there. I think of you each passing day. I sense your presence every way. Often in things that your brother will do, I look at him and then I see you. You are with me now and forever more, and some day soon we will meet by the shore. And together forever we will always be with the one who created both you and me. Joyce Jernigan 43 Life Untouched How ironic That the one thing giving her life Would be the one thing to take it away Should I have called the doctor sooner? Was she in pain? I was her mother I should have protected her better Guilt sets in, then regret As she is being born, I feel the life being pulled right out of me. I have no meaning now No purpose Now comes the pain, the emptiness Hopelessness Will I ever laugh again? Look at my other children the same again? Will I resent them for being here When she is not? My new symbol of death is a white box The lid shut and locked Something so precious being protected From the cruel world that awaited it She is taken from us We will never know the color of her eyes Her hopes or dreams, her thoughts We will never tuck her into bed at night Help her say her prayers Watch over her as she sleeps She will never dance on her daddy’s feet Or give her mommy butterfl y kisses Her toes will never touch the seashore She will never chase fi refl ies at night Or sing lullabies The seasons bring change But our pain remains still Thoughts fl ood my head And run over into everyday life The image of her tiny, lifeless body Haunts our thoughts Spilling into our dreams How can you miss the sound Of the voice you never get to hear? Or laughter that never fi lls a room? To me, my daughter is not dead She is merely resting Waiting for me to catch up Wendy K. Womble 44 Generations I sit. I listen. I watch. Our young people seem to have lost touch. They are hurting each other. They are killing each other. They play a dangerous game. Boys may be boys, but at this rate, they will never grow up to be men. During their day to day ventures, they have strength and power on the street. They appear to have a hold on it all but they are still, so weak. All of their wants, all of the needs – are so materialistic. Trying to get things the fast way – they will only end up a statistic. They have lost touch with the beauty of youth and do whatever comes to mind. They lack the common sense it takes in order to survive. I sit and I reminisce. When I was younger, it was nothing like this. We didn’t do the things that are being done now, Even it we wanted to – I’m not sure we knew how. Street sense was out. Common sense was a must, and yes, book sense was the key. We enjoyed being young though mischievous at times And our future we did see. You never heard of young people killing each other. Our biggest worry was trying to sneak in without waking our mother. We were no angels. We were not saints nor did we pretend to be, But we did halfway listen to our parents and we did reach maturity. I sit. I wonder. I try to see. I picture my parents and how they used to be. They worked hard for basically everything they got, Not for what they wanted but for what they needed just to get by. Though they were young, they were stronger than we – in mind, body and soul There was no such thing as halfway listening – you did as you were told. The world today is nothing like they ever pictured it would be, Seeing their grandchildren dealing with drugs was beyond their wildest dreams. “ Each generation grows weaker but wiser” is what the elderly say. M. C. Hammer says, “ We’ve got to pray just to make it today.” I sit. I listen. I watch. Our young people seem to have lost touch. When I look out my door or sit on my porch And see the young people on the corner day and night, The dealers – the users – I wonder to myself if they think what they’re doing is right. I want to take them and shake them to see if I can make them come in and see the light. I come in instead – look at my kids in bed, and say to myself, “ They may make a change – they just might.” Terri Coley Carraway 45 Learning Process Eva Chan The Father That I Never Knew This is for the father that I never knew Your loved ones say that I look and act a lot like you From my eyes to my nose to the dimple in my chin I’ve even got your personality— to everyone I’m a friend Although it’s been many years since you have passed “ What if’s” are grains of sand in my mind’s hourglass Though I knew you little, you are still in my heart and mind And I’ll keep you there, never leaving you behind My memory can’t recollect the way you looked or talked But I look forward to the day you and I can take a walk Until that day, I’ll store pieces of you in my heart Linking them together like a chain, never to be taken apart. Joshua Dale Lane 46 My Childhood in Tampa Korreain Cummings I still remember the warm, breezy Tampa, Florida afternoons of my childhood. I would gaze out the open passenger window while my mom drove me home from school. As we rode, I peered at the towering palm trees that stood in line like soldiers guarding the Tampa Bay that stretched far beyond my school all the way past where I lived. After school, I loved to play outside. We lived at MacDill Air Force Base, and the housing where we lived was ideal for children like me. The housing was apartments that all seemed to sit in a circle with one shared backyard. No fences or walls separated the neighborhood children; we all had access to one another. It was customary to come home from school, don ourselves with play clothes, and dash “ out back” to play with the neighbor’s kids. The back yard seemed to stretch for miles when I was a kid. From my side of the circle to my friend Roni’s backdoor was enough distance to cause an energetic child to be out of breath when running. The fatigue did not last long, however. After summoning one’s friends, the entire circle would come to life with the laughter and teasing and sometimes bawling of children. A yard that large had enough space to accommodate an entire neighborhood of children. That’s exactly what dwelt in my circle… an entire neighborhood of children. Almost every household on that circle had at least two children. There were girls and boys. Most were in elementary school like me while others were approaching high school like my brother. We played together whether we knew each other or not. We usually played nicely with occasional squabbles over whose turn it was to turn the jump rope. We had so much to do in that circle. With a yard of plush, tall green grass that stretched into eternity, we would pretend to be animals in the jungle and crawl on our knees, making our mothers glad that they had forced us to change out of our good clothes before we left to play. We would lie on our backs on the plush, green grass, look up into the endless sky, hold up our feet, and pretend to walk among the clouds. We also had a sidewalk that followed the outside border of the circle where we would do laps with our bicycles— except for George, who, although he was eight, never learned to ride a bike with no training wheels. My family lived upstairs in our apartment, so we had a balcony outside our back door. Sometimes, when no one could come out to play, my mother and I would stand on the balcony and toss bread to sea gulls that hovered in the air around us. I always enjoyed the time I got to spend with my mom alone. I loved to hear the stories she told about her childhood. My mom told me stories of how she ate something called honeysuckle from a fl ower when she was a kid. In an effort to experience a piece of my mother’s childhood, I tried to expose my friends to the delight of honeysuckle. My childish knowledge of fl owers prevented us from doing so, however. Instead of eating honeysuckle, we ate some unknown wet substance from the middle of our neighbor’s roses. Since everyone shared the yard, we all shared whatever was sitting in the yard. George’s parents owned a wooden picnic table that we used as a dinner table when we played house or as a table when we played school. The yard provided the tools necessary for playing school. I remember being the teacher one day and using a stick to point to the lessons that I was teaching while my students used smaller sticks to write on imaginary paper made of leaves. We even had arts and crafts time in school when we would break our neighbor’s plants in order to get the 47 white goo that existed inside. We would then squeeze out the white substance ( that acted like glue) and glue together our leaf papers. We would play like this until the sun began to set and turn the sky a purplish hue and a chilly breeze blew off the Bay. All of the children my age were called by their parents to come for dinner and get ready for bed immediately. The kids in my neighborhood went to bed so early. Then I would go in for my dinner but would return outside with my brother and my parents. Now the sun was almost completely gone down and the street lights would soon come on. This was the time when the older children my brother’s age came out. My parents would get a ball and divide up teams for kickball, a favorite for the kids out back. Three light posts were out back, serving two purposes: the fi rst obviously to provide light and the other to be the three bases during kickball. It was under these light posts and the stars and the moon that I laughed and played as though I were a middle school kid. I remember thinking how angry my friends must be, hearing my laughter among the cheers and mirth of the older kids while they were getting ready for bed. I loved that yard. It was every child’s dream. It brought together children of all backgrounds and child- rearing styles. Our parents had always told us to share when we played with each other, but no one really understood how much we shared when we shared that one backyard. I missed that yard when my dad got orders to Cannon Air Force Base in Clovis, New Mexico. No longer did I see the palm tree sentinels that protected the ebbing and crashing waves of the Tampa Bay, no longer did I feel that humid breeze that could almost wet my face, no longer did I hear the calls of the sea gull that begged for bread, and no longer did I taste the juices inside my neighbor’s roses in childish attempt to eat honeysuckle. Instead, I now sheltered my face from the sting of dry, loose dirt that blew in the arid wind in a small fenced- in yard that I shared with no one. There was nothing but me, the dirt, and thirsting yellow grass as I wondered if children miles and miles away still played kickball under the guide of the moonlight. City Map Cross the northern route with great caution, the intercity connector— impacted bowel of express busses, two- seater cars in the diamond lane, cement mixers and shameless cellphone whores, diaspora of suburban refugees— the city pulls, circulates them all through its metropolitan heart. Jeff Williams Anxiety A cat crouched in waves of fescue eyes wide like black shining pearls ears to the front, whiskers wire taut and the blackbird, uneasy and bent to drink from the fountain, eyes up but searching the wrong way, unaware. Jeff Williams 48 No Leaves in Autumn Andy Rasjski Due to the coming winter, it was colder outside than usual. We were well into September now, and yet, not a single dead leaf could be found. After all, there were no trees— only bodies and barracks fi lled with dying people. Such thoughts likely never occurred in the men around me, who shivered in their ranks as they awaited further orders. To them, life was nothing more than their next bowl of soup and their next breath. Anything before either was forgotten, and anything after was unimportant. Some of those men would soon be on their way to the factories, others to the quarries. Others still were undoubtedly on the way to their deaths. Hell, some of them would probably be dead before tomorrow. I watched the men closely as the soldiers marched them away from the fi eld; they were my companions, my brothers. I knew not one- tenth of them, but it did not matter to me. We were all in this together. As the Kapo of the block, I did not have to go work with the others though I was still a prisoner myself. I had received the job simply because I was the oldest one of the prisoners and had never given the guards any trouble. Some might have even said I was lucky, never having to work the same as the others, but there was no luck in the concentration camps. There was no luck for any of us. I walked slowly back to the “ sick barracks” to check on the prisoners from my block who were unable to go out and work today. What I found was, as always, a nightmare. Over fi fty people lay on the cots, on the fl oor, and on each other, all extremely sick and incapable of moving. Men were throwing up in the corners and relieving themselves in their beds. Other men simply lay groaning all around, starving and aching at their cores. The smell was horrible. Dejectedly, I noticed that less than half of the people I had tended to only yesterday were still in the room. The others were probably ash by now. There was a Kapo from another block in the room already. He was mercilessly beating an old man who lay on the ground in the fetal position, attempting to minimize the blows. The Kapo glanced up at me, smiling as if he were looking for approval. I suddenly wanted to rush over and punch him as hard as I could to kill him for his unwarranted cruelty to another human being. And for what? What had that sick old man ever done to deserve such a beating? Exist? Instead, I resigned myself to kneeling down and whispering to the man nearest to me. He was leaning against the wall near the entrance, looking starved and feverish. I asked him if he needed anything, and he whispered hoarsely for some water. I clipped off the small canteen I carried with me just for such purposes and poured a few drops into his mouth. Such a small deed seemed to give him immense satisfaction. I suddenly wished that I could bring a whole bucket of soup to him and pour it down his throat, so that I could releive at least one of his pains. But alas, I could not, and after a few more minutes of tending to the man, I moved on to another patient and another until many hours had passed and I felt the need to return to my offi ce. I looked over to where the other Kapo had beaten the old man and left him to die. I rushed to the old man’s side, but it was too late. One day, I vowed, I would avenge that man. I would avenge all of us. Without a single goodbye, I departed from my horrible daily ritual, staring at the ground 49 replaying the image of all those sick people in my mind. I was so deep in thought that I suddenly ran into the back of one of the camp’s guards. Jolted from my thoughts, I regained consciousness of my surroundings just as the man pointed his gun in my face and started yelling. I looked at his face, and for a brief second, locked eyes with the furious guard. In that second, a deep channel of hatred formed between us. I hated him because of his deeds and lack of compassion, and he hated me for who I was, for being a Jew, and nothing more. But in that instant, I was not able to tell who hated the other more, and I realized that if I were the one holding the gun, I would not think twice about shooting the guard. And even after I escaped the guard’s wrath and returned safely to my offi ce, I could not shake our interaction from my mind. If I’d been able to, I would have killed him. This sent my mind reeling, for I am not an angry nor vengeful man. For the next couple of hours, incredibly diffi cult questions fl oated in and out of my mind, each one with an answer more frightening than the last. Had the horrors around me fi nally reduced me to having the simple mindset of kill or be killed? Who is worse: a man who kills another man because he’s told to, or a man who kills another man because he wants to? If you had another chance, would you kill the guard? I wrestled with myself in this way long after the men I watched over returned from their day’s work. While we ate our soup, I questioned my deepest being, and I did not sleep at all that night, as question after question assaulted my conscious mind, forcing me to reevaluate myself and my beliefs. And the next day, I had come to one conclusion. I would like another chance. Downstairs Bobbie Stringfi eld 50 Saved by the Bell Al Boone Every Wednesday afternoon, I usually drive my car to the community store to fi ll it with gasoline. At the gas pumps, I am pumping regular unleaded gas into my car at the price of $ 2.79 a gallon and I wonder, “ How much higher will these prices go?” Suddenly, I hear a commotion of hollering and raving from across the street at a local school. “ What are those kids doing?” I think to myself. I realize that one of the kids is my oldest son Dustin. He and several others are chasing my truck that he drives. I see that someone else is in the driver’s seat. I run over to intervene and try to fi gure out what is going on. Before I get there, the truck hits the wall of the school gym. It looks as though kids are being slung everywhere. I proceed to run toward them, gasping for extra air between every step. I can hear the blaring siren of an approaching police car. The kids are now fussing and cussing at one another. The police car zooms upon the scene, sliding sideways at it comes to a stop. The offi cer jumps out and hollers, “ Put your hands in the air where I can see them.” He shouts it again, and the kids respond, raising their hands. I fi nally reach the scene. Totally out of breath, I wonder why I didn’t drive here in my car since I know the store attendant would have understood. The policeman instructs me to stand back. “ But that’s my truck and that’s my son,” I tell him. “ Why is that Mexican kid driving my truck?” The policeman replies, “ Just stand back, sir, and I’ll get to the bottom of this.” Simultaneously, I hear Dustin saying, “ He stole it, Daddy. He stole it.” The policeman responds, “ Keep your hands in the air and your mouth shut.” He then walks toward the boys. He asks the scrawny Mexican kid, “ Who was driving?” The Mexican kid mumbles and points toward Dustin. I volunteer, “ I saw the Mexican driving it, offi cer,” as the offi cer motions to me with a horizontal hand slapping the air in an attempt to tell me again to be quiet. Someone hollers, “ He has a gun.” A shot rings out. “ Get down!” hollers the policeman. As the policeman draws his gun, more shots ring out as the offi cer returns fi re. Next, I turn to run toward my son and I turn in the opposite direction as I am trying to move. I think, “ What is wrong with my leg?” As I turn again, I hear Bam! Bam! As I run toward my son, I feel really warm. Bam! I am jerked to the ground. “ Who is pulling me down?” I think. I hit the ground; my knees slam hard fi rst. “ I’ve been shot,” I think, but I don’t feel any pain. “ I’ve got to get up.” My legs do not respond. I fall onto my chest with my right hand caught between my chest and the ground. The palm is facing the ground. My left hand, lying outward beside my waist, does not move. My left cheek is pressed against the ground. I can see my own eyes from a frontal view, blinking at the dust of the dirt. “ I’m dying. Dear God, please forgive me for my sins,” I pray. “ Please protect Dustin and the rest of my family.” “ Beep, beep, beep,” sounds the alarm clock, and I awaken lying in the exact position as I had fallen after being shot. 51 Timeless Gene Smith For Just a Moment Red light. Fourth car. Ample time. I reach down, turn up the cuffs of designer jeans before the light turns. Déjà vu as time turns back to 1955 and places me on Mama’s kitchen stool. There my brother’s hands, veins prominent, deftly turn up the cuffs of his little sister’s jeans just the way the older girls in his class turn up their cuffs. Déjà vu— kind or cruel? For just a moment before the light turns green and turns me back to an adult, I have my childhood home, I have my cuffs turned up just right, I have my brother still alive. Rosalyn F. Lomax 52 Sharing Our Space Gene Smith Camoufl age Copper tufts of drying pine in tall green grass have fooled my eye and drawn me to this fi eld to scan for rusty doe, and there she stands. And there she stands, long slender neck erect, white ears alert, brown- eyed gaze unwavering. I freeze, then murmur reassurance. We stare each other down. I take a step. The statue stays. I step again. She turns and with the weightless bound of ballerina escapes into the woods, white- tail farewell. Next afternoon in gentle drizzle she grazes center of the fi eld in peace. We share our space. Rosalyn F. Lomax Sitting Proudly Gene Smith Passerby Black scales shining in the sun Cold blood slowly warming Sit proudly upon your stone Grow long and strong You king of the ground So go your way Be seen no more And darkness now surrounds you Christian Turnage Ode on a Vampire Endless hours pass Dull throbbing pain The things I think and say Inhibitions set aside To no avail Do you feel the loss as I do? To live a millennia And never fi nd an equal Always haunting the dark Hiding from the sun You’ll never truly see me I will always be a wraith to you An apparition that vanishes In clouds of smoke and dust Consider me dead For life is not in me anymore Resting in the dust Never to rise again Christian Turnage 53 54 Vanity’s Place: A Modern Myth Janet Carmichael Looking around the glen, Sherman Bowman said to himself, “ My boy, you have truly found paradise! All you need now is your very own Eve.” ‘ Uh, yeah. Like that’s going to happen,’ Sherman knew he was no Prince Charming. At thirty- eight years of age, he had absolutely nothing going for him. He was short, only fi ve feet and six inches tall, and at least fi fteen pounds overweight. His hair was an indiscriminate brown, and if his bald spot kept growing, he would resemble Friar Tuck very soon. He had some nasty acne scars on both cheeks, not so gentle reminders of his horrendous adolescence. And the pièce de résistance was the thick- lenses, black horn- rimmed glasses he had to wear. He couldn’t wear contact lenses because of his astigmatism, and the frames were the only ones he could afford on the company’s crappy vision plan. Sherman was well aware that he wasn’t exactly the poster boy for male animal magnetism, but he was comfortable with who he was at that point in his life. Sherman wandered around for over an hour just enjoying the scenery and the quiet. Around two, Sherman noticed that the afternoon had warmed considerably. He decided a wade in the pond would be just the thing. He slipped off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants legs, and dipped a toe into heaven. The water was cool and soft against his ankles. Sherman puttered around the rim of the pond for a bit, plopped down on the grassy edge, and dangled his feet in the shallow pool. He lay back and watched the puffy clouds glide overhead. Then he rolled onto his side and watched the patterns his hand made in the pond’s sandy fl oor. Sherman was so relaxed that he dozed off, his hand still in the water. As he lay there with his eyes closed, be began to feel a soft, fl uid warmth creep up his arm. When the sensation reached his shoulder, it became tangible enough to bring Sherman out of his doze. He opened his eyes, but he didn’t move for fear that the sweetness would go away. After the warmth spread to his chest, he decided to chance it and rolled to his side to look down at his hand in the water. The water around his hand and forearm was somehow brighter and clearer, and it felt like a velvet cloth caressing his skin. It truly was the most incredible sensation he had ever felt. As welcome as the soft warmth was, Sherman knew that something odd was going on. This wasn’t a hot spring, and no water softener apparatus was beneath the surface. “ So, what the hell is happening?” Sherman asked out loud. “ It’s just my magnetic self.” Sherman was so startled by the voice that he almost rolled into the pond. “ Okay, I am dreaming. Except that wonderful feeling is still here. Really, what the hell is going on?” “ I told you; it’s me. I have this ability to make people feel, well, good.” Sherman looked down at the water, and instead of seeing his own refl ection, he saw the face of an incredibly beautiful woman looking up at him. He plunged his other hand into the water and grasped nothing. As soon as he pulled his hand out, her face was back, even more beautiful than before. “ Sherman, it’s okay, really. Don’t upset yourself. You’re not hallucinating. You’re really seeing and hearing me.” “ But, you’re under the water. I mean, you seem to be under the water. I just tried to touch you, and you’re not there.” “ Oh, I’m here all right. I’m behind or at the bottom of everything that refl ects.” “ Who are you?” “ I am Vanity. And you are Sherman Bowman from Talladega.” “ How do you know that?” “ That’s my secret, Sherman.” “ Please, don’t call me Sherman; I hate that name. Just call me Sherm; everyone does.” “ No problem, Sherm. Whatever fl oats your boat. You think Hitler was crazy about Adolf? I’ll call you whatever you want.” “ What do you want with me? I’m hardly your type after all. There’s no basis for you in my life. Just look at me.” “ Actually, Sherm, it’s not what I want that matters. I’m here for you, so to speak. And I am looking at you, Sherm. You’re not so bad.” “ Oh, come on. I’m not your usual type, and you know it.” “ That’s true. Politicians are my traditional stock- in- trade. They are so easy. I hardly have to crook my fi nger. They’re more than ready for me by the time I show up.” “ I can certainly agree with that.” “ Lately, I’ve developed a taste for televangelists. They’re also pushovers for my line. They already see God when they look in the mirror. The subtlest nudge from me, and they’re just steps away from the grandest delusions of omniscience and omnipotence.” “ Aah, that explains it.” “ Yep. Professional athletes, rock stars, and actors are also always near the top of my list. I fi nd it so amusing that you people treat my children like gods and then have a fi t when they act like it. But that’s neither here nor there. Just one of my little pet peeves.” “ Sorry, I’m not much into idol- worship.” “ My goodness, Sherm. You are a regular riot. A true breath of fresh air. I knew you’d be worth the trip. M
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Title | Renaissance... |
Other Title | Renaissance (Goldsboro, N.C.) |
Date | 2007 |
Description | 2007 |
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Full Text | RENAISSANCE The Writers’ and Artists’ Magazine of Wayne Community College Goldsboro, North Carolina Volume 23, April 2007 Dedication This twenty- third issue of Renaissance commemorates the fi ftieth anniversary of Wayne Community College and is dedicated to Dr. Edward H. Wilson, Jr. President, 1992- 2007 for his leadership and service and for his support of Renaissance STUDENT AWARDS Cover Design Sze Man Eva Chan Essay Charles Owens Poetry Christian Turnage Ann E. Spicer Memorial Award Becky Holloman Thomas Sahn EDITORS Rosalyn Lomax Kathryn Spicer Jeff Williams Marian Westbrook, Editor Emerita ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Faculty Gene Smith, Margaret Boothe Baddour, Torey Romero, Patricia Turlington Staff Theresa White- Wallace Student Sze Man Eva Chan Educational Support Technologies Department Thomas J. Garrou Wade Hallman, Brent Hood, Ron Lane Alice Wadsworth Student Government Association Kornegay Printing and The Artists and Writers No part of this magazine may be reproduced without permission. Copyright 2006 Renaissance Views expressed are those of the individual contributors and do not necessarily refl ect the views of the editors or this institution. i Table of Contents Ponte Vecchio Sunset ........................................................................... 1........................................ Jeff Williams, English Instructor 2000 B. C. ............................................................................................. 1................................... Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Sunrise over Serengeti ......................................................................... 2.............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Yi’s Pendant ......................................................................................... 3........................................ Thomas Sahm, Associate in Arts The Breakfast Table ............................................................................. 4....................................... Charles Owens, Associate in Arts Dedication to Dees ............................................................................... 5...................................... Diane DeBruine, Dental Assisting Winter Is Not Burl Ives ........................................................................ 6........................................ Jeff Williams, English Instructor Sin ........................................................................................................ 6....................................... Kelley Thomas, Associate in Arts Thoughts About You ............................................................................ 6................................. Brittany Verner, Associate in Science Mill Town Nightshift ........................................................................... 7........................................ Jeff Williams, English Instructor Sky View 1 ............................................................................................ 7.......................... Joy Pearce, Volunteer Wayne Coordinator Angels? ................................................................................................ 8.............. Theresa White- Wallace, Secretary, Language and Communication, Developmental Studies Department Field of Dandelions .............................................................................. 8...................................... Diane DeBruine, Dental Assisting An Angel ............................................................................................... 9................................. Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts PS2 Lover ............................................................................................ 10................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Fate ...................................................................................................... 11 ................................... Becky Holloman, Associate in Arts Rose ..................................................................................................... 11 ................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Cupboard Guitarist ............................................................................. 12................................................ Jon Ortiz, Associate in Arts Credo ................................................................................................... 12........ Janet Carmichael, Developmental English Instructor Good Morning, Warden! ..................................................................... 13........................ Al Boone, Air Conditioning, Heating, and Refrigeration Technology Pin Point ............................................................................................. 13..................................... Diane DeBruine, Dental Assisting A Hummingbird Pantoum ................................................................... 14.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor A Moment in a Loud Crowded Room ................................................. 14.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Fall, Your Time of Year, My Dear ....................................................... 14............................. Margaret Boothe Baddour, Humanities and Creative Writing Instructor Pond of Koi ......................................................................................... 15........................................ Brytani Fraser, Associate in Arts Hidden ................................................................................................. 15................................... Becky Holloman, Associate in Arts Invisible: My Trip to Saudi Arabia ..................................................... 16.................. Janice Nelson, Medical Offi ce Administration Butting Heads ...................................................................................... 17............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Where Would We Be? ......................................................................... 18..................................... Valerie Stephens, Criminal Justice Masai Girl ........................................................................................... 18............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Ancestors ............................................................................................. 19.............................. Korreain Cummings, Associate in Arts Masai Welcome Dance ........................................................................ 19............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Brooklyn of the Mind .......................................................................... 20....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor Mantis Wire ......................................................................................... 20................................................ Jon Ortiz, Associate in Arts World of Ash ....................................................................................... 20....................................... Thomas Sahm, Associate in Arts Rickshaw, Red, and Ritual .................................................................. 21................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Bird of Paradise .................................................................................. 21................................ Sze Man Eva Chan, Associate in Arts Summer ............................................................................................... 22...................................... Kelley Thomas, Associate in Arts Mirror .................................................................................................. 24...................................... Kelley Thomas, Associate in Arts Dragon Fly Wire ................................................................................. 24............................................. Jessica Pitt, Associate in Arts Flower or Female? .............................................................................. 25........ Terri Coley Carraway, Associate in Applied Science Out to Dry ........................................................................................... 25......................................... Angie Waller, Associate in Arts The Old................................................................................................ 26.................................................... Brent Hood, Web Master A President’s Memory ........................................................................ 26.................. G. Herman Porter, President of WCC 1986- 92 The New .............................................................................................. 27.................................................... Brent Hood, Web Master Memories ( 1980- 83) ........................................................................... 27............. Kay Albertson, Vice President, Academic Affairs / Student Development WCC Memories .................................................................................. 28.............. Miriam Wessell, Interim Developmental Studies Department Head My Favorite Memory .......................................................................... 29.................... Kay Bradley, Campus Information Specialist Memories from the Seventies ............................................................. 30.................... Carl Brow, Counselor, Student Development Renaissance and the Old Campus ....................................................... 30.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor ii Sitting Up with the Dead ..................................................................... 31......................... Dave Meador, Retired Forestry Instructor Old Campus ........................................................................................ 31.................. Marian Westbrook, Retired English Instructor Memories ............................................................................................ 32................................. Banks Peacock, Computer Instructor Memories of the Old Campus ............................................................. 34......................... Alice Wadsworth, Chief Financial Offi cer South Campus ..................................................................................... 34.................................... Sharon Smith, Executive Secretary Old Campus Memories ....................................................................... 35.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor Diversity .............................................................................................. 35............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Memories of the Old Campus ............................................................. 36............. Theresa White- Wallace, Secretary, Language and Communication, Developmental Studies Department Memories of a Friend .......................................................................... 37............. Theresa White- Wallace, Secretary, Language and Communication, Developmental Studies Department Serenity ................................................................................................ 38......................... Joy Pearce, Volunteer Wayne Coordinator The Class ............................................................................................. 38................................... Rebecca Sewell, Medical Assisting April 5, 1999 ....................................................................................... 39................... Ann Spicer, English Instructor / Planning and Research, deceased Miss Ann Spicer .................................................................................. 40........................ Wendy H. Smith, Business Administration To Ms. Ann .......................................................................................... 40.................................... Angelo Edwards, Associate in Arts The Pain of Servitude .......................................................................... 41....................................... Thomas Sahm, Associate in Arts A Song for Joey ................................................................................... 42............................................ Linda Sugg, Associate in Arts Unspoken Words ................................................................................. 42....................................... Joyce Jernigan, Associate in Arts Life Untouched ................................................................................... 43.............................. Wendy K. Womble, Medical Assisting Generations ......................................................................................... 44........ Terri Coley Carraway, Associate in Applied Science The Father That I Never Knew ........................................................... 45........................... Joshua Dale Lane, Livestock & Poultry/ Agribusiness Learning Process ................................................................................ 45............................................... Eva Chan, Associate in Arts My Childhood in Tampa ..................................................................... 46.............................. Korreain Cummings, Associate in Arts City Map ............................................................................................. 47....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor Anxiety ................................................................................................ 47....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor No Leaves in Autumn ......................................................................... 48........ Andrew Rasjski, Wayne Early Middle College High School Downstairs .......................................................................................... 49................................. Bobbie Stringfi eld, Associate in Arts Saved by the Bell ............................................................................ 50........................ Al Boone, Air Conditioning, Heating, and Refrigeration Technology Timeless ............................................................................................... 51............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head For Just a Moment .............................................................................. 51.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor Camoufl age ......................................................................................... 52.............. Rosalyn F. Lomax, English and Student Success Instructor Sharing Our Space .............................................................................. 52............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Sitting Proudly .................................................................................... 53............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Passerby .............................................................................................. 53.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Ode on a Vampire ................................................................................ 53.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts Vanity’s Place: A Modern Myth .......................................................... 54........ Janet Carmichael, Developmental English Instructor Forgiveness ......................................................................................... 56....................................... Travis Jenkins, Associate in Arts Solitude Standing ................................................................................ 57............. Gene Smith, Math and Science Department Head Number ............................................................................................... 57............................. Nichelle Jackson, Information Systems Sandy Soul .......................................................................................... 58.......................................... Jacob Jessee, Associate in Arts Sky View 2 ........................................................................................... 58......................... Joy Pearce, Volunteer Wayne Coordinator Life Moves On .................................................................................... 59............. Amanda Sternberg, Wayne Early Middle College High School Sanctuary ............................................................................................ 59........................ Wing Ka Angela Leung, Associate in Arts Garden Party ....................................................................................... 60....................................... Jeff Williams, English Instructor If You Were A Dancer ......................................................................... 60.................................. Christian Turnage, Associate in Arts 1 Ponte Vecchio Sunset Jeff Williams 2000 B. C. The great majestic towers Touching the sky with ease Might Babylon live forever May no one sack your towns And no one raze your cities The famed gardens shall stand As long as the sun and rain persist Make all the world your own As far as the eye can see The gods of no nations Can stand against you Hail Nebuchadnezzar Your empire is secure Christian Turnage 2 Sunrise over Serengeti Gene Smith Editors’ Note: Gene Smith, 2005- 2006 Distinguished Chair, used his award to visit Africa. His photos in this issue of the Renaissance are from his trip. 3 Yi’s Pendant The golden sun is heavy in the late Thai afternoon. Outside dozens mingle where white casket stands covered with fl owers and silk against the concrete house. In the old house I stare at the wooden mantel and bare bed. In the corner, colorful yet simple is a necklace. The braided yellows, blues, and reds grab me. My vision urges me to reach out and pull it free from where it sits alone and forgotten. The necklace is worn and torn but it holds together defi ant of condition. So much like Yi, willful and wise. Delicate with age but stronger in spirit. The pendant it holds is also worn. The oval once rich in color is now Only a blackened hue of bronze, the engravings too worn to read. An old man smiles from the pendant. He is a monk, happy with simplicity so much like Yi, simple but content poor in life but rich in soul and love. Thomas Sahm 4 The Breakfast Table Charles Owens When I think of a place that is special to me, I am immediately transported back in time. I can hear the familiar cracking and popping of something fi ghting against the heat of grandma’s cast iron skillet. Then, the smell of frying bacon fi lls my nostrils. In an instant, I hear the creak of the oven door, and the aroma of fresh baked biscuits dances with that of the bacon. A hint of coffee lingers in the background. My senses are aroused and lulled all in the same breath. I also hear the newspaper pages being turned. Each page is scanned slowly and carefully. When the pages are turned, they get a stout fl ick to keep the folds in place. There’s a distinct rhythm to the goings on down the hall. With the knowledge of what awaits in the kitchen, I try to struggle from the comfort of the feather tick bed and patchwork quilt I’m buried in. I pause to savor the smells closer to me. There’s a bit of a moth ball or cedar scent coming from the quilt. I’m sure this is left over from time spent in the cedar chest at the bottom of the bed. My favorite quilt is made from patches of old, worn out clothing that I can easily recognize with my eyes shut: my grandfather’s shirt, my grandmother’s apron, my sister’s Easter dress, and my own corduroy pants. I rub my fi ngers absently over the squares with my eyes closed to test myself on recognition of which fabric is which. After doing this for so long, I have worn a bare spot in one of the squares. It is the square made of my grandmother’s apron. It has a slightly silky feel with small raised dots. I remember her telling me that it’s called “ Swiss Dot” material. The smell of breakfast begins to win, and the covers magically pull back allowing me the freedom to move. It’s still a struggle for me to force myself out of the bed. But I know that it’s fi rst come fi rst serve here, so I need to get up. The chill in the air compared to the warmth of my nest startles the rest of me awake. I rub my eyes, wiggle my toes, and before my feet can hit the fl oor, I am buried once again. My grandmother wraps me in her arms, kisses the top of my head, and tells me good morning. I return her hug eagerly and let my head fall into the softness of her belly. She puts her hand on the back of my head and pulls me closer, scratching the back of my head lightly, an area she calls my “ kitchen.” I never did fi nd out why she called it that. I could fall back asleep in the comfort of her arms, but I know she’s not going to let that happen. My socked feet shuffl e easily against the hardwood fl oor as she takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. Grandpa is already sitting at the table sipping his coffee and reading the Saturday morning newspaper. I can hear him slurping the hot steaming cup as if he were sitting here right now. He picks the cup up ( one of those old Corelle cups, white with a green border), blows one breath across the coffee, then slurps a drink. Every now and then he will “ humph��� at something he reads and announce to us what has caught his interest. No one reads the newspaper before Grandpa; he likes his paper crisp and neat. While he updates us on current events, my grandmother shuffl es from stove to table until the table is brimming with breakfast. There is a mound of bacon, another mound of buttermilk biscuits, an enormous bowl of scrambled eggs, and enough pancakes to feed an army. A glass pitcher fi lled with ice- cold milk sits beside a stack of plates on one end of the table. Out of another pitcher fi lled with orange juice, she pours me a cup in one of those real small juice glasses I never seem to see any more. I drink it quickly so I can have another. 5 Soon the front door gives way to a couple of uncles, some cousins, and even neighbors. Everyone who can make it to the breakfast table does. The room fi lls with chatter, laughter, the sound of silverware clinking against plates, and a sense of comfort. The table is elbow to elbow, serving plates emptying quickly and bellies bulging with fullness. The comfort of my grandmother’s kitchen expanded farther than me. Many people over the course of many years have found their way there on Saturday mornings. I got smart quick and spent Friday nights at my grandparents’ house, so I would be the fi rst one at the table. The memories of those times comfort me to this day as I’m sure they do many others who frequented the breakfast table. The memory of the smells, the people, the food, the laughter, all of it still brings a smile to my face all these years later. Dedication to Dees Diane De Bruine 6 Winter Is Not Burl Ives Winter is not Burl Ives worming through our frosty lives his tenor, by golly, holly jolly knives grating at windows on cold winter nights. No, winter is not Burl Ives his tired, musty, dusty jibes no match for more cynical drives and colorful, spinning commercial lights. I tell you, forget about Burl Ives. He cannot fi ght with blue tail fl ies pitchers, tea cups, and clear ice. No ukulele can resist our modern tides. So it’s R. I. P. to Burl Ives and his long gone simpler times. Goodbye to his pleasant country rhymes drowned out by the horror in the headlines. Jeff Williams Sin What should I have done? I wanted to break its skin. Should I have always wanted And never have tried? If time started again Would I make the same sin? A talking snake… What would you have done? Kelley Thomas Thoughts About You Sunfl owers so full Smiles soaring through tree tops Things that are never dull Wanting to grab a few pops Planting seeds Getting down and dirty Playing with beads Hoping we won’t turn thirty Mixing drinks Soaring so high Working out the kinks Wishing to fl y I’m falling Nothing like a dove For I know I’m in love Brittany Verner 7 Sky View 1 Joy Pearce Mill Town Nightshift I’ve never seen the sun beyond lavender shadow and orange shades, not for a long chain of twenty- fi ve years, link after link, a dedicated daysleeper, third- shift, halogen and plasterboard. The pink angel came with its message of love, my paper wing: bridge by the river, wind through my shirt, embrace of the water. After decades in darkness I couldn’t fathom thoughts of light. Jeff William 8 Angels Theresa White- Wallace Late one summer night, music was heard from the house below. The old couple that owned the house was no longer living. The house had been empty for years, but it was still visited weekly by family. A knock came at the door. The person at the door had heard some music and was afraid, and she wanted someone else to confi rm what she was hearing. At fi rst it was thought that someone was playing a guitar. Where was the music coming from? Was it coming from inside the house? Was it coming from the barn or from somewhere in between? Who was playing this low, soft, mystical music? The music stopped and all went inside. The music was heard again the next night. Again, there was a knock at the door. The music is back. Call other family members. In the dark of the night stood grown men and women who were listening to the music that mesmerized them by its sound. Why would no one investigate? The following night children were left behind as their parents stood atop the hill where the music could be heard. Almost on cue the music began to play. On this night the men decided to investigate. With fl ashlights in tow they started down the lane that led to the house below. The ones left behind watched as the men disappeared into the darkness. The four men didn’t speak as they made their way toward the music. The men stopped after they arrived at the barn and turned off their fl ashlights. The light pole nearby gave them enough light to see the house in the distance. The music could be heard more clearly now. It wasn’t someone playing a guitar; it was someone playing a harp. The music began to fade in an upward direction as the men approached the front yard. All four men stood still as the music slowly faded away. How were they going to explain what had just happened? “ The music has stopped,” someone said from the hill top. It was a while before the fi rst fl ashlight could be seen. Why had the men waited so long to come back after the music had stopped? Was someone drunk, playing a guitar? The men explained what they had heard, and everyone returned home. The music was never heard again. Field of Dandelions Diane De Bruine 9 An Angel Sze Man Eva Chan 10 PS2 Lover Sze Man Eva Chan 11 Rose Sze Man ( Eva) Chan Fate Becky Holloman His eyes are cold and hard, never wavering, never fl ickering with indecision or emotion. How can he remain emotionless through all this turmoil? Do the blows of the whip not affect him as they do the other prisoners? Has he already lost hope for a miraculous rescue or to be freed on some noble’s whim? Numerous people have I seen pass through these wrought iron doors into my hands as Head Executioner of the King. Some come with stark raving terror already etched upon their faces. Others enter quietly praying that they are not where they think they are. A few enter these doors with the arrogance that they are going right back out again. So many have I seen and dealt pain and fear to. Their faces, clothing, screams, pleas, everything about them has already begun to blend together to form one large mass of a nameless body in my mind. Why then does this one man draw all of my attention unto him? He is nothing special. Medium height, broad shoulders, and a lean physique. Hundreds like him have already come through. Wait, there is a mark on his right wrist that was previously hidden by the ropes binding him. The symbol of a phoenix in fl ight, clutching a rose in its talons. Please, by all the gods, let me be mistaken! Do not let the youth have a burn mark on this right ankle! With great trepidation I lift the cuff of his pant leg and fi nd… a burn mark. It is with the last ounces of hope that I shake the youth in an attempt to rouse him, to get some form of an expression to cross his eyes. Nothing. His head lolls back, and it rapidly becomes apparent that he choked to death upon his own tongue. My fate is sealed. For I have inadvertently killed the Crown Prince. 12 Cupboard Guitarist Jon Ortiz Credo Alone at last, for the rest of my life. Yep, that’s the way to go. No one left to lean on. I should have thought of this before. It won’t be too hard, I bet, To do everything by myself. Who needs a helping hand? Goodness knows, I certainly don’t. I have everything under control. So I won’t need your advice or support. The loneliness I feel now will fade with time. Or so I have been told. I’ll never count on another To do what I can do alone. It’s better to be self- suffi cient And do everything on my own. So, forget it; don’t come near me. I’ll only make you go. Isn’t it so very obvious That I just want to be alone? Janet Carmichael 13 Pin- Point Diane DeBruine Good Morning, Warden! Al Boone It is the edge of night; the glow of the sun creeps upon the sky in the east. As it tries to overtake the darkness, I drive down a bumpy path. The rattle clanks and clunks of the Toyota truck are a testament of the dues it has paid. Coastal Bermuda hay stretches from each side of the bumpy path to the shadowed tree line of the woods. I can see the bubble of the dew on the strands of hay. The dew is thick on small splotches of webs the spiders have spun throughout the fi eld. They give a ghostly appearance. I can tell that the wind is still by the way the strands of hay stand at attention. A pungent odor seeps into the cab of the truck. I see its source up ahead— four long narrow buildings with rooftops of shiny tin and sides of wire and cinder blocks. Gray tarp- like vinyl curtains are rolled halfway up covering most of the wire on the building’s sides keeping its occupants out of sight. A lagoon of water and muck separates the buildings from the hay fi elds. A foggish smoke fl oats above the lagoon in the morning air. The doors to the buildings are numbered “ one,” “ two,” “ three,” and “ four” with bright red paint. Long, narrow, wood plank load chutes stretch out from each door. They are hoisted in mid- air with rusty chain wenches to keep them out of the way until they are needed. Round slender galvanized feed tanks stand on the front corner of each house. These giant ice cream cones supply the feed continuously to the occupants of each house. I park in front of the house “ one” and walk to the door to start my daily inspection. I open the door and step in. The body heat and odor of each occupant hits me hard in the face. I have startled the occupants. They squeal, snort, and scamper into tight little groups in their separate rooms in an attempt to distance themselves from my intrusion. Their rooms consist of twenty creel pens on each side of a main aisle. I begin to walk the aisle like a guard in prison checking the caged inmates. My inmates realize it is I and come to greet me at the bars of their jail. 14 A Hummingbird Pantoum Hummingbird ballet or battle At windowpane I hold my breath Dainty pair dart, swoop, and soar Then merge as in a pas de deux At windowpane I hold my breath They blitz each other as at war Then merge as in a pas de deux And make their exit from the stage They blitz each other as at war Then reconcile in arabesque And make their exit from the stage Encore! Repeat the exercise Then reconcile in arabesque Dainty pair dart, swoop, and soar Encore! Repeat the exercise Hummingbird ballet or battle Rosalyn F. Lomax A Moment in a Loud Crowded Room Sitting on an ottoman Van Gogh fl ashing in front of me Not knowing what to play Hearing change drop in a bucket Van Gogh fl ashing in front of me Foam and froth fl owing Hearing change drop in a bucket Trail of faces in and out Foam and froth fl owing Trying hard to stay on beat Trail of faces in and out A smile I’ll never forget Trying hard to stay on beat Not knowing what to play A smile I’ll never forget Sitting on an ottoman Christian Turnage Fall, Your Time of Year, My Dear Fall, your time of year, my dear when leaves weave lacy valances the maple fl ames like your hair and seems to take its chances. When leaves weave lacy valances Your voice sounds– faint but near and seems to take its chances. Now your call echoes– blue and clear. I hear your voice, faint but near. Amber light, a sword, lances. Now your call echoes, blue and clear. Colors layer like phalanxes. Amber light, a sword, lances the mountain mist that shrouds the air Colors layer like phalanxes. But shadows fall. No color here. The mountain mist shrouds the air. The maple fl ames like your hair But shadows fall. No color here. Fall, your time of year, my dear. Margaret Boothe Baddour 15 Pond of Koi Two gold eagles fi ght in midair I watch from the forest with others On the moon now, colors go negative Next dream I watch from a forest with others I carry a little girl down a snowy peak Next dream Buddha looks away and tells me I’m dying I carry a little girl down a snowy peak Bullets melt in my fi st Buddha looks away and tells me I’m dying I jump into a pond of koi Bullets melt in my fi st I’m a prisoner, breaking free I jump into a pond of koi They want me to fi ght back I’m a prisoner, breaking free On the moon now, colors go negative They want me to fi ght back Two gold eagles fi ght in midair Brytani Fraser Hidden Echoing fi re, tinged in green Sparking sword dance away Death in the light, death in the dark Moments of time before twilight fades Sparking swords dance away Silver and red droplets fall Moments of time before twilight fades While Phoenix song fl oats as life ebbs Silver and red droplets fall Eyes of fi re defy, eyes of Ice While Phoenix song fl oats as life ebbs Tilting scales sway as good and evil waltz Eyes of Fire defy, eyes of Ice Who is right, who is wrong Tilting scales sway as good and evil waltz Swivel, jump, fl ip, avoid the light and dark Who is right, who is wrong Death in the light, death in the dark Swivel, jump, fl ip, avoid the light and dark Echoing fi re tinged in green Becky Holloman 16 Invisible: My Trip to Saudi Arabia Janice Nelson It was a week after Thanksgiving; the year was 1995 when my travels took me to Dhahran Air Base in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I prepared for this trip as I had done many times before. I had traveled to many other countries without incident: Australia, England, France, Japan, and Korea, just to name a few. Only this time, I was uneasy for many reasons. Although I was trying to convince myself that this trip was the same as all others, somehow I knew in my mind it would be a challenge; this time it would be different. I had gone through the normal medical evaluations and braced myself for another long, boring intelligence briefi ng when I focused on the speaker’s rather monotone voice. The words did not seem quite right; they were almost foreign to my ears. “ Maintain your military bearing and you will be fi ne,” the briefer said. “ Maintain my military bearing?” I mumbled to myself. “ What have I gotten myself into?” I asked the girl sitting next to me. “ I was asking myself the same question,” she quickly replied. This briefi ng was unlike any I had attended. It was a crash course on situational awareness for females traveling to the Arabic region. The discussion included proper clothing, concealment of females’ hair, segregated eating establishments, and no driving privileges. Males were also required to escort females when traveling in the local community. Upon my arrival, I was assigned to the fuels accounting offi ce for the 4th Fighter Wing’s fl ying mission. My job required I travel weekly to the ARAMCO compound to reconcile millions of gallons of aviation fuel provided by the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. This task proved to be an awkward situation because as a woman I could not speak, shake hands, or make eye contact with any male Saudi national. As I made my way to the compound, I was speechless at the mere beauty of this place. It was magnifi cent with all its splendor. The building stood tall against the barren desert skyline. It was as if it were suspended in mid- air. Enormous swaying palm trees surrounded its grand entrance as if all who passed through its doors were considered royalty. A huge solarium caught my eye with blossoming exotic fl owers, hanging vines, and fl owing water that soothed and relaxed all who paused to behold its beauty. Exquisitely etched glass, hand- woven silk rugs, highly polished marble, and detailed gold inlay embellished every room, entrance, and hallway. It was hard to imagine anything sinister about this place. It was in stark contrast to the sometime blatant disregard and inhumane treatment of women in the Islamic community. I moved hesitantly towards the elevators and then to the second fl oor where I met with the Saudi accountants. I was uneasy. I was perplexed, but I was not sure why. My eyes darted swiftly around the room as if I were in search of someone, something. I remained restless. I made my way to the offi ce of the Saudi accountants with documents I had systematically scrutinized and made sure not one gallon of aviation fuel was questionable. I gave the documents to the accountant, but I was shooed away accompanied by a rather demeaning scowl. I was startled, and after much thought, I was painfully aware I had offended him. My male escort stepped in, smoothed over an extremely awkward situation, and handed the documents to 17 the accountant. He seemed pleased with the work, my work, and with one swift movement of his hand directed my escort to a small cozy seating area for a cup of tea. I looked on in silence as the tea ceremony continued; it was at that very moment I was aware for the fi rst time that I was invisible. I was but a mere shadow that fl oated beside my escort, powerless and unimportant. I regained my composure and, with great restraint, continued with the business as usual. It was not until I was back in the confi nes of the car that I made known my utter displeasure with the events of the day. I felt humiliated. “ I cannot believe he did that to me,” I said. “ How did you expect him to react?” my escort asked. “ He waved me off as if I were a pest, a fl y, buzzing around his ears!” I yelled. “ Their custom does not allow business transactions with women,” he replied. “ I know; I don’t know why I was so upset,” I said in a much softer tone. I was no longer in denial of cultural differences between the two countries. Reality had set in. This trip would be my routine for the next three months. I would travel to this very location every week and replay this awful scene many times over as if I were watching a horrible movie. Although my experience was traumatic and demeaning, I found clarity in the events of that day, and I knew my life had changed. I never again took for granted the freedoms afforded me by my native country. I never forgot that trip. I returned to the United States grateful, and as I stepped from the plane and onto the tarmac, I literally kissed the ground and broke down in tears. I was home; my journey had ended. Butting Heads Gene Smith 18 Where Would We Be? Valerie Stephens Africa. A whole world away it may seem to some, but to me it is my origin, a place that could have been my home. Africa is not just a continent; it is a land of many countries with different cultures and traditions. Africa is the motherland, the start of civilization, and the place of a life changing movement that has changed my life and millions of other African- Americans just like me. It all started many years ago, and even though times have changed, some people have not. This movement was called the slave trade. Millions of people, families, and even communities as a whole were uprooted from their village, their countries, and a world that they knew and forced to come to a different land and work for their survival. This movement turned people, my people, against family, friends, and in some cases, themselves. I guess Darwin was right, even before his time. Survival of the fi ttest, “ Help me catch them or you will DIE.” My people were forced into slavery by my people to survive. They were packed deep into the bellies of hundreds of ships like sardines being put in a can for retail. Their long journey of hunger, torture, disease, infections, and death had begun on the shores of Africa and ended on the soil of America. The place we know now as “ The Land of Opportunity,” or is it? Days, weeks, months, years, and even decades of hard labor were beyond what the mind can imagine. The men were beaten badly and some to death. The women were treated less than men, and some were made to work side- by- side with the men in the fi elds doing hard work. They were working to pay for their own lives, which, by now, they didn��t want to live. During the night, while they slept dozens to just one room, the women were snatched up and taken away, and what little dignity they had was raped from their souls with great force. The slave owners, for whatever reason, did not respect the sacred temple of a woman, an African woman. This may be hard to read for some, but to me, it is my history. Africa may be my origin, but it is not my home. Through the decades that followed the abolishment of slavery, my people still had to fi ght to survive. Don’t look this way, act this way, and even speak this way. We were robbed of our traditions and African soul and were forced to adopt the ways of the Europeans. The fi ght to survive is no longer a hardship, but a way of life. Africa is now so under- developed, constantly at war. The people are starving, and thousands are dying every day. AIDS is out of control with no solution to the problem. The kids are forced to dig in diamond mines, plow through garbage to eat, and sleep on the streets. African- American people, I ask you, do you really want to be in Africa? I do not deny that slavery was wrong, but if it had never happened, where would we be? Masai Girl Gene Smith 19 Ancestors Korreain Cummings One thousand years ago, my ancestors roamed thick rain forests and savannahs under a blazing sun and braved the threats of wild beasts and surrounding rival tribes. My ancestors with their faces painted white and red gathered around an outdoor fi re dancing frenziedly as their chanting voices blended together and made harmony with beating drums. Their voices rose to the skies amidst the billowing cloud of smoke from the fi re as they sought to appease the spirits of some unknown entities that they wished not to offend. My ancestors also dwelled among castles and manors, lords and ladies. My ancestors took advantage of the skill of blacksmithing and making iron. They used their own specialized skills to trade and barter. When in combat, my ancestors savagely wielded swords while clad in heavy armor, yet they knew how to show chivalry toward a lady. My ancestors also endured extreme cold. They battled terrible blizzards and bone- rattling winds in search of a better land. They traveled a small strip of land connected to larger bodies of land and continued migrating south. Once they were settled, they respected the land and paid homage to land. They lived off the buffalo and wasted nothing of a kill after hunting. Who are my ancestors? You do not know? My ancestors are from Africa, a land that to this day remains mysterious to the outside world. My ancestors are from Europe, a land that infl uenced the entire Western world. My ancestors are native to America before there was any place called America to the rest of the world. Little did my ancestors know that one day their vastly different worlds would collide and all their varying attitudes, beliefs, customs, and cultures would come face to face with one another. They had no way of knowing that at some point in history in the distant future one race would enslave another, one would be their slaves, and another would have its homeland snatched from beneath its feet. Not only did they not know all this, but they also did not know that after centuries of hurting and hating one another, they would all come together to create one energetic, outgoing beating heart— a heart that has learned to love and respect all people— the heart that lives inside me. Masai Welcome Dance Gene Smith 20 Mantis Wire Jon Ortiz Brooklyn of the Mind Everyone says it was such a happy time, the Dodgers in town, streetcars, signs, Chock Full O’Nuts. We must be forgiven our cynicism at the cry of “ Coney Island! Coney Island! Coney Island!” We, after all, have our Brooklyn of the mind, the place we left behind after the fl ood of years began to recede, the great aquariums, fi sh darting fast, zig- zag lines, our own Wonder Wheel spinning. Jeff Williams World of Ash Lost amongst the ruins cracked pillars, empty towers Wandering through showers of ash sulfur clouds, burning horizon Skeletons of silence fi ll this world no one lives, but all remain Thomas Sahm 21 Rickshaw, Red, and Ritual Eva Chan The current wedding ritual of the Chinese is altered from its ancient ritual. Some rituals have been eliminated, and some new ones have been added. Some traditional rituals existed only a thousand years ago. On the wedding day a thousand years ago, the groom’s family sends to the bride’s home a rickshaw powered by eight men, a group of music players, and a woman. This woman’s responsibility is to bear the bride on her back whenever she needs to walk so the bride will not need to stand on the fl oor until she arrives at the groom’s home. The bride leaves the house with a red cloth covering her head and face and gets into the rickshaw. Before the bride gets into the rickshaw, the father holds a red umbrella by her side. The music players play a music which is only for weddings on the way to the groom’s home, so all neighbors know it is the wedding day of the couple. When the rickshaw reaches the groom’s home, the groom kicks on the rickshaw’s door and then opens the curtain so the bride can come out. The bride walks over an iron vessel with coal fi re inside when she goes into the house. This ritual means the bride brings thriving and richness to the groom’s family. Then in the sitting room of the house, the groom’s parents sit in the middle and the guests on the sides. The couple bows to the sky, to the parents, and fi nally to each other in a specifi c order. After the bowing rituals, the bride waits in the bedroom with the red cloth still covering her head until the reception at the sitting room is fi nished. When the reception is fi nished, the groom goes into the bedroom and fl aps off the red cloth of the bride. The couple now fi nishes the last step of the wedding ritual, drinking a toast. Bird of Paradise Eva Chan 22 Summer Kelley Thomas “ This is going to be the worst summer ever,” I yelled at my roommate. “ All because my parents are having a severe case of empty nest syndrome, there’s going to be a stranger living at my house for me to entertain for the whole summer. My summer with my new boobs! A foreign exchange stranger. He’s not even here yet and already he has ruined my summer!” I had just started packing up my dorm once all of my “ turn your brains into jelly” exams were done when my parents made their fourth daily call. “ It’s them!” laughed my roommate Laura as my phone rang to the tune of the Mission: Impossible theme song. “ Hello, hello!” I answered, laughing. Laura had met my mother and father on the fi rst day of school. They told her that they would be calling me at least a couple of times every day, and if I didn’t answer, they would call her to check in. They were very up front about being over- protective parents and have yet to prove otherwise. They also said that my tracking device would shock me if I left a certain radius. I remember Laura laughed hysterically and asked me later if they had been joking; I told her honestly that I really didn’t know. They also started calling Laura every day just to say hello and see how everything was going. Laura loves it and has the same feeling I do about them. I’d rather have them care too much than not at all. They also like to call and be on the phone at the same time. See, I’m a miracle baby to my parents. In their twenties, they had started a clothing chain that really took off. They ran it for a good fi ve years, then got an offer they couldn’t refuse and sold it, and have been comfortable ever since. They say they were blessed with money but not with healthy pregnancies. After trying for a few years to have a baby with miscarriage after miscarriage, they came to terms with the fact that they weren’t going to have kids of their own and were thankful for the fact that they never had to work again and could live and travel anywhere they wanted to. Then at 35, my mother found out she was pregnant with me, so I am an only child with two stay- at- home parents in their fi fties. I am their world. They are mine, too. They were having a hard year without me at home. I knew this, but I was shocked when they called and told me what they had decided to do about it. “ Hello, my Sophia!” squealed my mother. “ We forgot to tell you something when we called before,” said my father. “ Is it bad?” I asked, fearing my fl ight must be even earlier in the morning than I thought. “ No, no,” my mother said, “ we forgot to tell you that when you left for school last year your father and I signed up for a foreign exchange program through your high school, and, well, they picked us to host a young man from South Africa for the summer, so he will be staying with us while you’re home!” “ Isn’t that great, Honey?” yelled my father. “ It will be like having a sibling— or a twin since he’s about your age.” “ We just wanted to tell you because we’re both so excited about— Bob, what’s the young man’s name again?” “ I don’t remember, Lynn. Where’s the sheet with all his information on it?” “ On the kitchen table.” “ Where? I don’t see it.” “ I am pointing to it right now, Bob. Follow my fi nger!” “ Where? All I see is magazines!” “ RIGHT THERE! Oh, never mind. I’ll reach and get it.” I could hear them both trying to sound out his name. They probably were both holding the paper and both had on their reading glasses. “ Well, Sophia,” my mother said, fi nally taking a break from the name test, “ I am not quite sure how you pronounce it, but he sounds like a very nice boy. Are you excited?” To be honest, I was in a state of shock; it had always been me and my parents, and now I had to— share? Share my space, my car, my time, and my parents. I probably was going to have to take him out with my friends and me. This was going to be embarrassing. Did he even speak English? Was I going 23 to have to be his babysitter all summer? I had really been looking forward to going home and having a nice relaxing summer. I had really worked hard this year at school I had fi nally developed some breasts; my freshman fi fteen had gone straight to my chest, and I wanted to show them off to my ex. Actually, my luck was already used up once I met Laura. I got the best roommate ever. She was clean and funny and would rather rent movies than go out and get wasted and bring home some dirty bar rat. She worked a lot on weekends, too, and I usually got some time to myself in the dorm. My fi rst experience in sharing a home had turned out great. I didn’t think I was going to be that lucky again. And that foreign student was a boy. The boys in this dorm were so gross; I felt like I had to wear a mask just to walk down their hall. I had to use their bathroom once because the girls’ was full, and I am still having fl ashbacks. “ It’s great, you guys. I can’t wait to meet him. It’ll be really interesting learning about where he’s from,” I told them, trying not to sound too disappointed that my summer had just turned into a 3- month-long babysitting gig. “ Oh, good, Honey,” my mom said. “ We were so nervous, but we knew you would be ok with it. We can’t wait to see you tomorrow at the airport. Get to bed soon. You have an early fl ight.” “ Ok, bye, see you tomorrow.” “ I can’t wait!” “ Me, too, Dad.” * * * * * * * * * There was only one good thing about my fl ight, and he was sitting in C12. I was in E16. I had the best view of the most beautiful guy I had ever seen in my life. He had messy light brown hair, blue eyes, and a soccer player’s body. He had on jeans and a black fi tted tee- shirt. He was already in his seat when I boarded. It was open seating, so I should have sat next to him, but I was so shocked by the fact there was such a hot guy on my plane that I had to sit a few rows behind him. Thank goodness there were not a lot of passengers, and they were all asleep because of how early it was. No one could witness me spying between the seats. There never are hot guys my age on planes. This didn’t even happen in the movies. I think he knew I was staring at him like my girlfriend’s younger brothers when we go swimming. I should have stopped. He kept looking back. I sat up, stared out the window, and realized that the fantasy of this guy might help me get through the summer of babysitting. I put my headphones on, picked out a soundtrack to C12��� s and my future life together, and closed my eyes. Four songs into it, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “ Excuse me, miss,” said C12 with what I thought was a British accent. I must have stopped breathing. Since I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t answer him. “ Your singing is a little loud.” Was I singing? “ That lady over there keeps giving you dirty looks, so I wanted to tell you before she jumped over the aisle and silenced you with her hands.” He was smiling as he said this. “ Thanks” was all I was able to mutter out to him. He smiled again and went to the bathroom. Once he was in and had shut the door, I banged my head against the window. How embarrassing! “ Shhh!” said the lady with the dirty looks. “ Sorry,” I whispered from inside my sweatshirt which was now my new hideout. Suddenly, the pilot came on over the speaker and told us we would be landing soon. Good, maybe we could land while C12 was still in the bathroom and I could get off without ever having to face him again. He came out and walked down the aisle to his seat. I knew because I heard him through my sweatshirt. I waited until everyone had left the plane. I didn’t want to chance running into him again and acting like an idiot. I was really excited to see my parents. Starting to walk faster as I came out of the gate, I stopped dead. There, getting a warm hug from both of my parents at the same time, was C12. This was going to be the best summer ever. 24 Dragonfl y Wire Jessica Pitt Mirror Two dark caterpillars That never seem to rest Accompany two blue marbles That like to look their best. A witch’s hook Caught in the middle Changes the character From every angle. Broken, chipped and crooked pieces Sit inside the soft pink creases. A brown version of connect- the- dots Covers the huge white spot. Shiny maple strands Pull all together So that on a good day I am my biggest fan. Kelley Thomas 25 Flower or Female? She can be found any and everywhere All you have to do is look and she’s there She survives from the Atlantic to the Pacifi c She can be poisonous, but most are not She’s admired for her beauty; for some, that’s all they’ve got After you have picked her out of many She must be properly cared for from beginning to end Having her around really compliments a setting And she plays a signifi cant role in the majority of weddings Her fragrance can be pleasant, soothing, desire- inciting It can also be too strong or heavy, overpowering She comes in a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors Many are alike and many are like no other She can be as sweet and as fragile as any child But be careful where you fi nd her, for she may be wild Terri Coley Carraway Out to Dry Angie Waller 26 The Old Brent Hood A President’s Memory G. Herman Porter, President of Wayne Community College, 1986- 1992 One of my favorite memories of the old campus was the quality of programs. The faculty and staff put up with roof leaks, cramped space, noise, and goodness knows what else to teach and help students establish and reach their goals. Learning was possible because of caring and committed people who fostered the idea of “ being” rather than “ seeming.” Community colleges need special people to carry out the diverse mission. WCC is blest to have such people who give more than they take. A big thanks to all of you. 27 The New Brent Hood Memories ( 1980- 1983) Dr. Kay Albertson I was sharing the trailer on the back side of the campus with Dr. Ed Hogan, my immediate supervisor, whom I forced to say good morning to me. I believe my exact words to him were, “ You may not be a morning person— I am— but just say ‘ good morning’ each day, even if you don��t mean it.” He did just that, said “ good morning,” nodded his head, and kept walking to his offi ce. As our friendship grew over the years, we often laughed about my insistence that he greet me daily. The buildings had letter names ( A, K, B). My two- year- old son Clayton called K Building “ Mommy Building.” It was on the old campus that I began my community college experience in 1980. I was very smug, coming to North Carolina from professorships at two universities in Virginia, Old Dominion and UVA. However, it took only about three months before I recognized that if one loved teaching and students, the community college was the right place to be. It didn’t matter that I ruined numerous pairs of shoes walking through mud and on uneven gravel in unpaved parking lots or that my offi ce was in a trailer or that I might not have had every instructional material I wanted. I’ve never doubted my decision to remain with the community college system, and it began on the old campus on Highway 70! 28 WCC Memories Miriam Wessell Memories. I have so many memories of my tenure with Wayne Community College. I have witnessed many colleagues come and go. I have shared laughter and joy with those who have become like family as we have celebrated marriages, births, graduations, and other happy occasions. Unfortunately, I’ve also shared tears and sorrow at divorces, departures for greener pastures, illnesses, and the inevitable fi nal exits into life triumphant. I remember June 1, 1971, the day I was hired by then president Dr. Clyde Erwin and vice-president Dr. Charles Poindexter, both of whom probably had reservations about hiring someone as inexperienced as I. My department head, Eleanor Powell, made me feel right at home, though, and welcomed me into the English Department— as did Bea Balkcum, Doris Ward, Doris Gurley, and Ruth Boyer. The college transfer program at WCC offi cially began that fall in 1971, and with that transition came the best of the best: Alice Lancaster, Dr. Ron Taylor, Doug Royal, and many others. We were no longer a technical institute. We were a community college! I remember walking into the offi ce ( trailer, actually) that I shared with the Fish and Wildlife/ Forestry guys in the 70’ s and fi nding a pot of beans and some unidentifi able ( to me, at least) animal cooking on the stove at least once a week. Dr. Terry Humphrey, Dave Meador, Bob Goodman, and Gary Woodyard were quite interesting offi ce mates, especially for a young woman who was not as enamored as they of snakes, lizards, muskrats, and other fascinating creatures of the wild. I remember, too, my offi ces on second fl oor K- Building, fi rst with June Wharton and Fred Mauk ( the three of us crammed into a tiny two- person offi ce), then with Anne Croom and Stephen Hunter, again, a two- person offi ce. Finally, in the 80’ s, I graduated to an offi ce of my own on the fi rst fl oor of K- Building, right beside the one shared by Rosalyn Lomax and Liz Meador. The energy and the activity Liz, Rosalyn, and I brought to the fl oor made Mike Saylors avoid his across- the- hall offi ce as much as possible. Come to think of it, maybe escaping us is the reason he, Ed Potter, Gerald Simmons, and Ray Brannon spent so much time behind closed doors in K- 6. Ann Spicer was right around the corner, keeping us all organized and calm, or trying to. At the same time, June Wharton, Kathryn Spicer, Marian Westbrook, Anne Croom, John Vincell, and Pat Wright did their part to keep the energy level high on the second fl oor of K- Building— not to mention all those science types and, for a short time, Dr. Kay Albertson and Alice Lancaster, Liberal Arts wannabes, I’m sure. I remember moving to the new campus with each of us “ Arty Liberals” bouncing off the walls of our own private offi ces all on one fl oor and hearing the late, great Dr. Ed Hogan announce, “ My worst nightmare would be waking up with all of you on the third fl oor of Dogwood.” I have so many stories, but the funniest probably involves the time that a rumor circulated the old campus that a young man was hiding in ladies’ rooms, even, according to Lynda Bundy, in the ceiling tiles. I taught in the trailers behind K- Building, and with back- to- back classes, any opportunity to make it to K- Building’s second fl oor ladies’ room was welcomed. I waited so long one day that I literally ran to that second fl oor sanctuary. After a minute or two of blessed relief, I realized that there was quite a bit of activity in the stall next to me, so I did what any inquisitive ( or nosy) person would do – I looked under the stall. To my amazement, a pair of men’s shoes met my startled eyes! Well, I just knew that I was a goner, trapped with the WCC 29 “ ladies’ room peeper.” When I fi nally could, I ran to the only phone on the fl oor and called Security. Big “ Mac” McArthur ( 6 feet 5 inches, at least) came to my rescue, arriving just as the young man walked out the door. If anyone could put the fear of God and man into him, it was Mac! Mac asked him if he could read, pointing to the “ Women” sign hanging over the door. The young man’s coke- bottom glasses were so thick that he truly might not have been able to read the sign, but at the time, I was sure that this young man was the dreaded “ ladies’ room peeper.” It has been so long that I don’t even remember what happened to the young man, but I do remember the fun my colleagues had with the story. I remember teaching vets who came to WCC straight from the horrors of Viet Nam in the early 70’ s. One day, I was so intent on the lesson I was trying to teach them that I actually fell into and bounced right back out of a trash can that had been placed under the blackboard. I did not bat an eye and they did not laugh – until they were out the door at the end of class, that is. Then, you could hear them hooting and hollering all over campus! Another student from that same era politely came up to me after class one day to tell me that I might want to zip my slacks since my polka- dotted bikini briefs were showing! Again, the laughter rang through the woods surrounding those wonderful trailers. Unfortunately, some of the guys are still around to tell those stories. I remember the students – always the students – so many students who have enriched my life immeasurably. Those students have given my life meaning and have made every day at Wayne Community College a day to be remembered! I am so proud of the outstanding educational institution Wayne Community College has become and am so thankful that I have been allowed to be a part of its growth. I treasure my years here and all they have entailed, but I especially value the friendships, the family that so many of its people have become. Thanks, WCC, for the memories. Happy 50th! My Favorite Memory Kay Bradley The WCC Association of Educational Offi ce Personnel presented the one and only “ WCC All Male Beauty Pageant” on our campus back in the early 80’ s. Dr. Fred Sproul, Dental Department Chairman, was a participant, and I was selected to help him dress. Finding a bra for a man his size was almost impossible, but, after many excursions to various consignment shops, and fl ea markets, I found one at the Salvation Army that I thought would fi t around his ample body. There was a supply closet in my offi ce big enough for him to try the contraption on, so I called him over for his “ fi tting.” Once in the closet with the door closed, we snapped the garment around his body, and by George, it fi t perfectly. The conversation behind those closed doors was nothing less than jubilant with all the wordy conversation to describe how wonderfully the bra fi t. With laughter and total relief, we opened the door of the closet to fi nd a very somber Dr. Charlie Powell, Vice President for Academic Affairs and my boss, staring at us as if we were on trial for murder. Fred literally ran ( which was a feat in itself) back to his offi ce, leaving me the chore of explaining this whole very embarrassing situation to Dr. Powell. In the end, he found it very amusing and enjoyed tremendously teasing me about my experience as a “ fashion coordinator” for Dr. Fred Sproul. 30 Memories from the Seventies Carl Brow When it rains on our “ new” campus, I always think back to my days as a student at Wayne Community College, some twenty- nine years ago. The old campus was beside Hwy 117, hence the nickname “ Bypass U.” The water table there is high with low spots in the ground, so when it rains, the ground quickly is saturated with nowhere for water to go. I remember once after several days of raining, the campus fl ooded so badly that people were in small boats in the large unpaved parking lot on the side. The center of campus had about two or three feet of water with occasional waves going through it, making us take long and winding paths to get from one part to another. Nobody complained much: it was just something we dealt with. Back in the late 1970’ s, we had around 500 students, and we knew just about everybody on campus by name or face. I made friends with a lot of different people, and between school, girls, cars, jobs, and planning for the weekend, something was always going on. There were not that many teachers in the college transfer program, so we had a chance to know our instructors in and out of class. I remember many times stopping by Ray Brannon’s offi ce for an hour or so at a time, just to talk. He always indulged me no matter what he had going on. Ed Potter, Gerald Simmons and Mike Saylors would be holed up in some offi ce, making endless jokes about everything and everybody. Faculty, students, staff, administration and they themselves were all fair game for their brutal but hilarious humor. Lafayette Westbrook taught history as one long story, and in three courses, I never once saw him use notes. Rosalyn Lomax once came to a literature class with laryngitis and could speak only in a whisper; still she kept the biggest smile on her face and never lost her enthusiasm. In my mind, that day she locked in as a teaching legend. People smoked in buildings, offi ces, and even classrooms without comment. The halls were narrow and the offi ces cramped, but the size gave a sense of community and belonging that our bigger and more sprawling campus has lost. The problem with these “ I remember” pieces is just that; these memories are what I remember. Other people had other experiences, but for me, they were good times that had lasting value. Twenty- nine years ago sometimes seems like yesterday, but those experiences refl ect a part of what I try to give to the students who are here now. I hope it will be enough for them to want to come back and help build new memories for another generation. Renaissance and the Old Campus Rosalyn F. Lomax When Liz Meador, Marian Westbrook, Anne Croom, and Bill Bennett founded Renaissance in 1985, the preparation of the magazine was quite a different process from what it is today. Even as recently as 1988 when I became co- editor with Marian Westbrook, no one ever emailed a submission to us, for there was no email; hardly anyone ever submitted even a typewritten poem. With hands stuffed full of various scraps of paper with various levels of legible handwriting on them, we would race over to A Building to work with Grace Lutz, a legend in Media. We would give her an idea of where we wanted the writing on each scrap of paper to appear and leave her to work her magic. Years later, computers and email and zip disks and such technology would make the process less stressful and the editors’ lives much simpler. Today, Theresa White- Wallace, Tom Garrou, and Kornegay Printing add their magic to make our magazine! 31 Sitting Up with the Dead Dave Meador, Retired Forestry Instructor During spring quarter in 1972 or ’ 73, fi sh and wildlife student Pete Kornegay decided to have some fun. Pete knew that Mr. Lee Edwards, counselor in the Dean of Students offi ce, took prospective students on an introductory tour of the campus. Edwards usually brought these groups to the lab room in the Agriculture Department at the east end of the hall in A Building where a freezer held assorted specimens— fi sh, deer heads, snakes, birds— used as training aids in the fi sh and wildlife program. Knowing that the group was only a minute or two from entering the lab area, Pete climbed into the freezer and lay down, folding his arms over his chest after lowering the lid. Just as Edwards began his usual spiel of “ You never know what you’re going to fi nd in here…,” he raised the freezer lid with a fl ourish, only to have Pete rise up, expressionless and like dead! Edwards screamed, and the visitors, making doors where there were none, vacated the premises. Old Campus Marian Westbook, English Instructor, 1971- 1998 The campus was built in a low- lying area, and when we had a big rainstorm, it was likely to fl ood. One time I had a class in a trailer beside “ K” Building, and when I got there, the steps were covered by water, and the students were standing outside. Not wanting to dismiss the class, I had them follow me over to “ A” Building, where I asked for another room. By the time we got one, it was so late that my only words that day were “ Class dismissed.” For years President Clyde Erwin and his team planned for the move to the new campus. They had a fancy architectural fi rm from out of state draw up plans for us, and the faculty and staff were seduced by those plans long before we could start building. They fi nally did put up the Hocutt Building on the new site, sort of a “ token” building to keep us hoping that something better was down the pike. The dream of a new campus was frequently stoked at faculty and staff meetings. During one Q& A period, Ed Potter, speech instructor, asked in his inimitable way, “ What I want to know is, when we move to the new campus, what’s going to happen to the trailer industry?” Dr. Erwin vowed that the buildings on the new campus would not have fl at roofs. The leaky roofs on the old campus led to many headaches for him. Also, he wanted a single energy plant, which became a reality. He was fond of saying that we had 42 different heating and cooling systems on the old campus, and some were always in need of repair. If you think this is an exaggeration, you’re not aware of how many mobile units we had. 32 Memories Banks Peacock I worked on the old campus as a part- time computer instructor in the 1980’ s. For some reason, someone in the Business Division gave me a pass key so I could get into computer classrooms and the computer lab, but why I got a pass key and not just room keys, I don’t know. As lab monitor for a Sunday open computer lab, I came out one Sunday at the time that the lab opened to fi nd a number of very upset people standing outside the door to B building wanting to get in. Security was supposed to open up for us, but the weekend open lab was fairly new, and apparently no one knew to let us in. Reacting to the impatience of the crowd, I did the polite Southern thing of trying to immediately please people, without thinking of the possible consequences. The thought process went something like, “ Hey, I’ve got a pass key! I’ll try that!” The main door would not open, so I tried the pass key around the building. I fi nally managed to get in through the automotive area, then back through various other doors where the pass key worked. I worked my way through a maze back to the hallway of B building to open the main door from the inside, letting the crowd into the lab. ( It’s nice that the students were so eager!) Apparently the security guard had been checking the Airport or Hocutt Building. When he returned, he was none too pleased to fi nd a bunch of folks inside B building happily computing away. He was even less pleased to fi nd out that some “ person” had a pass key and was using it to go through doors over half the campus. J. B. Toler defi nitely gave me the evil eye when he spoke to me about it. Despite the furor this caused, no one took my pass key. I kept it until I went back to school at North Carolina State in 1988 and stopped teaching part- time. And for those complaining about their slow computers, a few war stories from the good old days. The classes in the fall of 1981 were the last regular computer classes at WCC to use punch cards. One room on the south end of the building had several punch card machines where students keyed their programs. Regular punch card machines had no backspace key; each keystroke immediately punched the card. If you mistyped, you didn’t worry about hanging chads, you chunked out the card and used another. Of the cards I bought, I wasted about one-third with typos. WCC had one “ high- end” punch card machine that everyone wanted to use because instead of punching immediately with each keystroke, the machine would accept an entire line and then gang punch the card. This meant we could start over if we made mistakes. To run our programs, there was no “ play” button on a tool bar. We physically took our stack of cards to a card reader, hoping not to drop them and get them out of order. Our Computer Literacy classes used to watch a mock video from the period of a nerdy computer user committing suicide after spilling a two- foot high deck of punch cards and scattering them down a hallway. Some card readers were very fast, but the one at WCC read 2 cards a second; I timed it. After submitting our cards, we would wait for our programs to come back on the printer. We didn’t know how long this would take since our programs were sent by phone lines to a computer at TUCC ( Triangle Universities Computation Center). Since WCC was at the low end of the priority list, the printouts might come back in a minute or two, or maybe the next morning. We 33 might then discover that a misplaced job card or a period missing in our programs had caused failure to compile. So we re- punched the cards, sent our stacks through the reader, and waited. Desk checking programs was a far more important skill back then as was typing with no errors. In winter of 1982, we got the Prime minicomputer. This was a time- shared system, and all campus computing was on this one machine: students and administration shared a CPU and a whopping 48 megabytes of disk space. For comparison, my current offi ce computer has almost 800 times the disk space and even 10 times more space in main memory. I carry over 20 times the storage on the USB drive in my pocket. Time sharing meant the screen ( monochrome, of course) and keyboard in front of you were not a computer, but just a terminal to connect you to the central CPU. That one CPU had to handle the processing of everyone logged on to the system. Normally, this was not a problem. I checked the CPU usage rate of my computer just sitting here, and it was around 1%. Virtually all of the time a computer is on, its CPU is idle, waiting for input from the user. Even as I type here in my offi ce, the CPU usage goes up to only about 4% to handle the keystrokes. This computer is so much faster than a person it can handle normal typing with only one twenty- fi fth of its processor power. Think of the CPU as a short order cook. At 3: 00 in the afternoon, the cook takes orders, gets several things cooking at once, and all of the orders can be quickly served. But at lunch time, as the orders pile in, the cook can get backed up. The same thing would happen on campus. Some activities are CPU intensive and require a great deal of processing power. One good example is compiling a computer program, the process by which the program the student creates is translated into the language that the computer actually understands. When the computer lab was full of students, compiling their programs the day before the due date, computing all over campus by students and administration would slow to a crawl. A few words would fl ash up on the screen as students got their bits of CPU time, then a several second wait, then a few more words. It could take several minutes for a process to complete that might fi nish in seconds if one had the CPU all to oneself. In memory of our beloved Ken Neal, one more story of “ Bypass U.” One morning back in the 80’ s, I got a phone call about 6: 30 a. m. I normally didn’t get up until around 7: 00 a. m. “ Who the heck is calling so early?” I picked up the phone and the fi rst words I heard were “ But, uh…” Of course, I should have recognized the pattern. Classes started at WCC today. It was Ken Neal calling to ask if I wanted to teach a part- time class starting that same day. Ken often started conversations in the middle, even on the phone. He also had a phobia about even contracting a part- time teacher until a class had made, so he would normally call us early on the morning the class was supposed to start. I had occasions where he would ask me to start a class I had not even taught before that night. I’d show up at 5: 10 in the afternoon after my day job, get the textbooks, and fi gure out enough to get through the fi rst class, which usually started at 5: 30. Then I might have a week before the next class to actually start preparing for the class. Editors’ Note: We mourn the death of Ken Neal, former Business Department Head, on March 17, 2007 34 Memories of the Old Campus Alice Wadsworth At 18 years old and without very much business experience, I was hired to work in the business offi ce as a work study student. When the bookkeeper, Catherine Thompson, left for lunch one day, she gave me the bank statement and asked me to get the checks in order. I did just that but in alphabetical order instead of numerical order. Just as I fi nished getting the checks in order, it dawned on me that they should be in numerical order. I just started over again but fi nished just as Mrs. Thompson came back from lunch. When I fi rst started to work, we had only one maid and one janitor. Our maid, Ms. Beulah Farrell, was such a good, respectful employee who always did as she was told. Ms. Beulah’s only fault was that she would come into the offi ce to vacuum while Mr. Cox, VP for Administrative Services, was working. He told her not to run the vacuum while he was in the offi ce, so being the good employee that she was, Ms. Beulah would stand outside the business offi ce door waiting for Mr. Cox to leave for lunch, no matter how late it was when he would fi nally leave. Our offi ce was moved from the front entrance of “ A” building to the back wing down from the library and very close to the Ag Department. Janice Clark’s new cashier’s offi ce replaced the men’s room! Because we were so close to the Ag classrooms, we often saw students sitting in the hallway just outside the business offi ce. One day, I noticed a girl in the Ag program one day sitting on our fl at bed dolly playing with a snake. At that point we bolted the doors and sent out a cry for help. Our librarian for many years, Scottie Cox, was very sick with cancer but always had such a happy, cheerful outlook on life. The last day that she worked, I saw her standing at the side entrance to the library waiting for Mr. Cox to come by and pick her up. She was too weak to walk very far. As we left work that afternoon, she waved and smiled at everyone who went by. This is such a beautiful memory for such a lovely lady. Christmas memories: Harriet Wessell’s punch bowl that changed colors as the day passed. George Tyrone walking down the halls of “ A” building wearing a pink teddy. The business offi ce staff and the state auditors going from offi ce to offi ce singing Christmas carols. Jimmie Ford joining the group because he felt sorry for us. Janice Clark’s Christmas gift from Carl Cox, a sweat shirt inscribed “ Madam Vice President” because he could give a title but not a salary increase, wrapped with the funny paper. South Campus Sharon Smith South Campus was full of cheer as we went up and down the hall and to and from the other buildings along with trailer sites for Continuing Education ( since we were expanding in our area) backed up behind the main building. At Christmas we wandered from offi ce to offi ce to fellowship and share refreshments. In Continuing Education, we typed each contract for part- time instructors ( approximately 75 each quarter) on 4 pages on NCR— on a typewriter. Now that we have computers, I wonder how we managed back then. We were located across from the switchboard where Virginia Lancaster kept the switchboard going. Bomb threats were numerous on the old campus, but we survived by walking to Hardee’s to stay warm and drink coffee. Persons like Dr. Fred Sproul, Barbara Porter, Dr. Ed Hogan, and Coach Dave McClenny were such assets to WCC, and WCC remains an integral part of our community. 35 Diversity Gene Smith Old Campus Memories Rosalyn F. Lomax On the old campus of WCC, teaching and learning varied little from what goes on today with the exceptions of setting and technology. One hot debate in a trailer among English 151 students ( now 111) about the place of women in society made the trailer rock when an otherwise mild- mannered male antagonized his female classmates by telling how he had “ trained” his wife. We discussed King Lear in the back of a pickup truck on early spring evenings when bomb threats plagued the college, jeopardizing our journey through The Canterbury Tales, King Lear, The Tempest, and Paradise Lost. My family knew to keep things neat and keep some cookies handy in case my Major British Writers students and I resorted to our home as an alternate classroom. No paperwork accompanied such moves in those days— just a note to students with my home address in case of emergency. Security Chief J. B. Toler kept us straight through dear Captain Harvey Hines and the late dear Captain Clarence Jay Simmons. Harvey was my student along with numerous other current staff: Norma Dawson, Carl Brow, Lorie Waller, Kay Bradley, and Phyllis Radford among others. Mr. Simmons and I loved to joke about our history as partners in crime after we spent a fruitful half hour experimenting with all the car keys in the Security Shack; we fi nally found enough cars to replace the ailing bus and take students to a Shakespeare Festival production in Kenansville. Fortunately, enough staff members were along to drive those state cars legally. At a ground- breaking ceremony for Hocutt Building in the summer of 1976, I sang “ Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” in a quartet with music instructor Fred Mauk, history instructor Alice Lancaster’s husband ( later our Congressman and currently the president of our community college system), and community singer Trixie Smith. Later, Kathryn Spicer, Ed Potter, and I commuted together from K Building to Hocutt so that students on the new campus would not have to do all the commuting for English and speech. Everyone remembers trailer classrooms and frequent fl ooding. Both heat and air conditioning sometimes ran simultaneously in one trailer; a third distracting factor was the mower which bumped the cinder blocks holding the trailer off the ground; some days I truly feared our classroom would take fl ight. Despite my pride in the beauty of our new campus, I know the quality of faculty knowledge and dedication cannot possibly be greater than on that old campus. Our “ new” campus is now thirty years old, but we old- timers still distinguish between old campus and new. Some old things are indeed worth keeping— good memories of the old campus and the quality of the teaching and learning that happened there. 36 Memories of the Old Campus Theresa White- Wallace I became a student at Wayne Community College in 1984. At that time there was no College Transfer Advising Center or online registration. The line on registration day went down the hallway of A Building and wrapped around the other side. I stood in line at least an hour before I fi nally reached the window where two ladies were standing, ready to key my classes into the computer. I was then told, “ This class is closed, go back and see your advisor.” I was given a pass card and sent on my way. I returned to the window with a different class and was told that my new class had just closed. With pass card in hand, my sore feet and I headed for my advisor. I had arrived at WCC at 8: 30 that morning. It was after 2: 00 that afternoon before I left. My favorite teacher at WCC was Lafayette Westbrook, who taught American and North Carolina history. Mr. Westbrook never used notes in class. He would fi ll up two blackboards from memory. Afterwards, Mr. Westbrook would start lecturing. He taught history like a story. An example would be the time he was telling us about Lawrence Washington. He talked about Lawrence for a few minutes, and at the end he said, “ Now Lawrence had a younger brother named George.” This is the way he introduced the class to George Washington. I became a work- study student for the music department in 1985. The single wide music trailer was located away from the other buildings in what was called the compound, which had a chain link fence around it. The front of the trailer was the classroom and the back half is where the instructor’s offi ce was located. The music trailer was the only trailer that had a bathroom, complete with tub and shower. One evening when I was working, I heard a siren go off. WCC didn’t have an intercom system. Instead, we had one very loud siren that could be heard from very far away. I can’t remember how it went, but one long siren meant a fi re drill or bomb threat and two short ones meant bad weather. When I heard the siren I assumed we were having a fi re drill until I looked out the window and saw everyone running to the buildings. Once I got to K Building, I was told that a tornado had been spotted. There really was no safe place to hide in K Building, so we sat on the staircase located near double glass doors. In 1987, I started working part- time in the K14 Lab. There were only four computers in K Building. The two department heads had computers, and the division secretary and I had one. My computer screen was approximately 8 or 9 inches wide, and with each keystroke one would hear a clicking sound. There were no mouse, windows or laser printer in those days. The copy machine we had in K Building was huge. It opened like a coffi n and looked like one when the top was closed. I have a lot of memories of K Building and the people who walked her halls. K Building was the only two story building on campus. None of the buildings on campus had carpet, including K Building. All of the classrooms had blackboards. The men’s room was outside of K Building and the ladies room was upstairs, but inside. Everyone had to take the stairs because there wasn’t an elevator. Ed Potter and Gerald Simmons shared a small offi ce. On any given day you would see them talking and laughing with Mike Saylors and Ray Brannon. All four of them would cram into that one offi ce. Liz Meador and Rosalyn Lomax also shared a small offi ce. I am sure there was a wall in that offi ce, but I never saw it. Books and papers seemed to go to the ceiling. They used every inch of that offi ce from top to bottom. And yet, they were organized. They always knew where everything was. 37 Memories of a Friend Dressing Purrl the cat in her seasonal best Copying handouts on fl uorescent colored paper A book bag with different colored pens strapped to its side Hearing and seeing her go the extra mile to help a student Hearing students say, “ You need to get Ms. Ann Spicer; she is really good.” Spider web earrings hanging from her ears Hearing her say, “ Now, Darling,” to students, faculty or staff when the right way of doing something was about to be said Standing in the doorway with reindeer antlers on her head Blowing her car horn, so she could show off her newly bought PT Cruiser Driving her PT Cruiser 40 mph in a 55 zone Waiting 15 minutes for her to decide what she would like to order at the restaurant Deciding which restaurant to go to Shopping at the Polka Dotted Flamingo Opening our pink bags at lunch and sharing what we had bought Looking at china on the Macy’s website Bags of treats left on offi ce doors every holiday Exchanging gifts on birthdays and at Christmas Seeing her put her head down on her desk, because she felt so bad Seeing her step upon a curb, something she couldn’t do when she wasn’t feeling well Seeing her walk a steady pace and feeling good Seeing her in pain the day she went into the hospital for the last time Hearing her say, “ I saw someone in white,” and knowing an angel was getting her ready Seeing her at the end – restful, peaceful, asleep and with God See you later, my dear friend Theresa White- Wallace 38 Serenity Joy Pearce The Class I’ll never forget my fi rst day of class I was so afraid that I would not pass I struggled to make it to the top of the line My instructor kept saying, “ You’re going to be fi ne.” I did not give up and I am here to say I passed her class making an A If it were not for the encouragement of one who cared The success of my grade I could not have shared The words she spoke could not have been nicer That is why I will always remember Ann Spicer Rebecca Sewell 39 April 5, 1999 Dying is the hardest thing I’ve ever done How wrong they all are – I do not fi ght death I wrestle with life its grip all iron – a bright fi gure clothed in love and family disappointment success joy sorrow every mundane minute of life lived and loved and I fi ght to ease my way out of its grip The secret is not to fi ght but to go limp and slide away arms outstretched in welcome The ones I love surround me they whisper, “ Fight, fi ght. Don’t let death win.” They do not know the fi ght is with life Ann Spicer Editors’ Note: We mourn the death of Ann Spicer, former Liberal Arts Department Head, on January 29, 2007. 40 Miss Ann Spicer There once was a lady that really did care. She taught me about topic sentences, Antecedents, subjects and verbs But most didn’t know about the cross she had to bear. There once was a lady who was gentle and kind. She taught me about noun topics, clauses and Phrases, sentences, fragments, and run- ons Because she didn’t want any students left behind. There once was a lady whose life was slowing down. She taught me about brainstorming and outlines, Paragraphs, and writing a draft. With body failing, her spirit circled her like a crown. There once was a lady God came and took away. The things she taught me may fade, I may forget about English 090 in time, But the lady who taught me, her memory is here to stay. Wendy H. Smith To Ms. Ann Angelo Edwards When I thought I was falling apart, Ms. Ann Spicer kept me together. When bolts became loose, she tightened them. It was she who had a generosity that pulled me to the side to say, “ Hey! I know! It’s going to be all right! Don’t worry!” I had it really tough without ideal transportation, a job, or a way to raise a family. But Ms. Ann totally understood and acknowledged that I was still trying to be here at Wayne Community College. Because I started catching rides with my mom, I had to walk from the hospital to the college every morning. During that walk, I would be thinking that it wasn’t enough to have absolutely nothing; it could still get worse. She knew there was something that kept me here regardless of the hardships. She felt I was a highly intelligent individual, one of the smartest students in her class. So I gave it back in return by passing her class with an “ A!” She was my encouragement, and I was her smile those mornings. After I passed the class, I still dropped by to see her giving other students the same guidance she gave me, making me feel someone believed in me. Now that our fl ower of the campus has wilted away, she’s not to be forgotten. Her roots are still in the ground. She has not gone anywhere; she’s just enjoying the benefi ts of the earth’s peace in her special place. I miss her a lot, but she should truly be remembered for her teaching and honored as a most precious jewel emanating glow like no other upon this campus. Thanks, Ms. Ann! We love you! I’m still here and you are, too! 41 The Pain of Servitude Thomas Leon Sahm Rusting chains alerted him to their presence. The young boy listened to the jingling as someone played with the locks that sealed the wooden tomb. Turning carefully to avoid splintering the rotten wood beneath him, he watched intently as the door’s crevice widened, allowing the bright searing daylight into his prison. Flinching away from the burning light, he used soil- stained hands to shield his eyes from the brightness. “ Filth.” The familiar high pitch of the master voice burned into his ears. “ After only three days, you’ve already broken and soiled yourself.” Grabbing the boy’s arm, the master yanked him into the sun, allowing the boy to collapse onto the dirt. “ Get up! Or I’ll feed you to my dogs!” With eyes burning, the boy slowly forced weight onto his weak legs, forcing himself up at the master’s command. His emaciated muscles buckled under the pressure of body weight while his bones strained to move, sending an untold amount of pain through his body. The open sores which covered his legs began to ooze and drip crimson tears under the hot sun as his sweat loosened scabs. Visibly upset, the boy maintained composure fearing the end of a whip or another day in that horrid dungeon. The pain he was feeling did not compare to the fear of the man in front of him. “ See?” The noble lifted his cane, pointing it at the boy while smirking. “ Let this be a lesson to all of you. Never steal from me or squander my generosity.” Turning away from the smell of excrement that emanated from the wooden cell, the noble coughed, covering his nose and mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “ I hope you’ve learned?” he muffl ed through the handkerchief, directly addressing the boy. As the boy’s vision adjusted to the pain and compensated for the brightness, he was blessed with the full breath of scenery. Looking upwards, the boy’s fragile grey eyes locked onto his master. The weasel- faced noble had become plump through richness and arrogant through fl attery. Unable to fi nd the energy to speak from his dry throat and cracked lips, he only gave a nod to answer his master’s question. “ Good.” The noble smiled and took a few more steps back to alleviate the nauseating smells that surrounded the boy. “ Kigan, you may not know this, but the servant who was to take Julen’s place in the guard met with an unfortunate end, and I’m afraid we have no replacements except you. The other servants are too old and valuable, but you will suit the guard perfectly.” Kigan? Was that his name? The heat had played many tricks on him in that prison; his exhausted mind was uncertain. The noble wanted him to take Julen’s place— That name was familiar, but it was impossible to recall why. “ Taki,” the noble called to one of the servants who rushed up, quickly bowing to his master. “ You called?” “ Yes, take Kigan to the river and make sure he is clean. I don’t want to present this fi lth to the guard. Once he is washed, take him to the stables and tell Sorin to deliver him to Arlot— in one piece this time.” Taki nodded a second time and turned to grab Kigan but stopped immediately. “ You won’t be able to walk with your legs like that; I’ll carry you.” He spoke quietly out of the noble’s ear reach. Still in a daze, Kigan didn’t protest when Taki lifted him up, carrying him to the river. 42 A Song for Joey The lullaby she sings whispers softly on her breath. Back and forth she rocks, empty is her breast. A presence so tiny and so very small is snuggled within her arms but isn’t there at all. Broken is her spirit for the babe she cannot hold. Such warmth he gave her, who could have foretold the quick ticking of the clock, the passing of his soul leaving bitter years of yearning, a heart of icy cold. Back and forth she rocks, empty is her breast. The lullaby she sings whispers softly on her breath. A song sung just for him, in her arms he’ll always be the babe that sleeps forever for only her eyes to see. Linda Sugg Unspoken Words You left at such a tender age, in such a tragic way. There was no time to say goodbye, so much I need to say. Even if you already know, I want to say I love you so. Your life brought endless joy to mine. Why did you go and leave me behind? Life again will never be the same. Sometimes I still hear you calling my name. I smell the scent you used to wear. I turn and look, but no one is there. I think of you each passing day. I sense your presence every way. Often in things that your brother will do, I look at him and then I see you. You are with me now and forever more, and some day soon we will meet by the shore. And together forever we will always be with the one who created both you and me. Joyce Jernigan 43 Life Untouched How ironic That the one thing giving her life Would be the one thing to take it away Should I have called the doctor sooner? Was she in pain? I was her mother I should have protected her better Guilt sets in, then regret As she is being born, I feel the life being pulled right out of me. I have no meaning now No purpose Now comes the pain, the emptiness Hopelessness Will I ever laugh again? Look at my other children the same again? Will I resent them for being here When she is not? My new symbol of death is a white box The lid shut and locked Something so precious being protected From the cruel world that awaited it She is taken from us We will never know the color of her eyes Her hopes or dreams, her thoughts We will never tuck her into bed at night Help her say her prayers Watch over her as she sleeps She will never dance on her daddy’s feet Or give her mommy butterfl y kisses Her toes will never touch the seashore She will never chase fi refl ies at night Or sing lullabies The seasons bring change But our pain remains still Thoughts fl ood my head And run over into everyday life The image of her tiny, lifeless body Haunts our thoughts Spilling into our dreams How can you miss the sound Of the voice you never get to hear? Or laughter that never fi lls a room? To me, my daughter is not dead She is merely resting Waiting for me to catch up Wendy K. Womble 44 Generations I sit. I listen. I watch. Our young people seem to have lost touch. They are hurting each other. They are killing each other. They play a dangerous game. Boys may be boys, but at this rate, they will never grow up to be men. During their day to day ventures, they have strength and power on the street. They appear to have a hold on it all but they are still, so weak. All of their wants, all of the needs – are so materialistic. Trying to get things the fast way – they will only end up a statistic. They have lost touch with the beauty of youth and do whatever comes to mind. They lack the common sense it takes in order to survive. I sit and I reminisce. When I was younger, it was nothing like this. We didn’t do the things that are being done now, Even it we wanted to – I’m not sure we knew how. Street sense was out. Common sense was a must, and yes, book sense was the key. We enjoyed being young though mischievous at times And our future we did see. You never heard of young people killing each other. Our biggest worry was trying to sneak in without waking our mother. We were no angels. We were not saints nor did we pretend to be, But we did halfway listen to our parents and we did reach maturity. I sit. I wonder. I try to see. I picture my parents and how they used to be. They worked hard for basically everything they got, Not for what they wanted but for what they needed just to get by. Though they were young, they were stronger than we – in mind, body and soul There was no such thing as halfway listening – you did as you were told. The world today is nothing like they ever pictured it would be, Seeing their grandchildren dealing with drugs was beyond their wildest dreams. “ Each generation grows weaker but wiser” is what the elderly say. M. C. Hammer says, “ We’ve got to pray just to make it today.” I sit. I listen. I watch. Our young people seem to have lost touch. When I look out my door or sit on my porch And see the young people on the corner day and night, The dealers – the users – I wonder to myself if they think what they’re doing is right. I want to take them and shake them to see if I can make them come in and see the light. I come in instead – look at my kids in bed, and say to myself, “ They may make a change – they just might.” Terri Coley Carraway 45 Learning Process Eva Chan The Father That I Never Knew This is for the father that I never knew Your loved ones say that I look and act a lot like you From my eyes to my nose to the dimple in my chin I’ve even got your personality— to everyone I’m a friend Although it’s been many years since you have passed “ What if’s” are grains of sand in my mind’s hourglass Though I knew you little, you are still in my heart and mind And I’ll keep you there, never leaving you behind My memory can’t recollect the way you looked or talked But I look forward to the day you and I can take a walk Until that day, I’ll store pieces of you in my heart Linking them together like a chain, never to be taken apart. Joshua Dale Lane 46 My Childhood in Tampa Korreain Cummings I still remember the warm, breezy Tampa, Florida afternoons of my childhood. I would gaze out the open passenger window while my mom drove me home from school. As we rode, I peered at the towering palm trees that stood in line like soldiers guarding the Tampa Bay that stretched far beyond my school all the way past where I lived. After school, I loved to play outside. We lived at MacDill Air Force Base, and the housing where we lived was ideal for children like me. The housing was apartments that all seemed to sit in a circle with one shared backyard. No fences or walls separated the neighborhood children; we all had access to one another. It was customary to come home from school, don ourselves with play clothes, and dash “ out back” to play with the neighbor’s kids. The back yard seemed to stretch for miles when I was a kid. From my side of the circle to my friend Roni’s backdoor was enough distance to cause an energetic child to be out of breath when running. The fatigue did not last long, however. After summoning one’s friends, the entire circle would come to life with the laughter and teasing and sometimes bawling of children. A yard that large had enough space to accommodate an entire neighborhood of children. That’s exactly what dwelt in my circle… an entire neighborhood of children. Almost every household on that circle had at least two children. There were girls and boys. Most were in elementary school like me while others were approaching high school like my brother. We played together whether we knew each other or not. We usually played nicely with occasional squabbles over whose turn it was to turn the jump rope. We had so much to do in that circle. With a yard of plush, tall green grass that stretched into eternity, we would pretend to be animals in the jungle and crawl on our knees, making our mothers glad that they had forced us to change out of our good clothes before we left to play. We would lie on our backs on the plush, green grass, look up into the endless sky, hold up our feet, and pretend to walk among the clouds. We also had a sidewalk that followed the outside border of the circle where we would do laps with our bicycles— except for George, who, although he was eight, never learned to ride a bike with no training wheels. My family lived upstairs in our apartment, so we had a balcony outside our back door. Sometimes, when no one could come out to play, my mother and I would stand on the balcony and toss bread to sea gulls that hovered in the air around us. I always enjoyed the time I got to spend with my mom alone. I loved to hear the stories she told about her childhood. My mom told me stories of how she ate something called honeysuckle from a fl ower when she was a kid. In an effort to experience a piece of my mother’s childhood, I tried to expose my friends to the delight of honeysuckle. My childish knowledge of fl owers prevented us from doing so, however. Instead of eating honeysuckle, we ate some unknown wet substance from the middle of our neighbor’s roses. Since everyone shared the yard, we all shared whatever was sitting in the yard. George’s parents owned a wooden picnic table that we used as a dinner table when we played house or as a table when we played school. The yard provided the tools necessary for playing school. I remember being the teacher one day and using a stick to point to the lessons that I was teaching while my students used smaller sticks to write on imaginary paper made of leaves. We even had arts and crafts time in school when we would break our neighbor’s plants in order to get the 47 white goo that existed inside. We would then squeeze out the white substance ( that acted like glue) and glue together our leaf papers. We would play like this until the sun began to set and turn the sky a purplish hue and a chilly breeze blew off the Bay. All of the children my age were called by their parents to come for dinner and get ready for bed immediately. The kids in my neighborhood went to bed so early. Then I would go in for my dinner but would return outside with my brother and my parents. Now the sun was almost completely gone down and the street lights would soon come on. This was the time when the older children my brother’s age came out. My parents would get a ball and divide up teams for kickball, a favorite for the kids out back. Three light posts were out back, serving two purposes: the fi rst obviously to provide light and the other to be the three bases during kickball. It was under these light posts and the stars and the moon that I laughed and played as though I were a middle school kid. I remember thinking how angry my friends must be, hearing my laughter among the cheers and mirth of the older kids while they were getting ready for bed. I loved that yard. It was every child’s dream. It brought together children of all backgrounds and child- rearing styles. Our parents had always told us to share when we played with each other, but no one really understood how much we shared when we shared that one backyard. I missed that yard when my dad got orders to Cannon Air Force Base in Clovis, New Mexico. No longer did I see the palm tree sentinels that protected the ebbing and crashing waves of the Tampa Bay, no longer did I feel that humid breeze that could almost wet my face, no longer did I hear the calls of the sea gull that begged for bread, and no longer did I taste the juices inside my neighbor’s roses in childish attempt to eat honeysuckle. Instead, I now sheltered my face from the sting of dry, loose dirt that blew in the arid wind in a small fenced- in yard that I shared with no one. There was nothing but me, the dirt, and thirsting yellow grass as I wondered if children miles and miles away still played kickball under the guide of the moonlight. City Map Cross the northern route with great caution, the intercity connector— impacted bowel of express busses, two- seater cars in the diamond lane, cement mixers and shameless cellphone whores, diaspora of suburban refugees— the city pulls, circulates them all through its metropolitan heart. Jeff Williams Anxiety A cat crouched in waves of fescue eyes wide like black shining pearls ears to the front, whiskers wire taut and the blackbird, uneasy and bent to drink from the fountain, eyes up but searching the wrong way, unaware. Jeff Williams 48 No Leaves in Autumn Andy Rasjski Due to the coming winter, it was colder outside than usual. We were well into September now, and yet, not a single dead leaf could be found. After all, there were no trees— only bodies and barracks fi lled with dying people. Such thoughts likely never occurred in the men around me, who shivered in their ranks as they awaited further orders. To them, life was nothing more than their next bowl of soup and their next breath. Anything before either was forgotten, and anything after was unimportant. Some of those men would soon be on their way to the factories, others to the quarries. Others still were undoubtedly on the way to their deaths. Hell, some of them would probably be dead before tomorrow. I watched the men closely as the soldiers marched them away from the fi eld; they were my companions, my brothers. I knew not one- tenth of them, but it did not matter to me. We were all in this together. As the Kapo of the block, I did not have to go work with the others though I was still a prisoner myself. I had received the job simply because I was the oldest one of the prisoners and had never given the guards any trouble. Some might have even said I was lucky, never having to work the same as the others, but there was no luck in the concentration camps. There was no luck for any of us. I walked slowly back to the “ sick barracks” to check on the prisoners from my block who were unable to go out and work today. What I found was, as always, a nightmare. Over fi fty people lay on the cots, on the fl oor, and on each other, all extremely sick and incapable of moving. Men were throwing up in the corners and relieving themselves in their beds. Other men simply lay groaning all around, starving and aching at their cores. The smell was horrible. Dejectedly, I noticed that less than half of the people I had tended to only yesterday were still in the room. The others were probably ash by now. There was a Kapo from another block in the room already. He was mercilessly beating an old man who lay on the ground in the fetal position, attempting to minimize the blows. The Kapo glanced up at me, smiling as if he were looking for approval. I suddenly wanted to rush over and punch him as hard as I could to kill him for his unwarranted cruelty to another human being. And for what? What had that sick old man ever done to deserve such a beating? Exist? Instead, I resigned myself to kneeling down and whispering to the man nearest to me. He was leaning against the wall near the entrance, looking starved and feverish. I asked him if he needed anything, and he whispered hoarsely for some water. I clipped off the small canteen I carried with me just for such purposes and poured a few drops into his mouth. Such a small deed seemed to give him immense satisfaction. I suddenly wished that I could bring a whole bucket of soup to him and pour it down his throat, so that I could releive at least one of his pains. But alas, I could not, and after a few more minutes of tending to the man, I moved on to another patient and another until many hours had passed and I felt the need to return to my offi ce. I looked over to where the other Kapo had beaten the old man and left him to die. I rushed to the old man’s side, but it was too late. One day, I vowed, I would avenge that man. I would avenge all of us. Without a single goodbye, I departed from my horrible daily ritual, staring at the ground 49 replaying the image of all those sick people in my mind. I was so deep in thought that I suddenly ran into the back of one of the camp’s guards. Jolted from my thoughts, I regained consciousness of my surroundings just as the man pointed his gun in my face and started yelling. I looked at his face, and for a brief second, locked eyes with the furious guard. In that second, a deep channel of hatred formed between us. I hated him because of his deeds and lack of compassion, and he hated me for who I was, for being a Jew, and nothing more. But in that instant, I was not able to tell who hated the other more, and I realized that if I were the one holding the gun, I would not think twice about shooting the guard. And even after I escaped the guard’s wrath and returned safely to my offi ce, I could not shake our interaction from my mind. If I’d been able to, I would have killed him. This sent my mind reeling, for I am not an angry nor vengeful man. For the next couple of hours, incredibly diffi cult questions fl oated in and out of my mind, each one with an answer more frightening than the last. Had the horrors around me fi nally reduced me to having the simple mindset of kill or be killed? Who is worse: a man who kills another man because he’s told to, or a man who kills another man because he wants to? If you had another chance, would you kill the guard? I wrestled with myself in this way long after the men I watched over returned from their day’s work. While we ate our soup, I questioned my deepest being, and I did not sleep at all that night, as question after question assaulted my conscious mind, forcing me to reevaluate myself and my beliefs. And the next day, I had come to one conclusion. I would like another chance. Downstairs Bobbie Stringfi eld 50 Saved by the Bell Al Boone Every Wednesday afternoon, I usually drive my car to the community store to fi ll it with gasoline. At the gas pumps, I am pumping regular unleaded gas into my car at the price of $ 2.79 a gallon and I wonder, “ How much higher will these prices go?” Suddenly, I hear a commotion of hollering and raving from across the street at a local school. “ What are those kids doing?” I think to myself. I realize that one of the kids is my oldest son Dustin. He and several others are chasing my truck that he drives. I see that someone else is in the driver’s seat. I run over to intervene and try to fi gure out what is going on. Before I get there, the truck hits the wall of the school gym. It looks as though kids are being slung everywhere. I proceed to run toward them, gasping for extra air between every step. I can hear the blaring siren of an approaching police car. The kids are now fussing and cussing at one another. The police car zooms upon the scene, sliding sideways at it comes to a stop. The offi cer jumps out and hollers, “ Put your hands in the air where I can see them.” He shouts it again, and the kids respond, raising their hands. I fi nally reach the scene. Totally out of breath, I wonder why I didn’t drive here in my car since I know the store attendant would have understood. The policeman instructs me to stand back. “ But that’s my truck and that’s my son,” I tell him. “ Why is that Mexican kid driving my truck?” The policeman replies, “ Just stand back, sir, and I’ll get to the bottom of this.” Simultaneously, I hear Dustin saying, “ He stole it, Daddy. He stole it.” The policeman responds, “ Keep your hands in the air and your mouth shut.” He then walks toward the boys. He asks the scrawny Mexican kid, “ Who was driving?” The Mexican kid mumbles and points toward Dustin. I volunteer, “ I saw the Mexican driving it, offi cer,” as the offi cer motions to me with a horizontal hand slapping the air in an attempt to tell me again to be quiet. Someone hollers, “ He has a gun.” A shot rings out. “ Get down!” hollers the policeman. As the policeman draws his gun, more shots ring out as the offi cer returns fi re. Next, I turn to run toward my son and I turn in the opposite direction as I am trying to move. I think, “ What is wrong with my leg?” As I turn again, I hear Bam! Bam! As I run toward my son, I feel really warm. Bam! I am jerked to the ground. “ Who is pulling me down?” I think. I hit the ground; my knees slam hard fi rst. “ I’ve been shot,” I think, but I don’t feel any pain. “ I’ve got to get up.” My legs do not respond. I fall onto my chest with my right hand caught between my chest and the ground. The palm is facing the ground. My left hand, lying outward beside my waist, does not move. My left cheek is pressed against the ground. I can see my own eyes from a frontal view, blinking at the dust of the dirt. “ I’m dying. Dear God, please forgive me for my sins,” I pray. “ Please protect Dustin and the rest of my family.” “ Beep, beep, beep,” sounds the alarm clock, and I awaken lying in the exact position as I had fallen after being shot. 51 Timeless Gene Smith For Just a Moment Red light. Fourth car. Ample time. I reach down, turn up the cuffs of designer jeans before the light turns. Déjà vu as time turns back to 1955 and places me on Mama’s kitchen stool. There my brother’s hands, veins prominent, deftly turn up the cuffs of his little sister’s jeans just the way the older girls in his class turn up their cuffs. Déjà vu— kind or cruel? For just a moment before the light turns green and turns me back to an adult, I have my childhood home, I have my cuffs turned up just right, I have my brother still alive. Rosalyn F. Lomax 52 Sharing Our Space Gene Smith Camoufl age Copper tufts of drying pine in tall green grass have fooled my eye and drawn me to this fi eld to scan for rusty doe, and there she stands. And there she stands, long slender neck erect, white ears alert, brown- eyed gaze unwavering. I freeze, then murmur reassurance. We stare each other down. I take a step. The statue stays. I step again. She turns and with the weightless bound of ballerina escapes into the woods, white- tail farewell. Next afternoon in gentle drizzle she grazes center of the fi eld in peace. We share our space. Rosalyn F. Lomax Sitting Proudly Gene Smith Passerby Black scales shining in the sun Cold blood slowly warming Sit proudly upon your stone Grow long and strong You king of the ground So go your way Be seen no more And darkness now surrounds you Christian Turnage Ode on a Vampire Endless hours pass Dull throbbing pain The things I think and say Inhibitions set aside To no avail Do you feel the loss as I do? To live a millennia And never fi nd an equal Always haunting the dark Hiding from the sun You’ll never truly see me I will always be a wraith to you An apparition that vanishes In clouds of smoke and dust Consider me dead For life is not in me anymore Resting in the dust Never to rise again Christian Turnage 53 54 Vanity’s Place: A Modern Myth Janet Carmichael Looking around the glen, Sherman Bowman said to himself, “ My boy, you have truly found paradise! All you need now is your very own Eve.” ‘ Uh, yeah. Like that’s going to happen,’ Sherman knew he was no Prince Charming. At thirty- eight years of age, he had absolutely nothing going for him. He was short, only fi ve feet and six inches tall, and at least fi fteen pounds overweight. His hair was an indiscriminate brown, and if his bald spot kept growing, he would resemble Friar Tuck very soon. He had some nasty acne scars on both cheeks, not so gentle reminders of his horrendous adolescence. And the pièce de résistance was the thick- lenses, black horn- rimmed glasses he had to wear. He couldn’t wear contact lenses because of his astigmatism, and the frames were the only ones he could afford on the company’s crappy vision plan. Sherman was well aware that he wasn’t exactly the poster boy for male animal magnetism, but he was comfortable with who he was at that point in his life. Sherman wandered around for over an hour just enjoying the scenery and the quiet. Around two, Sherman noticed that the afternoon had warmed considerably. He decided a wade in the pond would be just the thing. He slipped off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants legs, and dipped a toe into heaven. The water was cool and soft against his ankles. Sherman puttered around the rim of the pond for a bit, plopped down on the grassy edge, and dangled his feet in the shallow pool. He lay back and watched the puffy clouds glide overhead. Then he rolled onto his side and watched the patterns his hand made in the pond’s sandy fl oor. Sherman was so relaxed that he dozed off, his hand still in the water. As he lay there with his eyes closed, be began to feel a soft, fl uid warmth creep up his arm. When the sensation reached his shoulder, it became tangible enough to bring Sherman out of his doze. He opened his eyes, but he didn’t move for fear that the sweetness would go away. After the warmth spread to his chest, he decided to chance it and rolled to his side to look down at his hand in the water. The water around his hand and forearm was somehow brighter and clearer, and it felt like a velvet cloth caressing his skin. It truly was the most incredible sensation he had ever felt. As welcome as the soft warmth was, Sherman knew that something odd was going on. This wasn’t a hot spring, and no water softener apparatus was beneath the surface. “ So, what the hell is happening?” Sherman asked out loud. “ It’s just my magnetic self.” Sherman was so startled by the voice that he almost rolled into the pond. “ Okay, I am dreaming. Except that wonderful feeling is still here. Really, what the hell is going on?” “ I told you; it’s me. I have this ability to make people feel, well, good.” Sherman looked down at the water, and instead of seeing his own refl ection, he saw the face of an incredibly beautiful woman looking up at him. He plunged his other hand into the water and grasped nothing. As soon as he pulled his hand out, her face was back, even more beautiful than before. “ Sherman, it’s okay, really. Don’t upset yourself. You’re not hallucinating. You’re really seeing and hearing me.” “ But, you’re under the water. I mean, you seem to be under the water. I just tried to touch you, and you’re not there.” “ Oh, I’m here all right. I’m behind or at the bottom of everything that refl ects.” “ Who are you?” “ I am Vanity. And you are Sherman Bowman from Talladega.” “ How do you know that?” “ That’s my secret, Sherman.” “ Please, don’t call me Sherman; I hate that name. Just call me Sherm; everyone does.” “ No problem, Sherm. Whatever fl oats your boat. You think Hitler was crazy about Adolf? I’ll call you whatever you want.” “ What do you want with me? I’m hardly your type after all. There’s no basis for you in my life. Just look at me.” “ Actually, Sherm, it’s not what I want that matters. I’m here for you, so to speak. And I am looking at you, Sherm. You’re not so bad.” “ Oh, come on. I’m not your usual type, and you know it.” “ That’s true. Politicians are my traditional stock- in- trade. They are so easy. I hardly have to crook my fi nger. They’re more than ready for me by the time I show up.” “ I can certainly agree with that.” “ Lately, I’ve developed a taste for televangelists. They’re also pushovers for my line. They already see God when they look in the mirror. The subtlest nudge from me, and they’re just steps away from the grandest delusions of omniscience and omnipotence.” “ Aah, that explains it.” “ Yep. Professional athletes, rock stars, and actors are also always near the top of my list. I fi nd it so amusing that you people treat my children like gods and then have a fi t when they act like it. But that’s neither here nor there. Just one of my little pet peeves.” “ Sorry, I’m not much into idol- worship.” “ My goodness, Sherm. You are a regular riot. A true breath of fresh air. I knew you’d be worth the trip. M |
OCLC number | 21895524 |