Creative Nonfiction by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
I remember my first time flying. Not in the elbow-to-elbow jam-packed rows. Not in the seats with the grimy fingerprinted windows. Not squished between two strangers, jostling about from the turbulence. No, my first time flying was beneath an April sun, soaring through the nippy mountain air. With the earth falling away into a blur of green and the wind rushing by with insistent pressure. I didn't need an airplane to fly, not on the back of a horse.
Harley was a stocky horse with light cream fur and a wild mane of flaxen hair. He had huge brown eyes that were in always held in patient appraisal. A short neck and a deep sloping chest gave him a friendly little stature. His velvet pink nose was constantly prodding beneath my arms and wedging its way into my pockets, hopeful that a treat had somehow found its way into my possession. He was a Halflinger, a breed made for pack work and driving carts. Compared to Thoroughbreds, his long legged counterparts, with their slim frames and athletic build, he was a slowpoke. Harley would trudge along in circles to his heart's content, meandering along the pasture nibbling through weeds. He rarely had any motivation to move any faster than a walk and it took a miracle to bump him into a trot. So I was feeling particularly optimistic the day I decided to run him.
That morning I brushed him down while he lazily gnawed on a piece of alfalfa. I cradled each thick hoof in my hand, picking out the rocks stuck there and admiring the sleek silver shoes that hugged along his curving foot. My stiff leather saddle was lugged up onto his back and slid into position where it fit like a puzzle piece against his withers. I tightened his saddle – then tightened it again, the last thing I wanted was a slipping saddle. I let Harley steal one last mouthful of hay before he begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled away.
Sitting up in the saddle was the easy part. He felt safe, comfortable and steady in his movements. He walked along, letting his head bob and his ears swivel happily as he stepped. We trotted along a fence line, warming up the brawny muscles hidden beneath his glossy coat. Dogs jutted out from yards, yapping and nipping at his legs. Harley didn't spare them any attention, he merely cocked an ear in their direction and idly stepped on by. A few cars slowed and waved, as Harley was a favorite of the neighborhood kids.
After a short trot across the street, we made it out to where the crops of lettuce and carrots sprouted from the ground in long tidy rows. Here, the air was heavy with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sprinklers sent water arching through the air. In one row, the earth was freshly plowed, the previous crop harvested and gone for the season. The ground was soft and stretched out far into the distance. I positioned Harley in the empty lane of soil, pointed towards the steep snowcapped mountains rising in the distance.
With a little flutter of excitement, I urged him forwards. He took a few casual steps and still, I pressed him onwards. In smooth rhythmical movements he picked up speed, moving from a trot into a rolling canter. I clicked my tongue at him, swinging my legs to encourage him. I let my reigns hang loose, giving him full leeway. I could almost feel the moment the realization washed over him; that he was allowed to plow ahead as fast as he could. It turns out that Harley could run after all. He let out one loud snort and then shot ahead, breaking into a charge.
And then we were flying. Tearing up the dirt, chunks of mud flinging into the sky behind us. The wind surged in my ears and tore tears from my eyes. Harley shook his head, that flaxen mane whipping around behind him. Thrill squeezed tight in my stomach and sent a rush of goose bumps up my arms. The fields blurred by in a confused cascade of colors. Tears streaked along my temples and gathered in my hairline as a laugh built in my chest. His hooves collided with the ground, a beautiful thundering sound that sent birds scattering. His body was thrumming beneath me, surging with life as he sucked in breaths. I stood slightly, leaning forward on my knees like a jockey and suddenly I could feel the air pulsating all around me, flapping my t-shirt and sending my hair back in a wild tangle.
There was a part of me that was terrified. A part of me that screamed and cautioned me to slow down. Warnings and red flags. A reminder that I was high up, going fast, and one wrong move away from slamming into the ground. And then there was the part of me that was electric, urging me to go faster. That part of me was surging with energy and a thirst for that feeling of freedom. Together, those parts made an equilibrium. A perfect balance of liberation, and I found myself flying free.
Contributor's Note: I was a little apprehensive about entering a piece of nonfiction, just because it's a bit out of my comfort zone. Although I've had many adventures, I had a hard time choosing a true story that I thought people would like to hear about. I haven't had any crazy trips to foreign countries or faraway places, but I decided that perhaps the beauty in an everyday event would inspire an audience.
Showing posts with label creative-non-fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative-non-fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
The Fluttering Heart
Creative Nonfiction by Sarah Horne of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
Spring was always the most beautiful time of year for me in little Ocala, Florida. My childhood home was a three bedroom, brick and wooden house that looked far less grand on the outside than the inside. Mustard trees framed the house at each corner with a shrubbery accenting the front lawn. There was a bay window that captured the sunset and sent rainbows across the sandy walls and cherry wood baby grand piano in the evenings. But it was the mornings that I loved the most.
When the sun finally rises over the neighboring rooftops, the rays pierce the windows illuminating the swirling dust motes over tile floors. The birds sing and flit from branch to grass, hunting insects and arachnids for breakfast.
One exceptionally beautiful spring morning, I heard a soft, pronounced thud on the west-facing bay windows. I padded over to the window in my pajamas after admiring the dusty swirls in the kitchen. Peering through the pane, I saw a little tea wren laying on its back. It’s little chest heaving. It must have hit the window. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Birds often hit the windows and, after a moment, continued with their daily lives.
I wanted to take advantage of his temporary paralysis to observe him closely. Birds rarely sit still long enough for anyone to truly observe their beautiful features. I quickly and quietly exited the front door and sidled closer to the little bird. He was still laying on his back, breathing furiously. I crouched over him for a moment, absorbing all his beauty and the wonder of how such little wings could carry him so far.
But within a few seconds I began to realize his wounds were worse than I thought. He wasn’t recovering like other birds. I began to panic. I didn’t want this precious, tiny creature to die. I carefully reached out and whispered fruitless reassurances and picked him up. I held the little thing closer to try to find where the break was and prayed it was just a wing and not the spine. But alas, as I turned to bring him inside to a safe, warm bed until I figured out what to do, I saw his last breath shudder through his slightly open mouth. I could see his little tongue through his orange-yellow beak, and I could see the light in his beautiful eyes fade.
I was so taken by his death, I stood there, profoundly still. Now I wasn’t observing the beauty of life as I was just a few short minutes ago, now I was observing the beauty of death. He was just there and then he was gone.
After giving him a brief burial in my back yard, I went back inside and pondered what I had just witnessed. I considered how tragic it was to lose such a peaceful little creature.
It wasn’t until many years later that I held death in my hands again, but this time, he was far more precious.
I was in Pennsylvania on business, when I got the phone call. My mother called and she sounded a little stressed out. She had always been worrisome so I wasn’t alarmed. She told me my grandfather was sick and I needed to find a way to go to him immediately. I figured she was overreacting and when I arrived beside his hospital bed in the intensive care unit less than 24 hours later, I was certain the whole mess was a misunderstanding.
I greeted him and held his hand and gave him my warmest smile to let him know how much I loved him. My Aunt had arrived the day before and my grandmother explained the situation to us. He was short of breath a few days prior and the doctor discovered scar tissue growing in his lungs. They gave him steroids so his body could fight off the growth, but no matter how much they gave him, nothing was working. His lungs were turning into solid tissue and he could no longer breathe on his own.
I couldn’t believe it. He looked fine. His eyes and smile were as bright as ever. He was cognizant and was maintaining a healthy diet, but within two days of my arrival, he could no longer think straight due to lack of oxygen and he could no longer sustain food. They hooked up an IV to him which turned the urine in his catheter blood red. The nurse assured us this was normal but she also urged us to decide quickly what we wanted to do. My grandfather’s discomfort was increasing every day. His mouth and throat were becoming more and more dry as air was forced into his lungs by the cursed machine incessantly beeping next to him.
The time came when my grandmother could no longer bear seeing him in pain. After taking him off the air pump, he didn’t last long. My Aunt and grandmother held his hands as he started gasping for air. My grandmother started crying and since they had taken him off the air supply, they no longer monitored his heart rate. We all knew what was coming.
My grandmother asked me to track his heart rate for her so she would know exactly when his time had come. I grasped the back of his head, my thumb resting on the pulse at his neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake. My Aunt and grandmother said their good-byes and told him how much they loved him. I was silent. I concentrated on his pulse. I stared at his face, tensed with pain as he gasped. I couldn’t feel his pulse. I thought I lost it. I scrambled to find it again. That’s when he gave one final attempt to breathe. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth in a silent cry for his beloved wife of 50 years. He raised his arm, reaching out to her before collapsing back on his hospital bed. He was gone.
Just like the bird, he was right there in my hands as I watched the light leave his eyes. I felt his last breath. Death had taken one of the most precious creatures in this world away from me. He was gone. I would never see his warm, loving smile again. Just like the innocence of the little bird would never be witnessed on a peaceful, spring morning.
2nd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
Spring was always the most beautiful time of year for me in little Ocala, Florida. My childhood home was a three bedroom, brick and wooden house that looked far less grand on the outside than the inside. Mustard trees framed the house at each corner with a shrubbery accenting the front lawn. There was a bay window that captured the sunset and sent rainbows across the sandy walls and cherry wood baby grand piano in the evenings. But it was the mornings that I loved the most.
When the sun finally rises over the neighboring rooftops, the rays pierce the windows illuminating the swirling dust motes over tile floors. The birds sing and flit from branch to grass, hunting insects and arachnids for breakfast.
One exceptionally beautiful spring morning, I heard a soft, pronounced thud on the west-facing bay windows. I padded over to the window in my pajamas after admiring the dusty swirls in the kitchen. Peering through the pane, I saw a little tea wren laying on its back. It’s little chest heaving. It must have hit the window. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Birds often hit the windows and, after a moment, continued with their daily lives.
I wanted to take advantage of his temporary paralysis to observe him closely. Birds rarely sit still long enough for anyone to truly observe their beautiful features. I quickly and quietly exited the front door and sidled closer to the little bird. He was still laying on his back, breathing furiously. I crouched over him for a moment, absorbing all his beauty and the wonder of how such little wings could carry him so far.
But within a few seconds I began to realize his wounds were worse than I thought. He wasn’t recovering like other birds. I began to panic. I didn’t want this precious, tiny creature to die. I carefully reached out and whispered fruitless reassurances and picked him up. I held the little thing closer to try to find where the break was and prayed it was just a wing and not the spine. But alas, as I turned to bring him inside to a safe, warm bed until I figured out what to do, I saw his last breath shudder through his slightly open mouth. I could see his little tongue through his orange-yellow beak, and I could see the light in his beautiful eyes fade.
I was so taken by his death, I stood there, profoundly still. Now I wasn’t observing the beauty of life as I was just a few short minutes ago, now I was observing the beauty of death. He was just there and then he was gone.
After giving him a brief burial in my back yard, I went back inside and pondered what I had just witnessed. I considered how tragic it was to lose such a peaceful little creature.
It wasn’t until many years later that I held death in my hands again, but this time, he was far more precious.
I was in Pennsylvania on business, when I got the phone call. My mother called and she sounded a little stressed out. She had always been worrisome so I wasn’t alarmed. She told me my grandfather was sick and I needed to find a way to go to him immediately. I figured she was overreacting and when I arrived beside his hospital bed in the intensive care unit less than 24 hours later, I was certain the whole mess was a misunderstanding.
I greeted him and held his hand and gave him my warmest smile to let him know how much I loved him. My Aunt had arrived the day before and my grandmother explained the situation to us. He was short of breath a few days prior and the doctor discovered scar tissue growing in his lungs. They gave him steroids so his body could fight off the growth, but no matter how much they gave him, nothing was working. His lungs were turning into solid tissue and he could no longer breathe on his own.
I couldn’t believe it. He looked fine. His eyes and smile were as bright as ever. He was cognizant and was maintaining a healthy diet, but within two days of my arrival, he could no longer think straight due to lack of oxygen and he could no longer sustain food. They hooked up an IV to him which turned the urine in his catheter blood red. The nurse assured us this was normal but she also urged us to decide quickly what we wanted to do. My grandfather’s discomfort was increasing every day. His mouth and throat were becoming more and more dry as air was forced into his lungs by the cursed machine incessantly beeping next to him.
The time came when my grandmother could no longer bear seeing him in pain. After taking him off the air pump, he didn’t last long. My Aunt and grandmother held his hands as he started gasping for air. My grandmother started crying and since they had taken him off the air supply, they no longer monitored his heart rate. We all knew what was coming.
My grandmother asked me to track his heart rate for her so she would know exactly when his time had come. I grasped the back of his head, my thumb resting on the pulse at his neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake. My Aunt and grandmother said their good-byes and told him how much they loved him. I was silent. I concentrated on his pulse. I stared at his face, tensed with pain as he gasped. I couldn’t feel his pulse. I thought I lost it. I scrambled to find it again. That’s when he gave one final attempt to breathe. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth in a silent cry for his beloved wife of 50 years. He raised his arm, reaching out to her before collapsing back on his hospital bed. He was gone.
Just like the bird, he was right there in my hands as I watched the light leave his eyes. I felt his last breath. Death had taken one of the most precious creatures in this world away from me. He was gone. I would never see his warm, loving smile again. Just like the innocence of the little bird would never be witnessed on a peaceful, spring morning.
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
The Fluttering Heartbeat
Creative Nonfiction by Sarah Horne of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
Spring was always the most beautiful time of year for me in little Ocala, Florida. My childhood home was a three bedroom, brick and wooden house that looked far less grand on the outside than the inside. Mustard trees framed the house at each corner with a shrubbery accenting the front lawn. There was a bay window that captured the sunset and sent rainbows across the sandy walls and cherry wood baby grand piano in the evenings. But it was the mornings that I loved the most.
When the sun finally rises over the neighboring rooftops, the rays pierce the windows illuminating the swirling dust motes over tile floors. The birds sing and flit from branch to grass, hunting insects and arachnids for breakfast.
One exceptionally beautiful spring morning, I heard a soft, pronounced thud on the west-facing bay windows. I padded over to the window in my pajamas after admiring the dusty swirls in the kitchen. Peering through the pane, I saw a little tea wren laying on its back. It’s little chest heaving. It must have hit the window. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Birds often hit the windows and, after a moment, continued with their daily lives.
I wanted to take advantage of his temporary paralysis to observe him closely. Birds rarely sit still long enough for anyone to truly observe their beautiful features. I quickly and quietly exited the front door and sidled closer to the little bird. He was still laying on his back, breathing furiously. I crouched over him for a moment, absorbing all his beauty and the wonder of how such little wings could carry him so far.
But within a few seconds I began to realize his wounds were worse than I thought. He wasn’t recovering like other birds. I began to panic. I didn’t want this precious, tiny creature to die. I carefully reached out and whispered fruitless reassurances and picked him up. I held the little thing closer to try to find where the break was and prayed it was just a wing and not the spine. But alas, as I turned to bring him inside to a safe, warm bed until I figured out what to do, I saw his last breath shudder through his slightly open mouth. I could see his little tongue through his orange-yellow beak, and I could see the light in his beautiful eyes fade.
I was so taken by his death, I stood there, profoundly still. Now I wasn’t observing the beauty of life as I was just a few short minutes ago, now I was observing the beauty of death. He was just there and then he was gone.
After giving him a brief burial in my back yard, I went back inside and pondered what I had just witnessed. I considered how tragic it was to lose such a peaceful little creature.
It wasn’t until many years later that I held death in my hands again, but this time, he was far more precious.
I was in Pennsylvania on business, when I got the phone call. My mother called and she sounded a little stressed out. She had always been worrisome so I wasn’t alarmed. She told me my grandfather was sick and I needed to find a way to go to him immediately. I figured she was overreacting and when I arrived beside his hospital bed in the intensive care unit less than 24 hours later, I was certain the whole mess was a misunderstanding.
I greeted him and held his hand and gave him my warmest smile to let him know how much I loved him. My Aunt had arrived the day before and my grandmother explained the situation to us. He was short of breath a few days prior and the doctor discovered scar tissue growing in his lungs. They gave him steroids so his body could fight off the growth, but no matter how much they gave him, nothing was working. His lungs were turning into solid tissue and he could no longer breathe on his own.
I couldn’t believe it. He looked fine. His eyes and smile were as bright as ever. He was cognizant and was maintaining a healthy diet, but within two days of my arrival, he could no longer think straight due to lack of oxygen and he could no longer sustain food. They hooked up an IV to him which turned the urine in his catheter blood red. The nurse assured us this was normal but she also urged us to decide quickly what we wanted to do. My grandfather’s discomfort was increasing every day. His mouth and throat were becoming more and more dry as air was forced into his lungs by the cursed machine incessantly beeping next to him.
The time came when my grandmother could no longer bear seeing him in pain. After taking him off the air pump, he didn’t last long. My Aunt and grandmother held his hands as he started gasping for air. My grandmother started crying and since they had taken him off the air supply, they no longer monitored his heart rate. We all knew what was coming.
My grandmother asked me to track his heart rate for her so she would know exactly when his time had come. I grasped the back of his head, my thumb resting on the pulse at his neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake. My Aunt and grandmother said their good-byes and told him how much they loved him. I was silent. I concentrated on his pulse. I stared at his face, tensed with pain as he gasped. I couldn’t feel his pulse. I thought I lost it. I scrambled to find it again. That’s when he gave one final attempt to breathe. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth in a silent cry for his beloved wife of 50 years. He raised his arm, reaching out to her before collapsing back on his hospital bed. He was gone.
Just like the bird, he was right there in my hands as I watched the light leave his eyes. I felt his last breath. Death had taken one of the most precious creatures in this world away from me. He was gone. I would never see his warm, loving smile again. Just like the innocence of the little bird would never be witnessed on a peaceful, spring morning.
2nd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
Spring was always the most beautiful time of year for me in little Ocala, Florida. My childhood home was a three bedroom, brick and wooden house that looked far less grand on the outside than the inside. Mustard trees framed the house at each corner with a shrubbery accenting the front lawn. There was a bay window that captured the sunset and sent rainbows across the sandy walls and cherry wood baby grand piano in the evenings. But it was the mornings that I loved the most.
When the sun finally rises over the neighboring rooftops, the rays pierce the windows illuminating the swirling dust motes over tile floors. The birds sing and flit from branch to grass, hunting insects and arachnids for breakfast.
One exceptionally beautiful spring morning, I heard a soft, pronounced thud on the west-facing bay windows. I padded over to the window in my pajamas after admiring the dusty swirls in the kitchen. Peering through the pane, I saw a little tea wren laying on its back. It’s little chest heaving. It must have hit the window. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Birds often hit the windows and, after a moment, continued with their daily lives.
I wanted to take advantage of his temporary paralysis to observe him closely. Birds rarely sit still long enough for anyone to truly observe their beautiful features. I quickly and quietly exited the front door and sidled closer to the little bird. He was still laying on his back, breathing furiously. I crouched over him for a moment, absorbing all his beauty and the wonder of how such little wings could carry him so far.
But within a few seconds I began to realize his wounds were worse than I thought. He wasn’t recovering like other birds. I began to panic. I didn’t want this precious, tiny creature to die. I carefully reached out and whispered fruitless reassurances and picked him up. I held the little thing closer to try to find where the break was and prayed it was just a wing and not the spine. But alas, as I turned to bring him inside to a safe, warm bed until I figured out what to do, I saw his last breath shudder through his slightly open mouth. I could see his little tongue through his orange-yellow beak, and I could see the light in his beautiful eyes fade.
I was so taken by his death, I stood there, profoundly still. Now I wasn’t observing the beauty of life as I was just a few short minutes ago, now I was observing the beauty of death. He was just there and then he was gone.
After giving him a brief burial in my back yard, I went back inside and pondered what I had just witnessed. I considered how tragic it was to lose such a peaceful little creature.
It wasn’t until many years later that I held death in my hands again, but this time, he was far more precious.
I was in Pennsylvania on business, when I got the phone call. My mother called and she sounded a little stressed out. She had always been worrisome so I wasn’t alarmed. She told me my grandfather was sick and I needed to find a way to go to him immediately. I figured she was overreacting and when I arrived beside his hospital bed in the intensive care unit less than 24 hours later, I was certain the whole mess was a misunderstanding.
I greeted him and held his hand and gave him my warmest smile to let him know how much I loved him. My Aunt had arrived the day before and my grandmother explained the situation to us. He was short of breath a few days prior and the doctor discovered scar tissue growing in his lungs. They gave him steroids so his body could fight off the growth, but no matter how much they gave him, nothing was working. His lungs were turning into solid tissue and he could no longer breathe on his own.
I couldn’t believe it. He looked fine. His eyes and smile were as bright as ever. He was cognizant and was maintaining a healthy diet, but within two days of my arrival, he could no longer think straight due to lack of oxygen and he could no longer sustain food. They hooked up an IV to him which turned the urine in his catheter blood red. The nurse assured us this was normal but she also urged us to decide quickly what we wanted to do. My grandfather’s discomfort was increasing every day. His mouth and throat were becoming more and more dry as air was forced into his lungs by the cursed machine incessantly beeping next to him.
The time came when my grandmother could no longer bear seeing him in pain. After taking him off the air pump, he didn’t last long. My Aunt and grandmother held his hands as he started gasping for air. My grandmother started crying and since they had taken him off the air supply, they no longer monitored his heart rate. We all knew what was coming.
My grandmother asked me to track his heart rate for her so she would know exactly when his time had come. I grasped the back of his head, my thumb resting on the pulse at his neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake. My Aunt and grandmother said their good-byes and told him how much they loved him. I was silent. I concentrated on his pulse. I stared at his face, tensed with pain as he gasped. I couldn’t feel his pulse. I thought I lost it. I scrambled to find it again. That’s when he gave one final attempt to breathe. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth in a silent cry for his beloved wife of 50 years. He raised his arm, reaching out to her before collapsing back on his hospital bed. He was gone.
Just like the bird, he was right there in my hands as I watched the light leave his eyes. I felt his last breath. Death had taken one of the most precious creatures in this world away from me. He was gone. I would never see his warm, loving smile again. Just like the innocence of the little bird would never be witnessed on a peaceful, spring morning.
A Body's Betrayal
Creative Nonfiction by Deidre Nehr of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
I’d never felt passion for any one specific thing. Sure, as a child, there were many careers I wanted to pursue, but I never felt particularly set on any of them. I never even considered that my calling would be motherhood. And then I got pregnant. The two pink lines on that test changed everything; the only thing that mattered was the little life rooted to my own. Chris was ecstatic. Everything in me and around me felt so right I became terrified something bad would happen; I could lose this baby or the devotion I felt for the tiny life blooming inside of me would wane like every other passion I’d had. I vowed I wouldn’t let this happen; I would protect the being inside me with every breath. I ate well, stayed active, I did everything I could to give this child—my child—the best start possible. So, when I started spotting around 14 weeks, I panicked. We were shopping, and I insisted we go home, I changed into pajamas immediately and got into bed. Thinking surely the baby was scared, I hummed the German lullabies my mother sang to me. The spotting stopped by morning and all was well.
The first time I heard the heartbeat I was ten weeks at my first appointment on December 18th. I couldn’t help smiling. The first time I felt her move, I was four months along with an awful cold, only made worse by not being allowed to take any medication. I was sitting on the couch eating a burrito with extra jalapenos when she started doing somersaults. She moved so vigorously Chris could see it from across the room and asked if it hurt. Yes, I thought because I wanted so badly to hold the baby watching their chubby arms move. I remember the first time I saw her: pink and slippery, angry as all hell, perfect. The doctors marveled at her health. The first time I held her, I looked at her face wondering where the wisdom I saw came from; she was only minutes old after all.
I’d had the easiest pregnancy imaginable. I worked in a meat department, lifting 100 pound boxes daily, 48 hours a week until I was eight months pregnant with no complications. I was dilated four centimeters before I even went into labor. The only complication came when the doctor realized she was coming out face up. Every time I bore down, her heart rate dropped drastically. The doctor wanted to perform an episiotomy. I refused and pushed so hard the next contraction she slid completely out at once. I burst every blood vessel in my face and shoulders.
For the next two years as I watched her grow and learn, she convinced me I had actually found my purpose: motherhood. I didn’t want to have 20 children or anything. I told Chris I drew the line at four and even that was excessive. So naturally I was excited when I found out I was pregnant again. It would be another spectacular event. I tested positive on a home test on my one year wedding anniversary. Amalie had just turned two. Our families were as excited as we were. My sister-in-law told me she could tell by my face. For the next five weeks I didn’t have any morning sickness, or sore breasts, or anything. My only complaint was the heartburn. I started spotting at about ten weeks. Having been through this before, I wrote it off as implantation bleeding. When the spotting continued for four days, I decided to ask my doctor about it at the next appointment. Little did I know I’d be in an operating room that day.
The last Sunday of September, the weather was starting to get cooler, and I could smell autumn approaching. Amalie was taking a nap and I was tired enough to take one too, falling asleep as my head hit the pillow. A ringing phone woke me an hour later; Chris told me he was coming home for lunch. After I hung up, I went pee and noticed bright red spotting straightaway. I struggled between hope and logic. Never very good at hope, I logically called Chris back and told him we had to go to the ER. We waited in the ER four hours before Chris took Amalie to a sitter. In the exam room, I stripped from the waist down, only to see the spotting had turned into light bleeding. The technician did an internal ultrasound. He took forever measuring, peering at the screen with a look I still can’t put a name to. As he finished, he still didn’t speak. I broke the silence, “Is everything ok?” His answer tore at me. I cried uncontrollably, hoping the sound of my voice would deafen me so I’d never hear anybody say no again. The doctor discharged me with Vicodin and said to expect labor-like contractions. Every medical professional kept telling me they were sorry; I just wanted them to shut the fuck up. They couldn’t possibly know how sorry I was, how badly this hurt. I would never be whole again. On my way out, a man in the waiting room—a man in far worse physical pain than me—said “I hope you feel better.” He was the only one that got it right, not because he didn’t apologize. He had hope, something I was all out of.
I cried for the rest of the evening and even harder when Amalie hugged me asking what’s wrong. I was just sitting down to check my e-mail when the gush of blood and tissue the doctors told me to expect scared the hell out of me. I ran into the bathtub, Chris, at my heels, rattling off questions. I stood cowering in the tub and requested a plastic bag. When he returned, I pulled down my pants and red stained the entirety of my panties and pants. I was just about to step out of my pants when the mass of the pregnancy fell out of me and landed on my underwear. Stepping out of them and looking down, I’m sure I saw the twist of the umbilical cord. Chris quickly grabbed my underwear by the waist-band and threw it into the plastic bag. We made eye contact as we realized that was the baby we would never hold. The baby I would never nurse. The baby we would never name. I almost told him, WAIT!!! I need to hold it…if only for a moment. Instead I sank into the bathtub, knees drawn to my chin. I looked past Chris at Amalie standing in the doorway, close to tears, asking what’s wrong, wanting so badly to help somehow, my sweet, sweet girl. “Get her out.” I said, “She shouldn’t see this.” My body had betrayed me, everything I wanted. I was horrified, devastated by my loss and pain. Embarrassed by my body’s betrayal, I spent the next hour in pain like I’d never felt, bleeding in the bathtub, thinking that I was supposed to take care of that new life, nurture it, and protect it. And I had failed.
1st Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
I’d never felt passion for any one specific thing. Sure, as a child, there were many careers I wanted to pursue, but I never felt particularly set on any of them. I never even considered that my calling would be motherhood. And then I got pregnant. The two pink lines on that test changed everything; the only thing that mattered was the little life rooted to my own. Chris was ecstatic. Everything in me and around me felt so right I became terrified something bad would happen; I could lose this baby or the devotion I felt for the tiny life blooming inside of me would wane like every other passion I’d had. I vowed I wouldn’t let this happen; I would protect the being inside me with every breath. I ate well, stayed active, I did everything I could to give this child—my child—the best start possible. So, when I started spotting around 14 weeks, I panicked. We were shopping, and I insisted we go home, I changed into pajamas immediately and got into bed. Thinking surely the baby was scared, I hummed the German lullabies my mother sang to me. The spotting stopped by morning and all was well.
The first time I heard the heartbeat I was ten weeks at my first appointment on December 18th. I couldn’t help smiling. The first time I felt her move, I was four months along with an awful cold, only made worse by not being allowed to take any medication. I was sitting on the couch eating a burrito with extra jalapenos when she started doing somersaults. She moved so vigorously Chris could see it from across the room and asked if it hurt. Yes, I thought because I wanted so badly to hold the baby watching their chubby arms move. I remember the first time I saw her: pink and slippery, angry as all hell, perfect. The doctors marveled at her health. The first time I held her, I looked at her face wondering where the wisdom I saw came from; she was only minutes old after all.
I’d had the easiest pregnancy imaginable. I worked in a meat department, lifting 100 pound boxes daily, 48 hours a week until I was eight months pregnant with no complications. I was dilated four centimeters before I even went into labor. The only complication came when the doctor realized she was coming out face up. Every time I bore down, her heart rate dropped drastically. The doctor wanted to perform an episiotomy. I refused and pushed so hard the next contraction she slid completely out at once. I burst every blood vessel in my face and shoulders.
For the next two years as I watched her grow and learn, she convinced me I had actually found my purpose: motherhood. I didn’t want to have 20 children or anything. I told Chris I drew the line at four and even that was excessive. So naturally I was excited when I found out I was pregnant again. It would be another spectacular event. I tested positive on a home test on my one year wedding anniversary. Amalie had just turned two. Our families were as excited as we were. My sister-in-law told me she could tell by my face. For the next five weeks I didn’t have any morning sickness, or sore breasts, or anything. My only complaint was the heartburn. I started spotting at about ten weeks. Having been through this before, I wrote it off as implantation bleeding. When the spotting continued for four days, I decided to ask my doctor about it at the next appointment. Little did I know I’d be in an operating room that day.
The last Sunday of September, the weather was starting to get cooler, and I could smell autumn approaching. Amalie was taking a nap and I was tired enough to take one too, falling asleep as my head hit the pillow. A ringing phone woke me an hour later; Chris told me he was coming home for lunch. After I hung up, I went pee and noticed bright red spotting straightaway. I struggled between hope and logic. Never very good at hope, I logically called Chris back and told him we had to go to the ER. We waited in the ER four hours before Chris took Amalie to a sitter. In the exam room, I stripped from the waist down, only to see the spotting had turned into light bleeding. The technician did an internal ultrasound. He took forever measuring, peering at the screen with a look I still can’t put a name to. As he finished, he still didn’t speak. I broke the silence, “Is everything ok?” His answer tore at me. I cried uncontrollably, hoping the sound of my voice would deafen me so I’d never hear anybody say no again. The doctor discharged me with Vicodin and said to expect labor-like contractions. Every medical professional kept telling me they were sorry; I just wanted them to shut the fuck up. They couldn’t possibly know how sorry I was, how badly this hurt. I would never be whole again. On my way out, a man in the waiting room—a man in far worse physical pain than me—said “I hope you feel better.” He was the only one that got it right, not because he didn’t apologize. He had hope, something I was all out of.
I cried for the rest of the evening and even harder when Amalie hugged me asking what’s wrong. I was just sitting down to check my e-mail when the gush of blood and tissue the doctors told me to expect scared the hell out of me. I ran into the bathtub, Chris, at my heels, rattling off questions. I stood cowering in the tub and requested a plastic bag. When he returned, I pulled down my pants and red stained the entirety of my panties and pants. I was just about to step out of my pants when the mass of the pregnancy fell out of me and landed on my underwear. Stepping out of them and looking down, I’m sure I saw the twist of the umbilical cord. Chris quickly grabbed my underwear by the waist-band and threw it into the plastic bag. We made eye contact as we realized that was the baby we would never hold. The baby I would never nurse. The baby we would never name. I almost told him, WAIT!!! I need to hold it…if only for a moment. Instead I sank into the bathtub, knees drawn to my chin. I looked past Chris at Amalie standing in the doorway, close to tears, asking what’s wrong, wanting so badly to help somehow, my sweet, sweet girl. “Get her out.” I said, “She shouldn’t see this.” My body had betrayed me, everything I wanted. I was horrified, devastated by my loss and pain. Embarrassed by my body’s betrayal, I spent the next hour in pain like I’d never felt, bleeding in the bathtub, thinking that I was supposed to take care of that new life, nurture it, and protect it. And I had failed.
Contributor's Note: This was written in 2010, about 4 months after I miscarried. I was struggling to reconcile how my pregnancies could end so differently and how my mind could be at such odds with my body.
Monday, October 03, 2016
Musical Musings of a Midnight Bosnian
Creative Non-Fiction by Alex Tellez of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Creative Non-Fiction - 2016 Met Awards
I’m going to write the greatest pop album that will be remembered and revered by music enthusiasts and historians. This grandiose statement is something I repeat to myself on a daily basis. Often, I’ll find myself listening to the Beach Boys’ seminal Pet Sounds album and I’ll always in awe by the way Brian Wilson was able to create a harmonious web of songs that have transcended and stretched the boundaries of the pop genre for fifty years. From the moment you put on “Wouldn’t it Be Nice,” you know you’ve settled on to something other-worldy for its time. Wilson took it upon himself, having listened to the Beatles’ Rubber Soul album, to create an album that would surpass anything the Beatles – or anyone for that matter – could ever have anticipated. The result was an album that inspired generations of psychedelic-rock groups that would eventually pave way to the neo-psychedelic movements of the late-1990s. The fostering of those seeds in the musical fragment of history is something that inspires and fuels my desire to bend pop music to my will in ways that will be remembered.
When I write a song, I’ll often confront an emotion so abstract that the only way I can express it is through surreal imagery and nonsensical writing:
I don’t write this stuff for the sake of joining words together. At the same time, though, I’m confronting these emotions in a way that lets the listener know that I’m in no mental capability of describing these emotions through concrete or upfront imagery. The emotion being expressed isn’t explicit, nor is it one that makes sense, but that’s what makes the writing speak out to me. Surreal lyricism requires the appropriate instrumentation to fit the tone; therefore, I will often apply diminished chords, unconventional chord progressions, sudden key changes, and jazz-fused rhythms, all tucked into ballads that depict things I feel that confuse and make me feel alive. I’ve been inspired to take this approach after extensive listens of Brian Wilson’s song "Surfs Up," a song that has kept many musical analysts in confusion upon attempting to decipher the meaning behind its lyrics.
Other sources of inspiration come from the Residents and Animal Collective. In a time when musical pop icons were becoming a staple of the music industry back in the 1960s, the Residents became the world’s first “anti-pop” stars that flared in anonymity and avant-guard musical approaches to music. Through their elaborate attempts to maintain their identities hidden, the Residents, under the veil of their iconic eye-ball masks, have founded a school of music that requires very little musical background in order to express subconscious ideas. Their approach to music often sounds nonsensical and cacophonous, but after repeated listens, the music has a hidden layer of genius to it.
Animal Collective, Baltimore’s neo-psych legends, inspired me in a time where I felt all the colors of world had left me. I’d been struggling with depression for a while and completely hated the idea of waking up to the same old routines of each day. The band had been under my radar for a while now, but every time I gave these guys a listen, I’d been underwhelmed by what I was listening to. However, in this moment of vulnerability, I experienced a plethora of colors and hues upon listening to Merriweather Post Pavilion, an album that many would consider to be a classic in the neo-psych genre. The opening track, “In the Flowers,” instantly gives you images of being envious of a dancer boy that gets to express themselves among the flowers without the troubles and pressures of society. The song starts out soft, adding layers of guitar and synths that are pinched with tremolos and other psychedelic effects. Two-and-a-half minutes later, lead singer Avey Tare sings the line:
Unleashing a world of distorted images through a heavy usage of synthesizers and tribal drumming that has forever inspired me to continue forth with my musical endeavors. The album ventures through many emotions and often reflects back upon those moments in life where we leave behind our childhoods in order to adjust to society.
I approach my music knowing very well that people will get turned off by the unconventionality of the traditional pop-ballad. Then again, I don’t write for those people. I’m lucky enough to surround myself in an environment where my creative outlets aren’t constricted. I write for those that have that innate willingness to discard conventional trends in pop music and see my writing as a nod to those past musicians that have experimented with the form in ways that have defined a generation. I’d often walk around as a little boy coming up with melodies describing the world in front of me, even before I picked up my first instrument. I write because I know I’m good enough. I write because I’ve seen my writing evolve, and so have others. I’m going to write the greatest pop album ever written because I’ve always felt a call to make great things out of myself in music. One day I won’t have to say this because the work I leave behind in this life will speak for itself.
1st Place for College Creative Non-Fiction - 2016 Met Awards
I’m going to write the greatest pop album that will be remembered and revered by music enthusiasts and historians. This grandiose statement is something I repeat to myself on a daily basis. Often, I’ll find myself listening to the Beach Boys’ seminal Pet Sounds album and I’ll always in awe by the way Brian Wilson was able to create a harmonious web of songs that have transcended and stretched the boundaries of the pop genre for fifty years. From the moment you put on “Wouldn’t it Be Nice,” you know you’ve settled on to something other-worldy for its time. Wilson took it upon himself, having listened to the Beatles’ Rubber Soul album, to create an album that would surpass anything the Beatles – or anyone for that matter – could ever have anticipated. The result was an album that inspired generations of psychedelic-rock groups that would eventually pave way to the neo-psychedelic movements of the late-1990s. The fostering of those seeds in the musical fragment of history is something that inspires and fuels my desire to bend pop music to my will in ways that will be remembered.
When I write a song, I’ll often confront an emotion so abstract that the only way I can express it is through surreal imagery and nonsensical writing:
I’m walking to the moon
July’s on my mind as I talk to the never-ending June
My mind’s in a clutter of jamborees in the city
It tells me of a conscious life that I’m desperately needing
It tells me of a vision it saw
A nautical, blue silhouette.
I don’t write this stuff for the sake of joining words together. At the same time, though, I’m confronting these emotions in a way that lets the listener know that I’m in no mental capability of describing these emotions through concrete or upfront imagery. The emotion being expressed isn’t explicit, nor is it one that makes sense, but that’s what makes the writing speak out to me. Surreal lyricism requires the appropriate instrumentation to fit the tone; therefore, I will often apply diminished chords, unconventional chord progressions, sudden key changes, and jazz-fused rhythms, all tucked into ballads that depict things I feel that confuse and make me feel alive. I’ve been inspired to take this approach after extensive listens of Brian Wilson’s song "Surfs Up," a song that has kept many musical analysts in confusion upon attempting to decipher the meaning behind its lyrics.
Other sources of inspiration come from the Residents and Animal Collective. In a time when musical pop icons were becoming a staple of the music industry back in the 1960s, the Residents became the world’s first “anti-pop” stars that flared in anonymity and avant-guard musical approaches to music. Through their elaborate attempts to maintain their identities hidden, the Residents, under the veil of their iconic eye-ball masks, have founded a school of music that requires very little musical background in order to express subconscious ideas. Their approach to music often sounds nonsensical and cacophonous, but after repeated listens, the music has a hidden layer of genius to it.
Animal Collective, Baltimore’s neo-psych legends, inspired me in a time where I felt all the colors of world had left me. I’d been struggling with depression for a while and completely hated the idea of waking up to the same old routines of each day. The band had been under my radar for a while now, but every time I gave these guys a listen, I’d been underwhelmed by what I was listening to. However, in this moment of vulnerability, I experienced a plethora of colors and hues upon listening to Merriweather Post Pavilion, an album that many would consider to be a classic in the neo-psych genre. The opening track, “In the Flowers,” instantly gives you images of being envious of a dancer boy that gets to express themselves among the flowers without the troubles and pressures of society. The song starts out soft, adding layers of guitar and synths that are pinched with tremolos and other psychedelic effects. Two-and-a-half minutes later, lead singer Avey Tare sings the line:
If I could just leave my body for the night…
Unleashing a world of distorted images through a heavy usage of synthesizers and tribal drumming that has forever inspired me to continue forth with my musical endeavors. The album ventures through many emotions and often reflects back upon those moments in life where we leave behind our childhoods in order to adjust to society.
I approach my music knowing very well that people will get turned off by the unconventionality of the traditional pop-ballad. Then again, I don’t write for those people. I’m lucky enough to surround myself in an environment where my creative outlets aren’t constricted. I write for those that have that innate willingness to discard conventional trends in pop music and see my writing as a nod to those past musicians that have experimented with the form in ways that have defined a generation. I’d often walk around as a little boy coming up with melodies describing the world in front of me, even before I picked up my first instrument. I write because I know I’m good enough. I write because I’ve seen my writing evolve, and so have others. I’m going to write the greatest pop album ever written because I’ve always felt a call to make great things out of myself in music. One day I won’t have to say this because the work I leave behind in this life will speak for itself.
Monday, October 26, 2015
The Greatest Story I've Ever Heard (or La Dignidad de los Infinitos)
Creative Non-Fiction by Alex Tellez of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - Second Place for College Creative Non-Fiction
Last December, I went on a trip to Mexico City to visit relatives. I’ve already gone there a couple of times in my life, but this trip was different. This was my first time leaving the country as an adult and I surely felt as if I was being treated like one. My grandpa decided to take me to the beautiful cathedral that was located in Zócalo.
On the way there, we had to get to our destination via the metro stations that encompass the gargantuan city. One of the trains was taking a while to get to the station. As I waited with my family to continue our day-long trip, my grandpa recounted an experience he had in 1968. Now, this is quite possibly the greatest story I have ever heard. It’s one of those stories you don’t forget. It’s one I plan to pass down to my children.
In 1968, the Mexican government was experiencing instances of civil unrest among the citizens, specifically university students at the time. The reason why this happened was because the Mexican government allotted $150 million dollars to fund the 1968 Olympic Games that were going on in Mexico City. Today, that amount would have equaled $7.5 billion dollars. In my mind, the revolts made total sense, since Mexico today is still considered a third-world country.
My grandpa was a university student at the time these revolts were going on and the government knew that he was an activist in the Dirty War, or the instances in which the government tried to suppress opposition to the government.
It was October 2nd, 1968, and the government decided to massacre hundreds of university students that had taken part in the revolts. That night, thousands of young Mexicans gathered in the Plaza de las Tres Culturas and chant ¡No queremos olimpiadas, queremos revolución! or, “We don’t want Olympics, we want revolution!”
That night, my grandpa was targeted by the federal government and he was on a hit list that included him and an estimated 300 more people. My grandpa could have been taken out by the government had he stayed in his home; however, my grandpa was not home for a good reason: he was out celebrating his 17th birthday.
By the time he finished telling me his story, the train had just arrived and I was left with a huge feeling of morbidity. At that moment, all I could think about on that train was how everything was fragile and that nothing is ever absolute. I think about this story every time I feel like I’m going nowhere in life. I start to think of the moments and steps that led up to this very second and how all of that could instantly have been lost in time. In these moments, I think of my life as a string oscillating through time that gets tangled in other people’s strings until that string gets cut.
I think about how all I’d be left with are the stories that made my string mean something.
2015 Met Awards - Second Place for College Creative Non-Fiction
Last December, I went on a trip to Mexico City to visit relatives. I’ve already gone there a couple of times in my life, but this trip was different. This was my first time leaving the country as an adult and I surely felt as if I was being treated like one. My grandpa decided to take me to the beautiful cathedral that was located in Zócalo.
On the way there, we had to get to our destination via the metro stations that encompass the gargantuan city. One of the trains was taking a while to get to the station. As I waited with my family to continue our day-long trip, my grandpa recounted an experience he had in 1968. Now, this is quite possibly the greatest story I have ever heard. It’s one of those stories you don’t forget. It’s one I plan to pass down to my children.
In 1968, the Mexican government was experiencing instances of civil unrest among the citizens, specifically university students at the time. The reason why this happened was because the Mexican government allotted $150 million dollars to fund the 1968 Olympic Games that were going on in Mexico City. Today, that amount would have equaled $7.5 billion dollars. In my mind, the revolts made total sense, since Mexico today is still considered a third-world country.
My grandpa was a university student at the time these revolts were going on and the government knew that he was an activist in the Dirty War, or the instances in which the government tried to suppress opposition to the government.
It was October 2nd, 1968, and the government decided to massacre hundreds of university students that had taken part in the revolts. That night, thousands of young Mexicans gathered in the Plaza de las Tres Culturas and chant ¡No queremos olimpiadas, queremos revolución! or, “We don’t want Olympics, we want revolution!”
That night, my grandpa was targeted by the federal government and he was on a hit list that included him and an estimated 300 more people. My grandpa could have been taken out by the government had he stayed in his home; however, my grandpa was not home for a good reason: he was out celebrating his 17th birthday.
By the time he finished telling me his story, the train had just arrived and I was left with a huge feeling of morbidity. At that moment, all I could think about on that train was how everything was fragile and that nothing is ever absolute. I think about this story every time I feel like I’m going nowhere in life. I start to think of the moments and steps that led up to this very second and how all of that could instantly have been lost in time. In these moments, I think of my life as a string oscillating through time that gets tangled in other people’s strings until that string gets cut.
I think about how all I’d be left with are the stories that made my string mean something.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Psychological Evaluations of Byron, Shelley, and Keats
2015 Met Awards - First Place for College Creative Non-Fiction
__________
San Jose City College
Disabled Poets Program & Services
2100 Moorpark Ave.
Poet Services Building
San Jose, CA. 95128
Re: Byron, Shelley and Keats
Disabled Poets Program & Services
2100 Moorpark Ave.
Poet Services Building
San Jose, CA. 95128
Re: Byron, Shelley and Keats
PSYCHOLOGICAL
EVALUATIONS
Names:
Byron, Shelley and Keats
Sexes: Male
File Name: Romantic
Poets, Second Generation
Ages: All
died before their time
Prepared
for: San Jose Poets Clinic
Date of Report: 3.13.2014
Completed
by: Reagan E. Wolfe, PhD, FACFE, DABPS
CONFIDENTIALITY STATEMENT:
The information contained herein in
this document is intended only for the individual addressed and may contain
information that is privileged and prohibited from disclosure to any other
party under the applicable law. This
information is to be considered extremely confidential and is to be released
only to duly authorized agencies or individuals. This information is intended only for the use
of the individuals named above. If you are not the intended recipient, you are
hereby notified that reading, disseminating, disclosing, distributing, copying,
acting upon or otherwise using this information in this document is strictly
prohibited.
Presenting
Problem:
John Keats
is a white male who is in his early twenties.
He is self-referred for an evaluation to assess for a learning
disability stemming from his inability as he reports to write poetry. He states, “When I write poetry, it just
doesn’t come as easy to me as it does for my contemporaries, although I do
write a lot of material.” In addition, he reports an ongoing difficulty with
attention, he is high-strung, and has distraction factors which in turn trigger
a sense of depression. The overall
results of the Millon College Counseling Inventory (MCCI) point toward
elevated scores of a moderate Anxiety
disorder. Results also suggest that
he has difficulty with sustaining energy and effort with his many other tasks
which include apothecary duties, medical training and assisting surgeons. He
acknowledges he is experiencing a Dysthymic
mood, resulting in a feeling of dejection and feelings of inadequacy,
perhaps stemming from the loss of his parents at a young age. In addition this mood may have caused his
inability to commit full-time to writing poetry, sooner. Last, he has an elevated score on the Clinical
Personality Patterns on the Compulsive
scale (score of 94) known as
Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. This score suggests he can be
behaviorally rigid, meticulous, may be a perfectionist and an overachiever.
Presenting
Problem:
Lord Byron A.K.A.
George Gordon Byron, is a white male who is in his mid-thirties. He was referred by Samuel T. Coleridge who
was previously treated for a significant form of hero worship (Shakespeare and
Milton). Lord Byron presents himself as
a larger than life person who actually writes about heroes perhaps as a way to
fulfill unsatisfied desires or as a form of seeking an identity (perhaps one
like Zorro). He also admits that he is a
risk-taker who has amassed large debts and who also has a sex-addiction. He has an elevated score on the Clinical
Personality Patterns on the Compulsive
scale (score of 150) known as Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder.
This score suggests he has a repetitive lifestyle with patterned
behaviors. Fear of social disapproval
can lead him to suppress his strong resentment and anger toward those whose
approval he seeks. Results on the Brown
Attention Deficit Scale – Adults indicate that there may be a function
of attention deficit operating with this individual. Such individuals tend to
be slow in getting started and have difficulty in getting organized, because of
being scattered or being inhibited by worry (Organizing and activating for
poetry).
Presenting
Problem:
Percy Bysshe
Shelley is a white male who is in his late twenties. He has been referred by
his wife Mary who is concerned with his sociopathic tendencies. Shelley states that he suffers from various
phobias which culminated from a difficult childhood in which he was the victim
of excessive bullying. As a result of
his bullying, he participated in sadistic behaviors that he attempted to
downplay as harmless pranks. These
‘pranks’ as he called them included electrifying doors. With regard to Clinical Syndromes, results
indicate that Mr. Shelley is feeling extremely apprehensive, (Anxiety, 82) or specifically phobic, is
typically tense, indecisive, and restless.
He may experience a notable sense that problems are imminent. For example, he may worry that he needs to
fully represent common man in notable causes because poets are people who enact
laws. He may also exhibit a hyperalertness to his environment (natural elements
such as the sky and weather). He also exhibits
a generalized sense of tension.
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Phone Call That Changed My Life Forever
Essay by Marilyn Booth-Horn
It was an early morning in June, one week after school had ended and the day after my tenth birthday, June 25, 1958 to be exact. The phone rang. My dad, Ken Gormley, still in his pajamas and bare-footed, dashed across the hardwood floors of our Malibu Lake home in Southern California to answer the phone with a surprised look on his face. No one ever called this early. After a brief conversation, Dad walked ashen-faced back into the family room. He called to me and my little, eight year old brother, Pat, to tell us the grim news.
“Marilyn and Pat, I’ve something to tell you. Mommy has died,” he muttered softly.
This was unexpected. We’d all just visited her yesterday. The Motion Picture Hospital where my dad worked as a steam and refrigeration engineer and where my mother, Bessie, had been in “hospice care” had given us a special birthday visit. As young as Pat and I were, we were never allowed to visit our mother the long months she’d been hospitalized on and off for the past two years. But on this “birthday visit” the hospital had made an exception.
Mom was doing well and was obviously proud of my reaching ten. I could sense something in her expressions, a relief that seemed to say, “My babies are growing up and are doing fine.” She sat up in bed and chatted with us with a satisfied and calm demeanor, her soft Southern accent always pleasant to hear. In later years, my family came to believe that she’d willed herself to keep living those long eight years of battling cancer until that moment when she felt confident that Pat and I would be okay, not babies anymore.
My beautiful mom with high cheek bones, blue-blue eyes and the Southern drawl, only thirty-six years old, gone from my life when I had only just turned ten. My mom who baked cookies and made strawberry short cake from scratch; my mom who would give the most profound answers to my simple, childish questions was never going to be part of my life again.
“Where did everything come from?” I asked Mom when I was five.
“God made everything,” she replied. This revelation led to my lifelong belief in God.
“There must be life on other planets since there is life here on Earth,” she had stated when I ask about that possibility when I was eight years old.
Back in the 1950’s, before space exploration, this was very advanced thinking for her, who’d been raised as a Mississippi farm girl. I would never be able to ask her about her life and beliefs again. This is what I miss the most.
Sadly, Dad called Pat and I to his now dimly lit master bedroom where we sat on our parent’s double bed with the happy yellow bedspread. A place we two kids had snuggled safely when we were little. It was now our place of mourning. We all cried together for hours like an old Irish wake. There was nothing to be said. Mom was gone forever. We three were as one sad heart, each grieving the same loss.
Before that phone call our family had been Mom and Dad and little brother and big sister. I was Daddy’s little girl and Pat was Mommy’s little boy; a totally even parent distribution. There were no conflicts. We each were cherished by both our parents, but each was “special” to either Mom or Dad. Now it was a different dynamic, just Dad to be shared in competition by brother and sister. This didn’t become evident at first, but in a couple of years it became our daily power battle.
When the day ended, Dad quickly set to work to solve our dilemma. For two years we’d needed a baby-sitter during the swing shift which was two in the afternoon to ten at night that Dad worked on weekdays. He got us up and off to school, not very well groomed, but well fed and loved much. After school, various regular baby-sitters would care for us. On weekends, Dad spent all his time with us, a true “Mr. Mom.” Now he was in a panic, but didn’t let us know it. He was terrified Social Services would take us away, a totally irrational fear since he was a good provider and care giver.
Therefore, Dad arranged for me to spend the summer at my best friend, Debbie Gunn’s home. Debbie and I were so much alike, we were often mistaken as twins. Despite the fact that Debbie was a brunette and I was blonde, we were both very short, had blue eyes, and acted alike; both a little shy, but goofy and silly. So instead of having a sad, lonely summer, I had a really fun summer with Debbie, swimming and boating in Malibu Lake, playing dolls, swinging and pretending we were horses, which was one of our favorite games.
I also assisted Debbie with all her household chores, which were many since she was the oldest daughter of eight children in that large Catholic family. Even though I missed Mom terribly, the fact was that despite the shock and finality of my mom’s death, I had become used to her being gone. Pat was to spend summer days at his best friend, Robbie Blakely’s house; later in the evening he’d go home when Dad would pick him up after work.
Dad, a short French-Irishman with black hair, barely middle-age, a Maurice Chevalier nose, always with a joke to tell and clever sayings he made up, had a charm that could win any lady. He started dating Esther immediately and quickly won her over. She was a fifty year old spinster, seven years older than Dad. She worked at the Motion Picture Hospital and had served food to my mother. She and Dad had met in the elevator. Pat and I were introduced to her when Dad took us all to the country fair. I liked her; she laughed a lot and seemed to be truly happy and comfortable with our family.
On Labor Day, in early September, they married. Dad called me home from the Gunn’s. The Gunns tried to persuade me to stay by offering to take me and their kids to the Ice Capades. Later I found out they’d offered to adopt me, primarily, I thought, to help Debbie keep their four-story home clean, while Mrs. Gunn was continually pregnant and Mr. Gunn worked two jobs.
Pat and I, who were always included in all our family’s activities, were invited to go on the honeymoon, a trip to Seattle, Washington. Cute, button nosed, blue-eyed Pat, the spitting image of our mother, who had declared to Esther before the marriage, “Go away, you’re not our Mommy,” started adjusting to her as our new step-mom. We called her “Es,” her nickname, never Mom. “Mom” was reserved forever for our Mom.
Sometimes I felt guilty for how Dad, Pat, and I occasionally excluded her as part of the “real” family. When we’d talk about Mom it was like we had a secret club that Es didn’t belong to. We needed to talk about Mom and work through the grieving process, but because Dad had remarried so quickly, it was awkward. It must have been difficult for her and showed in the hurt in her green eyes when this happened. She tried hard to be the mom we needed but that special intimacy and bond that existed with our own mother was gone forever.
Despite Dad’s mad dash to “save the family,” he was unable to cope with his own grief and bitter disappointment because of my mom’s death. Never allowing himself to fully grieve, he started drinking daily. He was angry at life and God for Mom’s death and was often unkind to Esther, even sometimes throwing her dinners against the wall if he didn’t like it. But he always treated me and Pat as precious. We were never spanked or even disciplined in anyway; the way he had always raised us. He continued to be a good provider and limited his drinking to “after hours.”
Esther responded to this abuse by having a mental breakdown the summer I turned thirteen. She spent that summer of 1961 in a mental hospital having “shock” treatments. She came home with daily medications, a changed attitude which was cold and sometimes hostile, with future tendencies towards more nervous breakdowns. Her laughter was gone. Later we learned she’d exhibited mental illness symptoms since she was a child in the 1910’s when she had almost died because of a very high fever. There was a lack of antibiotics in that era. Perhaps that’s why, despite her Irish dark-haired, freckled good- looks, she had never married until she met Dad.
Now my family had become dysfunctional. Dad and Es stayed together for twenty years, until her death at age seventy. They had their good and bad times, but managed to raise me and Pat in an outwardly normal way with vacation trips and outings. However, there was always an underlying tension. Pat and I battled competitively from junior high on, never being nice to each other. The sweet, cherished family when my mother was alive became just a memory.
In my teens, I learned of other women who had worked in World War II factories who had developed cancer, like my mother; and their daughters were unable to have children. I concluded my mother’s cancer had developed by exposure to radiation or toxins in the San Francisco bomb factory she’d worked in during the war where she’d met Dad. She had been a lead lady who was in charge of testing bombs for leaks and cracks.
As adults, both my brother and I, although healthy, never were able to have children. This led to my becoming an adoptive and foster parent. I wanted to help children from troubled homes. I wanted to be a loving and guiding support in their life, as my mother had been in mine. Although Mom’s time in my life was short, I always carry the memory of her love.
It was an early morning in June, one week after school had ended and the day after my tenth birthday, June 25, 1958 to be exact. The phone rang. My dad, Ken Gormley, still in his pajamas and bare-footed, dashed across the hardwood floors of our Malibu Lake home in Southern California to answer the phone with a surprised look on his face. No one ever called this early. After a brief conversation, Dad walked ashen-faced back into the family room. He called to me and my little, eight year old brother, Pat, to tell us the grim news.
“Marilyn and Pat, I’ve something to tell you. Mommy has died,” he muttered softly.
This was unexpected. We’d all just visited her yesterday. The Motion Picture Hospital where my dad worked as a steam and refrigeration engineer and where my mother, Bessie, had been in “hospice care” had given us a special birthday visit. As young as Pat and I were, we were never allowed to visit our mother the long months she’d been hospitalized on and off for the past two years. But on this “birthday visit” the hospital had made an exception.
Mom was doing well and was obviously proud of my reaching ten. I could sense something in her expressions, a relief that seemed to say, “My babies are growing up and are doing fine.” She sat up in bed and chatted with us with a satisfied and calm demeanor, her soft Southern accent always pleasant to hear. In later years, my family came to believe that she’d willed herself to keep living those long eight years of battling cancer until that moment when she felt confident that Pat and I would be okay, not babies anymore.
My beautiful mom with high cheek bones, blue-blue eyes and the Southern drawl, only thirty-six years old, gone from my life when I had only just turned ten. My mom who baked cookies and made strawberry short cake from scratch; my mom who would give the most profound answers to my simple, childish questions was never going to be part of my life again.
“Where did everything come from?” I asked Mom when I was five.
“God made everything,” she replied. This revelation led to my lifelong belief in God.
“There must be life on other planets since there is life here on Earth,” she had stated when I ask about that possibility when I was eight years old.
Back in the 1950’s, before space exploration, this was very advanced thinking for her, who’d been raised as a Mississippi farm girl. I would never be able to ask her about her life and beliefs again. This is what I miss the most.
Sadly, Dad called Pat and I to his now dimly lit master bedroom where we sat on our parent’s double bed with the happy yellow bedspread. A place we two kids had snuggled safely when we were little. It was now our place of mourning. We all cried together for hours like an old Irish wake. There was nothing to be said. Mom was gone forever. We three were as one sad heart, each grieving the same loss.
Before that phone call our family had been Mom and Dad and little brother and big sister. I was Daddy’s little girl and Pat was Mommy’s little boy; a totally even parent distribution. There were no conflicts. We each were cherished by both our parents, but each was “special” to either Mom or Dad. Now it was a different dynamic, just Dad to be shared in competition by brother and sister. This didn’t become evident at first, but in a couple of years it became our daily power battle.
When the day ended, Dad quickly set to work to solve our dilemma. For two years we’d needed a baby-sitter during the swing shift which was two in the afternoon to ten at night that Dad worked on weekdays. He got us up and off to school, not very well groomed, but well fed and loved much. After school, various regular baby-sitters would care for us. On weekends, Dad spent all his time with us, a true “Mr. Mom.” Now he was in a panic, but didn’t let us know it. He was terrified Social Services would take us away, a totally irrational fear since he was a good provider and care giver.
Therefore, Dad arranged for me to spend the summer at my best friend, Debbie Gunn’s home. Debbie and I were so much alike, we were often mistaken as twins. Despite the fact that Debbie was a brunette and I was blonde, we were both very short, had blue eyes, and acted alike; both a little shy, but goofy and silly. So instead of having a sad, lonely summer, I had a really fun summer with Debbie, swimming and boating in Malibu Lake, playing dolls, swinging and pretending we were horses, which was one of our favorite games.
I also assisted Debbie with all her household chores, which were many since she was the oldest daughter of eight children in that large Catholic family. Even though I missed Mom terribly, the fact was that despite the shock and finality of my mom’s death, I had become used to her being gone. Pat was to spend summer days at his best friend, Robbie Blakely’s house; later in the evening he’d go home when Dad would pick him up after work.
Dad, a short French-Irishman with black hair, barely middle-age, a Maurice Chevalier nose, always with a joke to tell and clever sayings he made up, had a charm that could win any lady. He started dating Esther immediately and quickly won her over. She was a fifty year old spinster, seven years older than Dad. She worked at the Motion Picture Hospital and had served food to my mother. She and Dad had met in the elevator. Pat and I were introduced to her when Dad took us all to the country fair. I liked her; she laughed a lot and seemed to be truly happy and comfortable with our family.
On Labor Day, in early September, they married. Dad called me home from the Gunn’s. The Gunns tried to persuade me to stay by offering to take me and their kids to the Ice Capades. Later I found out they’d offered to adopt me, primarily, I thought, to help Debbie keep their four-story home clean, while Mrs. Gunn was continually pregnant and Mr. Gunn worked two jobs.
Pat and I, who were always included in all our family’s activities, were invited to go on the honeymoon, a trip to Seattle, Washington. Cute, button nosed, blue-eyed Pat, the spitting image of our mother, who had declared to Esther before the marriage, “Go away, you’re not our Mommy,” started adjusting to her as our new step-mom. We called her “Es,” her nickname, never Mom. “Mom” was reserved forever for our Mom.
Sometimes I felt guilty for how Dad, Pat, and I occasionally excluded her as part of the “real” family. When we’d talk about Mom it was like we had a secret club that Es didn’t belong to. We needed to talk about Mom and work through the grieving process, but because Dad had remarried so quickly, it was awkward. It must have been difficult for her and showed in the hurt in her green eyes when this happened. She tried hard to be the mom we needed but that special intimacy and bond that existed with our own mother was gone forever.
Despite Dad’s mad dash to “save the family,” he was unable to cope with his own grief and bitter disappointment because of my mom’s death. Never allowing himself to fully grieve, he started drinking daily. He was angry at life and God for Mom’s death and was often unkind to Esther, even sometimes throwing her dinners against the wall if he didn’t like it. But he always treated me and Pat as precious. We were never spanked or even disciplined in anyway; the way he had always raised us. He continued to be a good provider and limited his drinking to “after hours.”
Esther responded to this abuse by having a mental breakdown the summer I turned thirteen. She spent that summer of 1961 in a mental hospital having “shock” treatments. She came home with daily medications, a changed attitude which was cold and sometimes hostile, with future tendencies towards more nervous breakdowns. Her laughter was gone. Later we learned she’d exhibited mental illness symptoms since she was a child in the 1910’s when she had almost died because of a very high fever. There was a lack of antibiotics in that era. Perhaps that’s why, despite her Irish dark-haired, freckled good- looks, she had never married until she met Dad.
Now my family had become dysfunctional. Dad and Es stayed together for twenty years, until her death at age seventy. They had their good and bad times, but managed to raise me and Pat in an outwardly normal way with vacation trips and outings. However, there was always an underlying tension. Pat and I battled competitively from junior high on, never being nice to each other. The sweet, cherished family when my mother was alive became just a memory.
In my teens, I learned of other women who had worked in World War II factories who had developed cancer, like my mother; and their daughters were unable to have children. I concluded my mother’s cancer had developed by exposure to radiation or toxins in the San Francisco bomb factory she’d worked in during the war where she’d met Dad. She had been a lead lady who was in charge of testing bombs for leaks and cracks.
As adults, both my brother and I, although healthy, never were able to have children. This led to my becoming an adoptive and foster parent. I wanted to help children from troubled homes. I wanted to be a loving and guiding support in their life, as my mother had been in mine. Although Mom’s time in my life was short, I always carry the memory of her love.
Contributor's Note: I've lived here in Lake Isabella for seven years now. I'm a retired foster parent, but am still raising permanently placed children. I started college at the age of 59. The things I enjoy the most are helping kids be the best they can be and going to college so I can be the best I can be, too.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Waxing the Moss on My Back
Essay by Kristi Goss
I had a Super Bowl party last night. This house is a disaster. Dishes are strewn around and there is the faint odor of cigarettes in the closed garage. Empty soda and beer cans are lined up on the kitchen counter. Remnants of a once whole tortilla chip are ground into the carpet. I’m stressed out but an unlikely acceptance overcomes me. Usually, I can’t concentrate with such a catastrophe surrounding me, but I have an assignment due for a college class. With a two year old boy, no sitter and limited time - I summon the energy to get started on it.
I plop down at my computer with my hot cup of coffee in my hand, staring out the window of my house. It’s a modest house, but it rests in an almost flamboyant spot and I call it home. I scored this geographical prize a few months ago. It was pure luck and it's cheap. I am content here. Did I say I’m content here? Yes, I can honestly say I’m just fine here.
I get to work and begin to type, but I'm distracted as a hummingbird lands on the feeder I’ve placed outside my window. She visits often. Her body ruffles with the chill in the air. She seems frenzied, yet curiously calm on her perch. A family of Quail waddles along the hillside looking for some food. A cottontail bunny playfully hops across the yard. Cows dot the hillside and the sizable mountains behind them vanish at the top of my windows. It’s unpleasantly cold and dark, but the storm clouds have fragmented long enough to reveal the striking rolling green hills that are in my view. Cool, bluish-grey shadows reveal intense emerald patches of grass that resemble a manicured golf course. The invented golf greens are broken up with large grey rocks and a crisp cerulean blue sky that I had painted from imagination years ago. Countless snarled oak trees and mossy boulders are scattered across the hills. I think of how permanent they are. They have no option of getting up and leaving. Everlasting and wise, they seem pleased right where they are.
A crackling fire is burning in my fireplace and my two year old son stares into the television with those annoying TV characters, the Teletubbies, giggling in the background. The noise is distracting, yet while entertaining my son it offers me a bit of time to do my “thing” with school. As I gaze out the window, I’m content and peaceful. I don’t itch to get out of this place. I love it here. This is a change for me because I’ve spent most of my adult life wanting to get out of the geographical prison I was born into.
Growing up in a small town wasn’t desirable to a girl who wanted to be a rock star and an artist. The yearning to break free has led me to some interesting places. My first break out was in my teens. I moved to Hollywood, then after a summer, moved back home. The San Francisco Bay area was home for awhile, and then I hung out with Buddhist monks in a monastery in Scotland. The culture and the old traditions of the Deep South were intoxicating too, but so was I, most of the time. It was time to go home again. I escaped to the glamorous Palm Springs. As I did many other times, I retreated into my cell. This time, I brought a visitor. As I keep typing, I look up at my beautiful and precocious son, Jack. His triumphant entry into the world has slowed my hurried approach to life. Yet, he keeps me at a speedy pace. So here I am, back again. Although, this time, it no longer feels like a sentence.
I get up to clear some cans off the counter while my son is singing along to the lyrics “I love you, you love me…” with Barney. This tune would make me nauseous at any other time in my life, but watching my two year old attempt to sing anything brings a big smile to my face. I try to refocus. I sit down and begin typing again, trying to put words to what I’m feeling and experiencing. It’s difficult to concentrate with this little guy at my feet.
It’s time to put another log on the fire. It’s time to put another load in the dishwasher. I get up for the hundredth time to check on my son who has now retreated to his room to play. He’s fine, so I sit down again at the kitchen table to get this assignment done. It doesn’t take long before Jack has wandered out of his room and is again staring at the TV. He’s hungry. I make him lunch. He seems pleased. I pour another cup of coffee and begin typing again.
As I struggle to illustrate the final points on my paper, I can’t help but look up from my computer and out at the rolling hills again. The rain clouds are returning. The overcast sky turns the colors of the landscape into a deeper and richer palette. The weather is constantly shifting, suggestive of our life on this planet. Gazing deep into the landscape, I sense a profound knowledge that I am going places. With the effort and determination of returning to school, I’m traveling in my mind. My soul knows that I’m moving towards something different - something I think I like, yet the geography is the same.
As I eagerly type the last sentence, the harried hummingbird returns to the bare-limbed tree outside. I watch her dance around. This creature is free to go wherever she wants, yet she remains here - day after day. I think she loves it here. She’s content - reminiscent of the oak trees, the mossy boulders and regardless of the cloudy days.
I had a Super Bowl party last night. This house is a disaster. Dishes are strewn around and there is the faint odor of cigarettes in the closed garage. Empty soda and beer cans are lined up on the kitchen counter. Remnants of a once whole tortilla chip are ground into the carpet. I’m stressed out but an unlikely acceptance overcomes me. Usually, I can’t concentrate with such a catastrophe surrounding me, but I have an assignment due for a college class. With a two year old boy, no sitter and limited time - I summon the energy to get started on it.
I plop down at my computer with my hot cup of coffee in my hand, staring out the window of my house. It’s a modest house, but it rests in an almost flamboyant spot and I call it home. I scored this geographical prize a few months ago. It was pure luck and it's cheap. I am content here. Did I say I’m content here? Yes, I can honestly say I’m just fine here.
I get to work and begin to type, but I'm distracted as a hummingbird lands on the feeder I’ve placed outside my window. She visits often. Her body ruffles with the chill in the air. She seems frenzied, yet curiously calm on her perch. A family of Quail waddles along the hillside looking for some food. A cottontail bunny playfully hops across the yard. Cows dot the hillside and the sizable mountains behind them vanish at the top of my windows. It’s unpleasantly cold and dark, but the storm clouds have fragmented long enough to reveal the striking rolling green hills that are in my view. Cool, bluish-grey shadows reveal intense emerald patches of grass that resemble a manicured golf course. The invented golf greens are broken up with large grey rocks and a crisp cerulean blue sky that I had painted from imagination years ago. Countless snarled oak trees and mossy boulders are scattered across the hills. I think of how permanent they are. They have no option of getting up and leaving. Everlasting and wise, they seem pleased right where they are.
A crackling fire is burning in my fireplace and my two year old son stares into the television with those annoying TV characters, the Teletubbies, giggling in the background. The noise is distracting, yet while entertaining my son it offers me a bit of time to do my “thing” with school. As I gaze out the window, I’m content and peaceful. I don’t itch to get out of this place. I love it here. This is a change for me because I’ve spent most of my adult life wanting to get out of the geographical prison I was born into.
Growing up in a small town wasn’t desirable to a girl who wanted to be a rock star and an artist. The yearning to break free has led me to some interesting places. My first break out was in my teens. I moved to Hollywood, then after a summer, moved back home. The San Francisco Bay area was home for awhile, and then I hung out with Buddhist monks in a monastery in Scotland. The culture and the old traditions of the Deep South were intoxicating too, but so was I, most of the time. It was time to go home again. I escaped to the glamorous Palm Springs. As I did many other times, I retreated into my cell. This time, I brought a visitor. As I keep typing, I look up at my beautiful and precocious son, Jack. His triumphant entry into the world has slowed my hurried approach to life. Yet, he keeps me at a speedy pace. So here I am, back again. Although, this time, it no longer feels like a sentence.
I get up to clear some cans off the counter while my son is singing along to the lyrics “I love you, you love me…” with Barney. This tune would make me nauseous at any other time in my life, but watching my two year old attempt to sing anything brings a big smile to my face. I try to refocus. I sit down and begin typing again, trying to put words to what I’m feeling and experiencing. It’s difficult to concentrate with this little guy at my feet.
It’s time to put another log on the fire. It’s time to put another load in the dishwasher. I get up for the hundredth time to check on my son who has now retreated to his room to play. He’s fine, so I sit down again at the kitchen table to get this assignment done. It doesn’t take long before Jack has wandered out of his room and is again staring at the TV. He’s hungry. I make him lunch. He seems pleased. I pour another cup of coffee and begin typing again.
As I struggle to illustrate the final points on my paper, I can’t help but look up from my computer and out at the rolling hills again. The rain clouds are returning. The overcast sky turns the colors of the landscape into a deeper and richer palette. The weather is constantly shifting, suggestive of our life on this planet. Gazing deep into the landscape, I sense a profound knowledge that I am going places. With the effort and determination of returning to school, I’m traveling in my mind. My soul knows that I’m moving towards something different - something I think I like, yet the geography is the same.
As I eagerly type the last sentence, the harried hummingbird returns to the bare-limbed tree outside. I watch her dance around. This creature is free to go wherever she wants, yet she remains here - day after day. I think she loves it here. She’s content - reminiscent of the oak trees, the mossy boulders and regardless of the cloudy days.
Contributor’s Note: Kristi Goss is a forty-one year old student returning to college to achieve a bachelor’s degree. She writes, paints, plays guitar and (at his frequent request) plays "pirate" with her two year old son, Jack.
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