Flying Free

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Unsung Hero of Plainsong

Essay by Janace Tashjian

Plainsong is a term that defines music created in worship, by unaccompanied voices, sung in unison and in a free rhythm. Kent Haruf's novel of the same name, Plainsong, presents a chorus of life on the high plains of rural Holt, Colorado. The voices of the chant are sung by varied members of this small town community, all of whom are navigating life, love, abandonment, betrayal, isolation and triumph. As if flowing across a giant loom, their experiences weave together in this unisonous psalm, intoning the resiliency of the human spirit and the ability to overcome loss and discover life anew.

One voice rises above all others. A voice of reason and inspiration, of strength and gentle humanity. Though the character-titled chapters of Plainsong specifically focus on Tom Guthrie (educator and father of two young boys), Ike and Bobby (Guthrie's sons), Victoria Roubideaux (17 year-old pregnant student), Ella (Ike and Bobby's mother) and Harold and Raymond McPheron (aged brothers and farmers), it is the timbre and tone of Maggie Jones that invites us to sing along. Is Maggie Jones the unsung hero of Plainsong?

Maggie has only one devoted chapter of her own, yet she permeates the lives of those around her. Always there to lend a helping hand, even when she could use one herself. Consider first Victoria Roubideaux, pregnant at age 17, abandoned by her father, ousted from home by her mother, and left alone by the boyfriend whose child she carries. After being locked out of the house, and left “in a kind of daze of sorrow and disbelief” (Haruf 32), where did Victoria seek sanctuary and comfort? “Unconscious of any thoughts at all” (Haruf 33), Victoria finds herself at Maggie's door. Maggie provides shelter to Victoria without a second thought, despite already caring for her elderly and demented father. She helps Victoria confirm her pregnancy, visit the doctor and begin planning for her future. She never coddles Victoria, but paints a real picture of her situation and the trials ahead. After Victoria's disastrous disappearance to Denver with estranged boyfriend Dwayne, Maggie is the first phone call she makes, in efforts to come home.

Does Maggie give up on Victoria when it becomes clear she can no longer stay in Maggie's house, after her father becomes violent? No. Consider next, the McPheron brothers, Harold and Raymond, aged farmers living a life of isolation on their ranch. Maggie reaches out to the brothers to enroll them in Victoria's care. “I want something improbable” (Haruf 109) Maggie states simply. Though she couches it as a favor to Victoria, Maggie clearly identifies the McPherons' need for their isolation and sorrow to be eased. “...You old solitary bastards need somebody too...it's too lonesome out here” (Haruf 112). She continues to inspire them in their efforts, coaching and encouraging them on how to talk to her, how to open up, and how to be good providers. When Victoria goes missing, Maggie is whom they go to for help and advice.

Maggie seems to have an endless supply of compassion and patience. Doesn't she ever lose her cool? Well, yes...once. “Don't do this damn you, you're too old to play dumb” (Haruf 190), Maggie states to Tom Guthrie after his indiscretion with Judy, the school secretary. Consider lastly, Tom Guthrie, educator and father to Ike and Bobby, who has been abandoned by his wife. He too finds unique solace and comfort in her company. At a time of life when Guthrie is struggling to raise his boys alone, and accept his failed marriage, Maggie, “the most generous woman he'd ever known” (Haurf 233), is that glimpse of a silver lining amidst the dark and cloudy trials Tom faces. She is straightforward and honest in her interest toward Tom, “I've been watching you for a long time” (Haruf 230), “I'm just crazy about you” (Haruf 233). Guthrie seems to find his muse in Maggie, revealing himself to her in one simple phrase: “You take the breath out of me” (Haruf 232).

In his essay entitled “Kent Haruf,” Michael R. Molino states, “the novels of Kent Haruf do not tell the story of heroic idealism on the American plains” (8). Heroic idealism, no. Heroic deeds, most certainly. Maggie Jones is the intrepid voice in this ensembles' refrain, indeed the unsung hero of Plainsong. Though Haruf does not tell her story directly, Maggie is revealed as a cornerstone of her community, always ready with a kind gesture, thoughtful expression and practical solution. In these “craziest times ever” (Haruf 124), Maggie's empathy and pragmatism is pitch-perfect. Her selflessness and honesty touch the lives of all those with the good fortune of knowing her.

As Plainsong's chant comes to a conclusion, Maggie finds herself surrounded by the friends and family she helped bring together, their paths inextricably entwined—none of them wholly repaired or made new, but more akin to “the old dishes that had been unused for decades, that were chipped and faded, but still serviceable” (Haruf 299). Those dishes are proudly laid upon the table for their impending fellowship. The lone voice of Maggie's father absently calls out into the emptiness: “Hello. Is anyone there” (Haruf 299). No doubt Maggie Jones was there to answer his call.

Works Cited

Haruf, Kent. Plainsong. New York: Vintage Books, 2000. Print.

Molino, Michael R. “Kent Haruf.” Dictionary of Literary Biography, Volume 292: Twenty-First Century American Novelists. A Bruccoli Clark Layman Book. Ed. Lisa Abney and Suzanne Disheroon. Gale, 2004. 148-154. Web.

Contributor's Note: Janace Tashjian is a Cerro Coso student. She enjoyed writing this literary interpretation for English 111: Introduction to Types of Literature.

A Real Education in "Naming of Parts" and "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer"

Essay by Chelsea Foulke

Most people have had a life-changing teacher whose influence cannot be overstated. The best teachers, however, are not always found in school but are instead often found outside of the traditional learning environment. The poems "Naming of Parts" by Henry Reed and "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" by Walt Whitman give the reader insight into what constitutes true teaching, true learning, and a real education. The speakers in both of these poems find their conventional teachers mundane and derive their real education from nature and personal introspection. Both poems implicitly encourage the reader to find a real education outside of the customary method. Through diction and syntax, tone, and contrast, both poems address the issues of domination by teachers to attempt to force traditional learning and the resistance of students to accept learning in this traditional fashion.

Both Reed and Whitman use diction and syntax to comment on education in their poetry. Reed depicts what true learning is through diction and syntax in "Naming of Parts." Many phrases in this poem have both denotations and connotations. The name of the poem itself denotes the austere nature of the parts of the guns that are described in the poem. The poem begins each stanza with exactly what the military teacher is teaching regarding the parts of a gun, and his words are uncreative and uninteresting. At the end of each stanza, however, the narrator repeats phrases but attributes different meanings to the phrases. In contrast to the teacher's tedious words, the words used by the internal voice of the student are beautiful and utilize various literary techniques. For example, Reed uses the simile that the flower in the garden "glistens like coral" (5). Similarly, Reed begins the second stanza with a mundane description of another part of the gun but ends the stanza with the "silent, eloquent gestures" (11), creating personification of the trees. Reed also uses repetition of phrases. After a dull description of how to ease the spring of a gun, he repeats a similar phrase, but in relation to the bees pollinating the flowers, "They call it easing the Spring" (24). In this way, he uses two definitions of the word "Spring" to connote two different meanings.

Similar to Reed's use of diction and syntax, Whitman also uses these literary techniques to provide commentary on teaching and learning. "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" contains a total of only eighty-three words, but the words have many denotations and connotations. For example, if Whitman had intended the adjective "learn'd" to be a respected one, he would have used the word "educated" or "knowledgeable" when referring to the astronomer. Instead, the word "learn'd" connotes a tone of skepticism towards the astronomer. Similarly, the student claims that he "heard" the astronomer. But the implication again is that while he may have heard the words of the teacher, he only learned from these words in that they opened the door for more intuitive thinking. The "proofs" provided by the astronomer also give a sarcastic connotation. The word leaves the reader wondering what, if anything, was proven. In contrast to this sarcastic connotation of "proof," when the student walks out, Whitman describes the student as "rising and gliding" (6), giving an uplifting connotation and even implying that he rises above the teacher. When the student goes outside, there is not just silence, but "perfect silence" (8), as if again, nature is the better teacher. The last word of the poem is "stars." The astronomer talks on and on, but never actually mentions the true subject -- the stars. The diction and syntax with Whitman's last word is direct, suggesting that it is nature who is the true teacher.

In addition to the use of diction and syntax, both Reed and Whitman use the tone of the speaker to convey their ideas about what constitutes true teaching and learning. In "Naming of Parts," the tone of the speaker is conveyed through two obvious speakers. The first speaker is the teacher who names of the parts of a gun. The teacher's words, such as "lower sling swivel" and "bolt," are monotonous, long-winded, and even cold. They simply name the actual parts of an inanimate and unfeeling object, a weapon. In one case, the speaker actually refers to the "safety-catch"; perhaps Reed intentionally chose this word based on the fact that the root word of "safety-catch" is "safe." In contrast to the voice of the teacher in "Naming of Parts" is the voice of the student. The voice of the student appears to be an internal voice, as if the student is daydreaming of a more idyllic place. The teacher's words ring in the student's ear, allowing him to think of other locations where the words might apply but in totally different ways. Perhaps there is even a third implied voice in the poem, which is the voice of nature. Nature does speak figuratively in the poem through its gardens and bees. The differences among these three voices provide an overall effect for the reader that implies that the information the teacher is espousing regarding guns is unexciting compared to the beauty and teaching of life and nature.

The tone of the speaker in "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" also provides commentary on true teaching and learning. The actual narrator of the poem is the student, but the student describes the astronomer in a sarcastic tone. The implied voice of the astronomer is educated, but not necessarily wise. Similar to the teacher in "Naming of Parts," the astronomer is boring; he presents his information in "charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure" (3). In fact, the astronomer is so mind-numbing that the student actually walks out of the lecture hall. The tone of the speaker insinuates that he finds true learning not from the astronomer, but instead from nature and inward contemplation, as he "looked up in perfect silence at the stars" (8).

While diction, syntax, and tone are important elements in these poems, the most important way that both Reed and Whitman convey the theme of true teaching and learning is with the overall use of contrast. In "Naming of Parts," guns are contrasted with flowers, teachers are contrasted with bees, weapons of death are contrasted with the life of nature, and austere military equipment is contrasted with descriptions of nature as "fragile" (17) and "eloquent" (11). The narrator notes that "the early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers" (23), which would seem like a strange description of a bee's behavior, if it were not in contrast to the military men "fumbling" with how to learn the parts of their "assault" weapon. Overall, the contrast in the poem speaks to the issue of what is being taught by the teacher versus what is being learned by the student. The speaker repeats a particularly odd phrase, that the students "have not got" various parts of a gun (10 and 28); in addition, they "have not got" the "silent eloquent gestures" of the garden (12). The contrast of these deficiencies of what they "have not got" highlights the difference between the information that is being taught by the traditional teacher and the information being taught by the real teacher, nature.

Whitman also highlights the theme of traditional teaching versus real learning through contrast in "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer." The audience in the poem responds to the astronomer with "much applause" (4), which is contrasted with the narrator's own feelings of negativity towards the lecturer. Similarly, the word "unaccountable" (5) typically means inexplicable, but can be contrasted with another meaning of not being responsible for one's actions, leaving the narrator free to dismiss the astronomer's words and exit the classroom. When the narrator does leave, he is "tired and sick" (5), but there is an obvious contrast between being physically sick and only mentally sick of this traditional form of teaching. Finally, in contrast to the traditional education from the lecturer, the real education comes when the narrator exits into the "mystical moist night-air" (7).

In each of Reed and Whitman's poems, the narrator is subjected to a teacher that he finds mundane, the narrator is compelled to find another teacher, and the narrator finds that teacher in nature. The narrator in "Naming of Parts" finds his education in "the almond-blossom / Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards" (lines 28-29). The narrator in "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" finds his education when he looks "up in perfect silence at the stars" (8). Through these two poems, Reed and Whitman use diction and syntax, tone, and contrast, to address the theme of what constitutes a real education. Both poets urge the reader to look outside the traditional realm of teaching to find his own teacher and his own education.

Works Cited

Reed, Henry. "Naming of Parts." Making Arguments about Literature, A Compact Guide and Anthology. Ed. John Schilb and John Clifford. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2005. 331. Print.

Whitman, Walt. "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer." Making Arguments about Literature, A Compact Guide and Anthology. Ed. John Schilb and John Clifford. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2005. 333. Print.

Contributors Note: Chelsea Foulke is a senior at Mammoth High School and a concurrent Cerro Coso student who would like to transfer to UC Berkeley and major in pre-med/pre-vet. She enjoyed writing about literature in both English 101 and English 102 at Cerro Coso. This was a piece she wrote for English 102.

The Value of Choice

Essay by James Collins

Throughout mankind’s history, we have always looked for the answer to why men do what they do. Why do bad people do bad things and why do good people do good things? Or, more interestingly, why do good people do bad things and why do bad people do good things? Although modern psychology was not closely studied until the 19th century, the ethical search for the causality of human behavior dates back to the earliest civilizations of Egypt, Persia and Greece.

In literature, this enigma is often the driving force of the countless characters in countless stories. We find this protagonist thrust into that situation, and the suspense of the tale lies in how they will react and whether we will be able to predict what they will do. In “real life,” this conundrum often also drives our dramas of reality as well. How will our parents react to our recent engagement? How will our siblings deal with our father’s death?

In almost every instance, the choices characters make in literature, as well as the choices we make in reality, have immediate and longstanding consequences. The real question that ultimately matters in our judgments of any choice is not so much why, but was the choice justified? Could we celebrate the choices made if they are positive? Alternatively, can we understand and sympathize if the choices made were not in line with our own value set? Often, our society tends to “give a pass” to those who make poor decisions based on what the individuals have gone through in their lives and this, unfortunately, tends to relieve them of, if not true accountability, at least moral accountability.

This conflict of the reader’s judgment is very prevalent in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Indeed, the entire story is based upon two figures who, driven by their circumstance in life, seek to avoid accountability. Victor perpetually tries to ignore the existence of his creation, at first clapping and expressing “joy” (Shelley 63) simply to have the creature out of his sight. The creature, on the other hand, embraces “hellish rage and gnashing of teeth” (Shelley 125) towards “all mankind” (Shelley 126) due to his suffering at the hands of those he encounters. Yet, for both of these characters, the reader is expected to maintain a level of sympathy and understanding towards them, if not agreement.

We see further evidence of this tendency to expect sympathy and excuse for action in Mary Wollstonecraft’s From Maria, or the Wrongs of Woman in the main character, Jemima’s, depiction of her mother as one who was “seduced” (Wollstonecraft 197) rather than one who made the free decision to enter into a relationship with her father, leaving her “ruined” (Wollstonecraft 197). During this telling of the woeful tale, we are expected to accept Jemima for what she is as if she is beyond accountability since things were so hard for her from the beginning. Throughout the story, we see examples of less than desirable thoughts and decisions, such as stealing and fancying the murder of her sister in jealousy. Yet, in the end, it seems as if we are expected to feel as if all these things are excusable due to her harsh treatment.

In William Godwin’s Things as They Are, or The Adventures of Caleb Williams, even the antagonist of the story, Mr. Collins, excuses Caleb, stating “you did not make yourself” (Godwin 196). Again, we are presented with a character that is in a dire circumstance who seems to be there for every reason other than his own doing. Although Mr. Collins’ excuse of Caleb is more dismissive than sympathetic, it is excuse nonetheless. The character is a victim of his life and worthy of excuse.

This tendency of human nature is not restricted to the literary world. It seems that in all facets of life and popular culture, we tend to feel sorry for those in strife and think first of the turmoil they suffer and second, if at all, about why they are there. We feel bad for celebrities being chased by the paparazzi, for example, but don’t seem to give much thought to the fact that they are not suddenly cast, by surprise and against their will, into the public eye. They have spent years or decades trying to break into the upper echelon of Hollywood stardom. There is no mystery to what life is like for those that famous.

There are a number of articles and essays that carry this motif into reality. In one such article, “Peer Pressure Influences Gang Behavior” by Dale Greer, we follow a young underprivileged child named Hubert. It is stated as a given that he was cutting school because “his lack of material assets was so embarrassing” (Greer). By this logic, every child in his area should be cutting school, which, since there were obviously children at school, is untrue. Not long after, we find Hubert “committing crimes to provide for himself what his mother's income could not afford” (Greer). Certainly, Hubert couldn’t have been the only child in his neighborhood that had a poor mother. But, just as certainly, it is probably safe to assume that not every child in the area was a criminal.

There is no doubt that we are the sum of our parts. Certainly, many people in the world are forced into a life situation that is misfortunate. The refugees in Darfur, for example, either live in deplorable conditions in the refugee camp or face certain death by staying in their homelands. This is a much different situation than we see Victor, the creature, Jemima or Hubert face. Victor did not face certain demise if he did not toy with creating humanoid life. The creature would not have suffered more had he not killed Victor’s young brother. Jemima would not have starved had she not satisfied her “liquorish tooth” (Wollstonecraft 199). And, Hubert’s choices to commit crime so he wouldn’t be teased cannot be seen as one made in self preservation.

The moral dilemma being discussed here, when is it acceptable to commit egregious acts, does have a grey area, but one must tread lightly when considering whether to excuse one’s actions. A good example comes from a story used in psychology to study this very subject: moral dilemma. Dr. George Boeree published an article titled “Moral Development” outlining this topic. In the article, Boeree recounts a groundbreaking psychologist, Dr. Lawrence Kohlberg, using the following dilemma to test how subjects came to moral justification. It centers on a fictitious character named Heinz.

“His wife was dying of a disease that could be cured if he could get a certain medicine. When he asked the pharmacist, he was told that he could get the medicine, but only at a very high price- one that Heinz could not possibly afford. So the next evening, Heinz broke into the pharmacy and stole the drug to save his wife's life. Was Heinz right or wrong to steal the drug?” (Boeree)

Obviously, either answer would have positive and negative implications. If Heinz were to let his wife die, he would be not only heartbroken, but could even be considered negligent. However, if he steals, he has broken a key tenet of society. The argument isn’t so much which choice Heinz should make, but that Heinz must accept consequence for either choice and expect no excuse for his actions either way.

Such is the recurring theme in Frankenstein. We have a story that sprawls through numerous settings and even more numerous moral landscapes. With Victor, at every turn, he is confronted with his foul decision to bestow life to the creature. Instead of embracing his decision and fostering the goodwill of the creature, he instead allows “disgust” (Shelley 61) to drive his actions. Although this does not, by any means, excuse the creature’s future actions, it certainly lays the seed for what is to come. This failure cannot be excused. As Peg Tittle puts it in her article “Couples Should Need a License to Obtain the Privilege of Parenthood”, “’I created someone by accident’ should be just as horrific, and just as morally reprehensible, as ‘I killed someone by accident’” (Tittle). Although the context Ms. Tittle uses is one for procreation, the argument is the same and denies Victor the excuse that he could not have known what would happen upon animating the creature.

Just as surely, the creature can expect no sympathy for his actions, regardless of how he was treated in his life. Nothing can justify murder as a tool or a means to an end. Just as Paracelsus declares that “every field is ordered by its seed, and no seed by its field” (Paracelsus 204), the creature can seek no shelter of justification that the world had made him what he was. He could have chosen to exile himself, to continue to approach Victor in benevolence or any order of different paths other than vengeful murder.

It is clear that Victor and the creature do not value true accountability. They lament their situations at length throughout the novel and attempt to blame the other for their misfortunes, but neither of them ever seek to resolve the problem between them and, once it is too late and innocent blood had been shed, neither of them are willing to commit to the other any quarter which may end the ever escalating conflict between them. What they value is a victory over an adversary which is unattainable. They base this value upon a false notion that evil deeds perpetuate evil responses. They justify these actions to themselves at every step at the cost of those around them. In the end, not only does what they hold dear crumble around them, but those who are unwittingly associated with the situation pay with high cost– some with their lives.

What a reader should take from this writing, and those discussed throughout this essay, is that poor choices need to be dealt with head on. That which can be salvaged should be salvaged and that which is lost must be put behind oneself. What we see in Shelley’s Frankenstein is the manifestation of failure perpetuating failure and lack of accountability perpetuating further acts without accountability. We should learn from this writing that, although we are a sum of our parts and often victims of our circumstances, we are not ever without choice to do the right thing. To do otherwise or to believe contrary invites only more strife and indignity.

Works Cited

Bidinotto, Robert James. "A Lack of Morals Causes Criminal Behavior." Current Controversies: Crime. Ed. Paul A. Winters. San Diego:Greenhaven Press, 1998. Opposing Viewpoints Resource Center. Gale. Cerro Coso Community College. n. pag. Web. 21 Apr. 2010

Boeree, George. "Moral Development." General Psychology. N.p., 2003. Web. 22 Apr 2010

Godwin, William, "Things as They Are, or The Adventures of Caleb Williams." Frankenstein (Contextual Documents). 2nd ed. Johanna Smith. Boston, MA: Bedford/St Martins, 2000. Print.

Greer, Dale. "Peer Pressure Influences Gang Behavior." Opposing Viewpoints: Gangs. Ed. Laura K. Egendorf. San Diego: Greenhaven Press,2001. Opposing Viewpoints Resource Center. Gale. Cerro Coso Community College. n. pag. Web. 21 Apr. 2010

Paracelsus, "On Creation." Frankenstein (Contextual Documents). Johanna Smith. Boston, MA: Bedford/St Martins, 2000. Print.

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. 2nd ed. Ed. Johanna Smith Boston, MA: Bedford/St Martins, 2000. Print.

Tittle, Peg. "Couples Should Need a License to Obtain the Privilege of Parenthood." At Issue: Is Parenthood a Right or a Privilege?. Ed. Stefan Kiesbye. Detroit: Greenhaven Press, 2009. Opposing Viewpoints Resource Center. Gale. Cerro Coso Community College. n. pag. Web. 22 Apr. 2010

Contributor's Note:I am a current student of Cerro Coso seeking a business degree. I am a US Air Force veteran and married father of two. I have a passion for writing and other creative expression. I wrote this piece during my freshman composition course and was encouraged to submit it to Met by my instructor, Gary Enns.

 

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.

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.

View from the River Styx

Essay by Kristine Perry

This room is dark and motionless. I lie in the stillness, breathing in the reality of what I was going to face on this day. I was going to hold my baby. I have waited nine long whole months for this day. I struggle to lift my swollen body from this lumpy, comfortless mattress. Every movement is a new ache that empowers my body. Standing in this room I can see minute traces of shadows stirring from the light outside my bedroom window. The smell of dirty socks and strawberry shampoo congests my senses as I step towards my unlit bathroom.

The brown stained linoleum floor in this room is cold and wet. I rub my belly, “soon little one,” I say as I start the water in my shower. The warm feeling from the drops of water on my body is refreshing and motivating. Yet thinking of my baby makes me tremble both with fear and joy. This is my fifth birth yet it feels like my first. The moisture from the steam of the shower fogs the mirror on my medicine cabinet. I wipe away the residue and peer at my glowing, tired features. Time has sure had its toll on me and I am afraid. Can I handle another child, both emotionally and financially? What kind of support will I get from my husband? He failed me so many times before. I can hear him getting the kids up. Soon it will be time to go to the birthing center. With a deep sigh, I press on towards getting dressed and out the door to my delivering destiny. My next stop is a quaint little room on the third floor of San Joaquin hospital.

My family drops me off in front of the automatic doors to the hospital entrance. I stand in the twilight of the morning and wave good bye to my kids as they drive away with my husband. I enter the waiting room where many expecting parents wait—funny how I am all alone. Baby pictures from various ethnic races hang from the textured tan walls and fake, multi-colored wildflowers adorn the lone coffee table. The waiting takes so long that I begin having second thoughts. Maybe I can come back tomorrow; I’m only two weeks overdue. Too late, they’ve called my name.

They lead me to a crisp white room that smells of ammonia and baby oil. New life will begin in this room. Blue checkered curtains suspend from my second story window view and brown, padded chairs sit empty. The sound of a tiny heartbeat echoes through the room from a monitor next to my adjustable hospital bed. Suddenly shadows fall from the ceiling as the room begins to fade into darkness. People rushing around look like flickers of light from a burning candle. Faint voices stir in the background of my diminishing existence. This room full of joy and happiness has turned into a chamber of sorrow and tears. My unborn son suffocating and my blood spilling everywhere—this wasn’t supposed to happen! This is a room where one life was lost and one life was saved. A new life has ended in this room.

Three days after my son is put on life support, I am taken into a big conference room. Everywhere I look there are people in white jackets with name tags holding clipboards. Doctors and nurses hush their conversation about my son when I enter the room. The gloomy look on all their faces tells me what I knew all along. My baby is gone and the damage to his brain is irreversible. Pain shoots through my gut but I know I still have one option left for him. “I want my son to be a donor,” I say with a heavy heart. The silence of the room is broken by the condolences of strangers for my unselfish gift to others. As I leave the room and enter the cool hallway of the hospital, I fall to my knees sobbing uncontrollably; time to say goodbye to my son.

How do I tell my kids? How do I break the news to my family? I cannot contain the anger, fear and sadness long enough to speak. They look at me with solace and know that my news is grim….. I don’t need to speak. My mother escorts me into the neo-natal unit at the hospital were my son lies among the tiny premature babies. He is not like the others. He looks like a giant among the crowd. The nurse gently places him into my arms, wrapped in a soft woolen blanket; his eyes are closed. I rock him for the last time: “I need to let you go now. I am so sorry” I choke as tears roll down my face, “I will see you again, when it is my time, I want you to be the one to meet me there.” I want to remember this moment, I want to stay here forever but I can’t. It’s time for him to go so the nurse takes him from my arms—he is gone.

I sit alone in my pale green hospital room awaiting the news that my son’s organs have been harvested. I feel numb all over my body. My nurse comes to check on the three IV’s attached to my arms and leg. I stare off into oblivion, as the housekeeper spreads water and what smells like pine-sol on the floor. At three in the morning a coordinator from the organ donor association arrives with the news that two little girls will be saved because of my son, two families will hold their children. I am given a consent form to give permission for the hospital to take my son’s organs, mainly his liver and heart; he had a strong heart. I stay up until the early morning hours crying and feeling like I was in a bad dream. The television has been on all night and I turn up the sound when the Channel 29 news comes on. They are covering my story and the death of my son. I watch as a long white limo, carrying my son’s organs, arrives at the airport, where a plane is waiting for his precious commodity. As the tiny plane flies into the distance I cover my head with my thin hospital sheet and go to sleep.

Funerals always seem to bring people together. It’s sad to think that it takes the death of a loved one to make you forget about all the quarrels you’ve had the past year. As I ponder this thought, I walk across the dew covered grass towards the green colored canopy above my son’s grave site. The breeze blows a sweet aroma of pine needles and fresh cut flowers. I can see my son’s tiny white casket that has been filled with many letters and toys alongside his lifeless body. Friends and relatives approach me to offer their sympathy. Today is the day I bury my son, today I breathe in the reality of life and death.

Contributor’s Note: I am involved in a few community programs as well as withCerro Coso College. I am the secretary for the ASCC in Lake Isabella, a tutor, and a peer mentor. I volunteer at the local library and I am a volunteer for the Salvation Army. I am also a full time student and mother. I am also an Ambassador for One Legacy. I write with deep expressions of my emotions and
experiences that have occurred in my life.

The Truck Stop

Essay by Kelly Pankey

I was very young when I started to think about leaving home. In fact, I was barely in grade school. I remember waking up late at night while everyone else was asleep, tiptoeing through the dark hallway, and positioning myself backwards on what seemed to me at the time to be an enormous muddy colored couch so that I could look out of our front window. I would pull back the thick gray curtains to expose the empty street outside, and the cold light of the street lamps that gave me no sense of safety. But I wanted that danger. I wanted to be out there in the world; free of the structured, boring, and everyday life I now lived.

I wanted to experience everything for myself. I didn’t want to be told how the world worked. I wanted to experience all that the world had to offer and I wanted to do it by myself.

As life went on and my family moved from one place to another my nightly views changed also. This time my view was from a kitchen window and it was much more interesting. I would still get up for my nightly excursions but instead of an empty, dark street I had a view of half of the lower east side of the city.

There were lights everywhere. I could see the headlights from the cars moving along the freeway. I could see lights from houses, street lamps, and parking lots. But the most distant of all those lights was what caught my eye. It was off by itself. It was a bright orange glow kind of like the glow of a large street lamp in the parking lot of a market. I would stand at that kitchen window and wonder what was out there. Could it be an empty parking lot or maybe a farmer’s market? Was there someone, some shady character standing underneath that light? What was going on out there on the outskirts of town? I wanted to find out.

When I was finally old enough to drive I knew I would find the source of that orange glow. Late one night I left my parents house and headed for that side of town. I drove out of the “good” side of town and across the railroad tracks to the “scary” side of town. It really was scary. There were strange men standing next to the road glaring at me as I passed them by. As I drove with the window open I noticed even the air smelled strange there. It smelled like a busted sewer line.

I made it to the southernmost part of town and found the orange lights at last. But I was disappointed to say the least. It was just an old dilapidated truck stop. The outside was painted white, but the paint had long since faded and peeled away in some places. There was a gas station, but it too looked like it had been there since the early fifties. I left disappointed, but I learned an important lesson that night about life. It just took me another ten years to understand what that was.

When high school was over I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer, so I joined the Navy. I wanted to be free of my parents, free of my friends, and free of that town. I can still remember the day I left. I remember the tears on my mother’s cheeks as she drove me to the recruiter’s office. I remember the soldier who drove me to the bus station. His crisp, clean navy blue uniform with the colored bars decorating his left chest showed a sense of pride and honor in his chosen profession. I wanted that same sense of pride.

After I’d been in a little while I learned what military service was really like. It was hiding in muddy ditches for days at a time waiting for an attack. It was climbing through barbed wire in the pitch black dark. It was wearing thick, sweaty gear and a suffocating mask to keep out the tear gas that the higher ups thought was necessary for training. It was working for three days straight without sleep to repair a busted water main. I remember how tired and muddy I was after that. My job was to take a wheelbarrow full of concrete down into a ditch to cover up the repaired pipe. What I had to do to accomplish this was to kind of take the wheelbarrow with both hands and sort of slide down the side of the ditch with it. When I reached the pipe I would use my feet as breaks and then let go of the wheelbarrow. Needless to say I was quite a mess when I finally finished my job.

Then there was my time in Spain. I learned a lot from that experience about how things really weren’t what they seemed. Spain is a beautiful country if you don’t look too close. When you get down into the alleyways and streets right outside of the American base it isn’t too pretty. That’s where it all happens. That’s where the soldiers get drunk and wander into questionable tattoo parlors. That’s where soldiers cheat on their wives back home with seedy prostitutes. That’s where they pass out in the streets and have to be carried back home. The streets there are filled with dreck and waste.

That’s what I really thought of Spain once I had been there. It was just like that truck stop back home. In fact, my whole experience with the military was just like that truck stop. I’m not saying that I’m not proud of my service, but behind that crisp navy blue uniform with all the shiny medals and ribbons is a filthy camouflage blouse.

Contributor’s Note: I am currently a full time student at Cerro Coso Community College. I mostly like to paint, but I also like to write quite a bit now and then.

Creating a Monster Using the Method of Victor Frankenstein

Essay by Kelly Pankey

“I consider it useless and tedious to represent what exists, because nothing that exists satisfies me. Nature is ugly, and I prefer the monsters of my fancy to what is positively trivial” -Pierre Charles Baudleaire

There are many reasons why someone would want to create a monster. One reason could be that a person wishes to play God, but he or she feels that just creating a normal being would be boring and let’s face it, it’s been done before. Then there are those that are just naturally angry about everything and want to punish the world for its lack of sympathy and understanding. These people want to create a monster that will wreak havoc upon their enemies. The last group of monster makers would be those who just have nothing better to do with their time. If you fit into any of these categories you might be interested in Victor Frankenstein’s method for creating a monster.

The first step you will need to take is to study an outdated science such as Alchemy or some other scientific field that has since been discredited. People may ridicule you for it, and they may even laugh at you, but this is a necessary step in the process. Don’t become disheartened when you are put down for devoting your studies to Alchemy. Victor’s own father called Victor’s first book on Alchemy “sad trash” (Shelley 46), and told him not to waste his time on it. Even Victor’s professor at the university told him that he wasted his time studying those books. But that did not deter Victor!
Next, you must find a suitable place in which to work on your creation. The place you choose must be secluded and dreary for best results. You must also take consideration of how you are going to illuminate your new abode. Candles are a good choice. They put out very little light and are inexpensive. Plus, they set the mood, which will provide you with some much-needed inspiration for your project.

The third step is where you start to get your hands dirty. This is where the fun starts. You are now required to visit the morgues and cemeteries to gather up your materials. Slaughterhouses are also a great resource. It is very important at this point to choose the largest and most grotesque body parts you can find. The bigger and uglier you get, the better your monster will be. Also, the larger body parts are easier to work with, which will make the task go by more quickly, as Victor discovered, “As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature …” (Shelley 58).

After collecting your materials, you must begin assembling your creature. This will take a lot of time and patience. You must forget about family, friends, and anything else that could be a distraction to your work, and focus complete attention upon the task at hand. You may receive a few concerned letters from your loved ones, but just ignore them for the time being. Your devotion and hard work will be rewarded in the end.

At last, after perhaps years of struggles and setbacks, your task is almost finished. But the final step is also the most important step in creating a true monster. After life is finally bestowed upon your creation you must do one more thing. Run away! You must now abandon the thing you devoted so much time and attention to for so long. If you don’t complete this last step properly you may just end up with a giant, ugly best friend. You don’t want the monster to feel the slightest bit of gratitude to you for creating it. And God forbid it should learn any of the other human emotions besides anger, hate, and devastation. What good would a kind, compassionate monster be, anyway?

Well, if you follow step-by-step Victor Frankenstein’s guide for creating a monster, the results should be nothing less than an angry, murderous, and probably very miserable creature that will owe its entire existence to you and you alone. You may lose a few close friends and family members to the monster’s wrath, but that’s a price you must be willing to pay when you take up the occupation of creator.

Works Cited
Baudleaire, Pierre Charles. BrainyQuote. 2008. 13 March 2008.
Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. Ed. Johanna M. Smith. New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2000.

Contributor’s Note: I am currently a student with a few semesters behind me. I am hoping to receive a degree from Cerro Coso and then transfer to a university. I love to read and write, but I have also discovered since attending college, that I enjoy just about every other subject I pursue in my studies.

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.

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.

Eurydice: The Unmourned Mother

One of the most compelling characters in the play, Antigone, is unfortunately the least mentioned. Eurydice, the wife of Creon and mother of Haemon, suffers this fate. Upon learning of her sons’ death, Eurydice, despairing and struck with grief, takes her own life. This is the only mention of her throughout the entire play! As a direct result of her insignificant role in the play, the reader is left with no remorse for a mother who deserves no less. It seems to be a transgression against the soul to allow one’s mother to go unmourned, yet this is the effect that the author has created. The reader is left to ponder and expand upon the life of Eurydice in the story of Antigone. One may even inquire as to what impact her death can have on the reader and how this can transform the story if her character is further defined. Step into the world of Antigone to perceive for yourself the true essence of Eurydice and why it is imperative for her character to be extraneous.

One could argue that Sophocles intentionally down-plays Eurydice’s character as a result of the fact that women possess little to no influence in Greece at this time. However, if chauvinism is the rationale, then the play itself would not be named after Antigone either. Taking a second look, the reader can plainly see that Antigone, a woman, is pivotal to this play, thereby ruling out the approach of sexism as a line of reasoning. The truth may lie closer to the reality that a central character already exists, and that Eurydice is a character with the potential to steal the spotlight away from that main character.

If the reader looks carefully, he or she might see that although Antigone is a chief character, that Creon is a main character of this play as well. When taking this into consideration, one can see that Eurydice’s role should in-fact remain small. If Eurydice’s part is magnified, perhaps Creon and Antigone would no longer be the two main characters. If truth be told, some readers begin to get frustrated with Antigone and Creon because of their blatant stubbornness. This frustration may entice a reader to relate better with Eurydice in her position as the loving mother. Consequently, this switch in central character(s) could completely jeopardize the entire story line of the play.

When Eurydice says, “sorrow and I are hardly strangers,” the reader very nearly begins to pity and bond with the character of Eurydice (l. 1312). For a mother to listen to the story of her own son’s demise must have been horrible! One can only sympathize with poor, unknown Eurydice at this time. However, in the very next moment, she is gone, providing no time for the reader to become too attached. This was a bold stroke of the pen by Sophocles who could have just as easily left Eurydice out of the play entirely. Instead, Sophocles chooses to give the reader just a taste of compassion for a woman we can never know. What little we do know about Eurydice resonates in this reader long after the play is done.

So, why did Sophocles choose not to tell us more about Eurydice and why is that so important? He chooses not to tell us more about her because Eurydice needs a story of her own. Eurydice is a character that is not easily described or summed up in just a few sentences; therefore, it would be impossible to get too involved in her character in this play. Her character is one with honor, love and commitment to her family—what more could a reader ask for in a heroine? However, in Antigone, we already have a main character or “heroine” if you will. Eurydice’s story is best left to her own tragic play.

Again I say—it seems to be a transgression against the soul to allow one’s mother to go unmourned—yet in this instance, one must see that it is essential. Just imagine a play solely about Eurydice; about her struggle with Creon through all of this; about the mother in her, aching to help her son. Then see her “loosing the bolts, [and] opening the doors / to appeal to queen Athena” in prayer (ll. 1306-1307). She hears commotion outside and runs to see what has happened. She asks her people to “[t]ell me the news, again… [for] sorrow and I are hardly strangers” (ll. 1311-1312). Then, just as one falls in love with her character, she takes her life. Would any reader not feel overwhelming compassion for her now? Now, of course, I must ask: would this not steal the main character positions away from Creon and Antigone? Of course it would and that is why it is absolutely necessary for Eurydice’s part to remain insignificant.

Works Cited

Sophocles. Antigone. Trans. Robert Fagles. Schilb and Clifford. 733-771.
Schilb, John and John Clifford, eds. Making Arguments about Literature: A Compact Guide and Anthology. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2005.