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