Literary Judges - Tom Brazie, Ruth Callahan, Marilyn Hoffs, Marilyn Schiedat, Carmela Arnoldt • Literary Faculty Advisors - Jan Boerner,
Betty Hufford, Joy Wingersky • Typing - Dawn Meyer • Bieri Printing • Literary Staff - Bruce Campbell, Genevieve Winters, Melinda
Davis, Amy Barrett, Richard Barrett • Art Director - Cathleen Cunningham • Asst. Art Directors - Stephen Sanmarco, Sean Cervantes
Cover Design - Sean Cervantes • Photography Editor - Mohamed Abdelgader • Photography Assistants - Alan T. Miller, Paul Dameron
Design/Production Staff - Heather Elizabeth Bednorz, Matthew Gaul, Joyce Ann Hergert, Blaine C. Lemert, Marla E. Millsap, Patricia Reed,
Derek Anthony Welte, Madeline Yoon • Art Department Faculty Advisors - Dean Terasaki, Joe Lovas • Art Juror - Tanya Tewell
"Pecadillo"
Light gauge steel sculpture
his is the land of
dark Sonoran night and white garlic moon
of whiskey and tequila
of biscuits and frijoles.
Where the Blue Jay sings lead
and the rattlesnake plays
Mike McCauley
Special Award - Cover
TRAVELER
• Where I Am E om (excerpt)
by Lon Ray ond Jordan
Pecadillo by Ike McCauley
lou Bott
e Brown
ry Bean
ecko
Harris
Untitle er Art
by Mike Hastings
October 31 s ill Avenue #2
by Br an ance
Untitled otograph
by Jen f Sowby
Street Smart (Anonymous)
aclellan
Surfer by Mary lou Bott
A Reflection f Eve
by in bert
Impression y Cervantes
Urn neeence
by Kim Eugene Essendrup
'JI Avenue #1
ance
October 31 st
by B'
oman
. Hi man
Phil Branson
by Cherie lee
A lover by Paula C. Prince
Snowy Tree Phil Branson
No Satis ction
by Pau\ . Prince
Twigs by Dan Berggren
b Jerald Munk
Whe From
by Lon a Jordan
Passage of . erald Munk
Shad s e River
by Niels Maclellan
The Fe
by Rob
Dali's Way
he Proud
. Waller
illy Atkins
'chard Duncan
II Man
by Tho s . Harris
Grandmother by Alan T. Miller
annette Wolf
That Glove W art of My Hand
by Lon R m nd Jordan
Untitled tograph
by Ma la Delgado
You Never ere You'll
Find a Her~'V~'~I'~y Bachman
1
"Iris"
Colored Pencil Drawing
Chenette Wangen
Second Place Fine Art
2
"October 31st Mill Avenue #2"
Photograph
STREET SMART
Anonymous
Second Place Essay
Brian Hance
"Untitled"
Photograph
Jennifer Sowby
Watching him from my
stopped car, I scrutinize
his behavior and attire.
He approaches my open window,
looks me in the face before looking
back down to the ground, as if he's
ashamed, and asks in a humble, faint
rasping voice, "How about it, could
you help?" He does not recognize
me, but I know him. His name is Joe.
He is wearing a blue and white plaid
shirt, filthy and rumpled from many
days without washing. His faded
blue jeans hang about his hips like
those of a child who has been give his
older brother's hand-me-downs. The
sales of his boots are wafer-thin
pieces of torn leather, duct-taped
together. Like a scarecrow, haggard
and emaciated except for his swollen
abdomen, he looks like a starving
child ill a third-world country. His
face is weathered, and the lines
etched around his eyes from squinting
against the blistering, blinding
sunlight are several shades lighter
than the rest of his skin. His light
blue eyes glow from his sunburnt
face. Helplessly mentally ill, he lives
on the streets because no system adequately
provides for him. He begs
for money for survival. I give cash to
panhandlers, and many in the community,
outraged by my action, argue
that the freeloader could go to work
if he or she truly wanted to. I passionately
disagree with the assumption
that inhabitants of the streets are
defrauding the system because it is
easy. Who in their right minds
would subject themselves to this form
of survival if aid were available?
Unable to get assistance, Joe is like
many of the mentally ill who have
fallen through the cracks. Let's face
the truth: they are victims. The
United States gives more relief
abroad than to its own impoverished
people.
Once he was somebody's baby, an
innocent child, but not now. Now he
is weary, dilapidated, and defeated,
no longer innocent. He is harmless
except for the lfficomfortable emotions
he evokes in dissimilar human
beings. His actions reflect his unclear
thinking, but he commits no crime.
The tattered cardboard sign he holds
reads, "Will work for food."
Panhandling is his job; it is not an
easy task. He uses this ploy for sympathy
because he is an outcast of the
system and forced to become street
smart. He has become an entrepre-neur
of the streets. Numerous times I
have heard people say that the indigent
working the streets collect large
sums of money, all tax-free. If we
were to discuss tax increases to care
for the homeless, mentally ill citizens,
their tax-free income is a weak argument;
the former is simply not true.
In fact, many only work the streets
long enough to get sufficient cash to
get by for awhile. I understand why
the public feels contempt for persons
who give the appearance of being
able to support themselves, but
appearances should not be the basis
for judgment. Have you ever been
judged inappropriately from your
outward appearance?
Often, several reasons explain why
people do not care for themselves any
other way. Contrary to popular public
belief, assistance does not overflow
for the homeless. For example,
the Reagan Administration chose to
let the private sector take over
responsibility for providing low-cost
housing, and federal support for lowcost
housing subsidies fell by 60 percent.
Statistics obtained from
Homeless in America show that
since 1980 the supply of low-income
housing has decreased by a total of
about 2.5 million units. Getting a job
ordinarily requires an address.
Consequently, fewer job opportunities
arise for the homeless. In addition,
public social welfare programs are a
Catch-22 because "unemployment
insurance benefits are available to
unemployed workers who have been
active participants in the work force
through a specified amount of recent
work/earnings in a job that offers
unemployment insurance." Their
transient lives create another dilemma:
being ineligible to receive unemployment
benefits even though they
have had gainful employment for
periods at a time. Only an estimated
one-third of the unemployed do
receive these benefits. Consider also,
few state programs for single adults
contribute ample relief. Cash relief
programs for Lmemployed, homeless,
single-adults do not exist.
Additionally, because mental illness is
difficult to diagnose, it is not recognized
as a disability, such as blindness
or paralysis, so people like Joe do
not qualify for cash benefits.
The toughest question that requires
addressing, before help can come, is
whether these people are truly needy
or are just eccentrics making LUlusual
choices. I know Joe's story because he
is my father. I remember a time when
he was a vibrant, handsome man. He
is educated and holds a Civil
Engineering degree from Arizona
State University. He married his college
sweetheart and had three children.
He is a veteran of the Korean
War. He is also a manic depressive,
diagnosed as "chronically mentally ill
(CMI)," by several doctors at the
Veterans Administration Medical
Center. My father is seldom aware
that the decisions he makes are more
than just eccentric, but are a threat to
his well-being. In an effort to keep
him off the streets, my family and I
have all taken him into our homes,
but short of holding him prisoner we
cannot force him to stay. Once my
dad stayed with me for several weeks
and seemed to be back from the lost;
however, he left without warning.
Two years passed before I heard from
him again. He has the right to refuse
help from his family or refuse treatment
that might help his condition.
Understandably, doctors hesitate to
force treatment on CMI individuals
because of the legal ramifications for
violating their rights. A case in point,
a chronic schizophrenic, Joyce Brown,
was forcibly admitted to a Bellevue
Hospital. She sued the city of ew
York for "infringing on her rights,"
and won. Whose best interest was
considered when the govenunent
gave rights to the mentally ill? Does
the shift in responsibility to the
unprepared public serve the welfare
of the CMI, or the govenunent best?
Now the CMI are abandoned to the
mercy and compassion of society and
forced into the madness of the streets
rather than into an institution. Joe
works when he is in his right mind,
but because his condition is subject to
change without warning he is regularly
without work. Early in 1991, I
bought him an old station wagon
because he said he could get a job if
he had a car. The day he got the car
he drove off; I don't know where the
car or my father is now. I want to
help him, but my hands are tied
unless I tie his; the government prohibits
me from doing so.
Not all of the homeless want to be
on the streets begging for help; some
like Joe are homeless because adequate
methods have not been devised
to keep them off the streets. In
Homeless in America, Ellen Bassuk,
an associate professor of psychiatry at
Harvard Medical School, establishes a
relevant point to consider: "There is
Brian Hance
usually no single, simple reason for
an individual's becoming homeless;
rather homelessness is often the final
stage in a lifelong series of crises and
missed opportunities, the culmination
of a gradual disengagement
from supportive relationships and
institutions." Ultimately, many CMI
would probably make better choices
if provided the resources to do so.
Joe is too young to collect any Social
Security benefits; he cannot be committed
to an institution because he
has the right to refuse treatment, and
there are no programs to help.
What are an individual's reasons
for living on the streets? Is there a
child to provide for? Is it mental illness
or are some merely shiftless
bums? What crosses your mind
when you see someone standing by
a traffic light or a fast food restaurant?
The question invariably crosses
my mind, and quite often I
remind myself that, "There go I but
for the grace of God." If I could
have one wish, my wish would be
for others to foster compassion
towards these human beings, to be a
little street smart, too, and to consider
that the street person is more than
the appearance.
3
4
Confetti
Janna Hancock
Colorful pieces
tumble·slowly to the ground,
wavering uneasily
the entire trip down.
Tossed carelessly
a colorful blizzard
fluttering .
drifting .
a brightly tinted fog.
Each is unique
but combined form one,
together, a thick sheet
of newborn mystic wonder.
From above
falls a shower of confetti
begging for attention .
a lasting impression ..
before the air is empty.
r , • .,0, "Parcheeze Anyone"
Illustration
Cynthia Sandoval
Special Award - Illustration
A LOVER
Paula C. Prince
Cn11 I ea teh the light
of the firefly?
No Satisfaction
Paula C. Prince
Seream~l1g, fighting
ConfusIOn is at hand
Dynamite is hard to aim
5
"The Few, The Proud..."
Robert R. Waller
Third Place Essay
6
It's not just a job; it's an adven-ture."
Everyone, it seems,
agrees that "Joe" is a good sol-dier.
A recipient of the 1992 Soldierof-
the-Year award, "Joe" has been
highly praised for his superior service
record. His performance during the
Persian Gulf War-a tour of duty
wherein "Joe" was personally responsible
for saving numerous lives-has
been cited by his superior officers as
an example of exemplary military service.
Yes, everyone agrees that "Joe"
is a good soldier.
But, what is it about "Joe" that
makes him a good soldier? What personality
and character traits did
"Joe's" superior officers see in him
when they presented him with the
Soldier-of-the-Year award? Can we
identify those h'aits, and by doing so,
establish a litmus test for "good soldiers?"
"Joe" is pah'iotic. In an era of
declining armed service enlistment,
"Joe" decided to serve his country by
enlisting in the United States Army.
In a time of "instant gratification"
where military service is frequently
frowned upon, "Joe" shelved many
dreams, put himself at considerable
personal risk, and sacrificed much
personal freedom in order to serve his
country. Yes, a good soldier is patriotic.
"Joe" is brave. During the Persian
Gulf War, "Joe" frequently found himself
in great physical danger as he
worked to advance the cause of freedom.
With little or no concern for
himself, "Joe" risked his own life to
save the lives of others. Yes, a good
soldier is brave.
"Joe" is loyal. As part of his 1992
Soldier of the Year award, "Joe" was
recognized for his contributions
toward maintaining troop morale during
the Persian Gulf War. His team
spirit and dedication to his country
and his fellow soldiers are character
traits any commanding officer would
want in his soldiers. Yes, a good soldier
is loyal.
Everyone agrees that "Joe" is a
good soldier.
Well, not exactly everyone.
You see, "Joe" is Army Sergeant
Jose Zuniga, who is being discharged
from the United States Army after
openly admitting his sexual orientation.
Sergeant Zwuga is gay.
"1 cannot continue to serve my
country if 1must choose between
honor and living a lie," Sergeant
Zuniga said.
A good soldier, it seems, is also
honorable.
Circle of Love
Louise Brawner
Honorable Mention, Poetry
The angels touched down and placed a little girl in Jean's arms
Jean named her Louise
Jean loved her so
wizen she was sick, Jean took care of her
when she was hungry, Jean fed her
when she was cold, Jean placed a blanket around her
Jean taught her to walk
Jean taught her to talk
Jean taught her to read
Jean taught her to write
Jean taught her right from wrong
Jean taught her to love
and when it was time, Jean let her go
for she loved her so
married and with a child of her own
Louise named him Richard
Louise loved him so
she held him and fed him
she wanted to teach him everything she knew
and wondered when it's time, would she be able to let him go
Jean told Louise that because she loved him so
she could
then Jean had a stroke
everything changed
suddenly she was a little girl in a grandma's body
Louise took care of her because she was sick
Louise fed her when she was hungry
Louise placed a blanket around her when she was cold
Louise pushed her in a wheelchair
Louise helped her learn to talk again
Louise read to her
Louise wrote for her
and when the angels came down to guide Jean home
Louise let her go
for she loved her so.
7
8
Pink and Iva
Richard Duncan
Nearly twenty years ago.
A long time between visits.
The parents ofmy best friend.
The house of my childhood summers.
Hoping they are still alive,
that they remember me,
I knock on the wooden screen door.
Pink and Iva are home and, indeed,
remember me.
An hour passes quickly.
Talk ofold times, and new gossip.
Life's work nearly finished.
Four boys grown and scattered over
surrounding counties.
Some with children of their own.
Some successful, some not.
All loved.
This house once full of noise,
slamming screen doors and
shouting boys,
quiet now, the tick of the antique clock
echoes in the big kitchen.
Time to go and, yes,
it was good to see you too.
The Bedroll Man
Thomas M. Harris
Honorable Mention Poetry
Every day, he walks
Past the shop
Full of purpose.
Dusty man with blankets,
Head down, he thinks.
I think.
But every day,
He walks.
Alan 1. Miller
That Glove Was Part Of My Hand
Lon Raymond Jordan
I found a part of me tha t I had lost.
I found myoId Rawlings baseball glove.
It was the first glove that I had ever owned.
I remember when dad brought it home.
I was nine years old.
I carefully rubbed every part of it with glove oil
except for Willy Mays' signature.
I thought he had actually autographed it.
I wore that glove every day for six years.
I only took it offfor winter.
That glove was part of my hand.
You can still see my nine-year-old
handprint on the inside.
Will my son be excited when he turns nine
and I give him myoId Rawlings baseball glove?
What will he feel when he puts on the glove and
shakes hands with his Dad's nine-year-old handprint?
..
"Untitled"
Photograph
Maria Delgado
9
Mary Lou Bolt
10
The Interview
Kim Eugene Essendrup
Third Place Short Story
Miss Lynn Foster, a thirty-something
psychologist smartly dressed
in a designer suit and a tight hairdo,
took a deep breath before
standing up. She moved quickly
around her glossy mahogany desk
and past a leather couch on her
way to the door. A second knock
rapped the door. She swung the
heavy door open to reveal a slightly
overweight man of about forty.
He stood just under five and a half
feet tall in his farmer-style overalls,
a dirty baseball cap pinching
his tousled hair. He jabbered at a
tall stoic figure in a guard uniform
whose stony chiseled features
were aimed at Dr. Foster.
Upon noticing her, the shorter
man stopped speaking and
looked up at her, his cherub face a
caricature of bewilderment. "So,
you must be Toby," the doctor
greeted.
The inquiry was met with a
wide, bashful grin.
"I'm Doctor Lynn." She smiled
as she gestured to the couch in the
corner. With a nod she relieved
the armed escort. "How are you
today, Toby?"
"Toby! T-O-B-Y!" He shouted
as he dashed across the room and
threw himself upon the seat.
Doctor Lynn made her way
back to her desk beneath a wall
stacked to the ceiling with leather
bound books and parchment certificates.
"You spell very well."
"Yepper! T-O-B-Y!" he
grinned with pride. "Mrs.
Brubaker taught me."
Doctor Lynn picked up her
pen. "Toby, do you know why
you are here?"
Toby bounced on the big couch.
"Cuz Judge Mike said so. Do you
have any Hershey's? 1 like
Hershey's," he said, licking his
lips.
"No, Toby. Maybe later. Judge
Mike wants you to answer some
questions first. Toby? Toby? Are
you listening?" She peeked over
her glasses, tapping her pen.
Toby looked up from his
palms. "Uh?"
"Are you listening?" she emmcia
ted.
"Yepper!" He grinned again.
''I'm a good boy."
She started again. "How do
you like living with Mr. and Mrs.
Brubaker?"
"1 like it," he replied, drawing
to the edge of the sofa. "1 have
my own room, and I play
Nintendo, and I get to feed the
chickens, and I like to play with
"Summer Hat"
Water Color
Jane Brown
T-bone. But T-bone is asleep
now."
"Who's T-bone?"
"T-bone's a big doggie. You
must read a lot," he said, gawking
at the collection on the wall.
"You're smart. I'm not very
smart. The kids on my street call
me steuupid retard and won't
play." His lip started to sag.
''I'm sorry, Toby," she
answered, writing on her pad.
"Where is T-bone sleeping?"
"Mrs. Brubaker says with God."
Doctor Lynn put down her pen.
"Why is he with God?"
"Wanna play marbles?" he
asked, squinting as he reached
deep into his pocket. "T got some
nice ones for my birthday."
"Toby, why is T-bone with
God?"
He looked up from a small, tattered
bag stuffed with marbles.
"Cuz he was real sick and Mr. and
Mrs. Brubaker gave him medicines,
but he got sicker. Mrs.
Brubaker said he was suffering, so,
urn, Mr. Brubaker was gomla put
him to sleep to be with God."
She closed her mouth. "What
happened then, Toby?"
"Mr. Brubaker told me to stay
inside and not to watch, but I
peeked," he said, squeezing his
face and pulling his knees up
close. ''I'm sorry. Please don't
whip me."
"What did you see?"
"You're not mad?" he venhIred.
Doctor Lynn looked up. "No,
Toby, I'm not mad. ow, what
did you see?"
"Well, Mr. Brubaker got his
deer-hunting rifle and took T-bone
out behind the shed and put him
to sleep."
Doctor Lynn closed her eyes for
a long moment. "Oh, Lord," she
whispered. She scribbled something
more, then consulted a stack
of notes. With a deep breathe, she
started again. "Toby, you work at
the hospital. Is that right?"
His back straightened, and his
eyes lit up. "Yepper! I'm in
charge of mopping. I mop the
whole third floor."
"Do you remember when Mr.
Brubaker went into the hospital?"
"Yeah. He got liv-er-can-cer,"
he said carefully. "So Mrs.
Brubaker and me took him to the
hospital for kimono-therapy."
"Did you visit him often,
Toby?"
"Yepper!" he bounced the
couch. "Every day I watched the
big TV with him when I mopped
his room."
"That went on for about a
month?"
"Guess so. Where's Mrs.
Brubaker? Do you want to play
"Cactus"
Watercolor
marbles now?" He flopped to his
knees and spilled out his marbles
beside her desk.
"Just a moment, Toby. What
happened to Mr. Brubaker in the
hospital?" One at a time, he began
to line up the marbles along the top
of her blotter. " 0, Toby, I do not
wish to play marbles right now.
Please put them away." Toby
looked up, a little hurt. Lynn softened.
"Can you tell me what happened
to Mr. Brubaker?"
"He started to get real sick. They
gave him lots of medicines, but he
got sicker."
"What did you do, Toby?"
Toby started to collect his marbles.
"Toby, what did you do?"
"I put him to sleep."
Mary Bean
11
12
Chess Match
Bruce C. Campbell
Second Place Short Story
On a table of gold lies a
chessboard of silver.
The squares of the chess
board are black and white onyx.
This table separates two beings who
are seated upon white marble
benches. Dressed in loose robes, one
in white, the other in black, both
beings are virtually identical, and
both could pass for either man or
woman. They have traditionally
been referred to as male, with some
exceptions.
The being in white is carefully
studying the board, his pieces, the
color of his robes. The other appears
bored and stares out to the vast,
black void surrounding them. After
a time, the being in white
anl10unces, "Bishop takes pawn.
Check."
A smile lights up the dirty face
of a young man. The dancing shadows
of torches distort his face, but
no one is left in the room to see it.
Stretched out on a wooden table is a
corpse, marred and bloody, an
expression of horror forever upon its
face. Three years ago, the young
man took up the clerical robes and
quickly rose through the ranks to
become one of the church's most
effective inquisitors. The corpse is
his latest convert that will likely convince
the rest of the small town to
his church's way of thinking.
Stepping outside to breathe air
Lmtainted by smells of burning flesh,
urine, and fear, the young man looks
to the north where a great castle sits,
housing the king of this land. A
quick, rare smile comes to his lips as
he anticipates the rewards that will
be his when he converts the king.
The game progresses for centuries.
Stifling a yawn, the being in
black stares at the board, trying to
figure out what his opponent is up
to. He knows that he must block the
check, but he doesn't want to let his
opponent convert a pawn; it might
ruin the game. Though he knows
that only one possible move will
save him, he continues to study the
board on the off chance that he
missed something. Finally, he sighs
and makes his move, "Knight to
kings two."
The YOLmg man's promising
career is shattered. Lying on dirty
straw inside a dungeon cell, he takes
his final gasps of air and swears a
curse against his god. The town had
indeed been supportive, once their
leader had been converted. When
he moved on to the next town, however,
the king's knights had come
and thwarted his every move. He
had attempted a friendly conversion
of one of the knights and was
promptly thrown into this filthy,
stinking cell on charges of treason.
As his IW1gs attempt one last gurgling
breath, a heathen priest walks
into his cell and gives him the final
rites.
Far to the south, another
monarch frets. A sizable percentage
of his people have revolted and are
claiming a large area of his lands.
The lands are not particularly
important. The farming is poor, and
the area is constantly under threat
from another nation. onetheless, it
is his, and he wants it. But already
several small strongholds have been
erected, and his spies have reported
a castle being built at a strategic
spot. Waving his advisors away, he
walks alone to the small chapel near
the throne room to pray for guidance.
Emerging some hours later, he
summons messengers to begin peace
talks with the new sovereign nation.
As was predicted, the pawn is
converted next. A white queen now
sits directly in the middle of his territory,
and the white's master smugly
awaits the next move. The bishop
still threatens the black king if the
knight is moved. Standing and pacing,
the master of the black pieces
carefully studies the board, looking
for some possible weakness to
exploit. Anticipating victory, the
white robed being smiles and waits.
The messengers return to the
monarch with bad tidings, for which
one loses his life in accordance with
tradition. The new kingdom is not
interested in a friendly alliance.
During the revolution, the rebel
leader was killed and his wife now
nms the tiny nation. The new queen
has made pacts with his threatening
neighbor and as a result, she is now
a powerful force.
Armies build up along the borders,
and the atmosphere is tense.
Elsewhere in the world, hostilities
grow but do not blossom into war.
A tense peace settles on the world.
As the years pass, kings and rulers
die and are replaced with ones that
foster even more peace. A renaissance
occurs, and the world prospers
from the art and technology
that results. The game plays on. On
one fateful night, a newly crowned
monarch makes a bold move, and
the world is plunged into chaos as
men kill one another for trivial, half
forgotten reasons.
It is an w1predictable move.
The being conh"olling the black
pieces completely ignores the queen
and takes the offensive. Starting
with an open rook, a white pawn
goes down, setting the rook up for
grea ter damage in one more move.
A knight falls next, and the being in
white is forced to go on the defensive.
Both of the beings study the
other's moves with a growing intensity.
The game is drawing to a conclusion,
and the victor is in doubt.
The black side makes many sacrifices
but takes more than is lost.
With the first smile in decades, the
figure in black sees a series of moves
that might just win the game.
The situation is desperate. Most
of the technology from the renaissance
has been converted to the arts
of war. The world situation settles
into a tense peace, but no one is willing
to forget the wrongs that had
been done. One group of people in
particular refuses to forget how
close they had come to extinction.
In the previous wars they had
forged for themselves a nation
where they could live together.
Most importantly, it was a place
where they could protect each other
despite the best efforts of many people,
the end could not be stopped.
An independent island nation was
swallowed by one of the large
alliances for its strategic importance.
Treaties and talks were held when
suddenly, one of the few remaining
independent cOW1tries annolmced
they had the weapon. Spies from
almost every country and alliance
quickly confirmed the report. Other
countries with the weapon postured
and threatened but were reluctant to
but the larger nations are eyeing
them greedily.
Only four pawns, two knights,
and the kings remain on the board.
Of those, the majority belong to the
black side. Moving the black knight
into position, the being in black
waits while the white robed being
attempts some small, token defense.
The game is virtually over, but it has
to be played until the last move.
The white side's knight rallies and
takes another pawn, but it is useless.
A black pawn converts to a queen.
Several moves and counter-moves
occur. With a delicate, graceful flick
of the wrist, the black knight is care��fully
placed upon the final square,
"Check and mate."
When the weapon was first created,
everybody said it would be the end
of the world. They were right, and
should another genocide be
attempted.
Two great nations watch each
other carefully. They pretend
friendship, but everyone knows better
as armaments are built and
hoarded. Small wars erupt in the
smaller nations, nothing large
enough yet to break the world
peace.
A flurry of small offensive
strikes against the black pawns
causes the being in black some
worry. The plan depends upon
having at least one or two pawns
left just before the end. The white
side has converted another pawn to
a knight, but has only two other
major pieces left: a rook and a bishop.
Down to just a queen, a rook,
and two knights, one of which still
protects the king from the white
bishop, the black side has a decisive
position advantage. The black
pieces begin a new series of offensive
maneuvers.
War technology still flourishes
in the tense peace that prevails over
world politics. However, the peaceful
arts are making a comeback.
One day, in the middle of the
desert, the peace is shattered. One
cow1try invades another and calls
upon its allies to help. The world is
dragged into war. Men and women
from all around the world die for
an imaginary line drawn in the
sand. When it finally ends, the
world is not ready to easily slip
back into a peaceful way of life.
With countries just looking for an
excuse to start another conflict, it is
more a hiatus in the hostilities and
no one believes it will last long.
The political situation is hardly
recognizable from even a decade
ago. The recently formed desert
nation has taken a large portion of
the world for itself. Two large
cow1tries have merged and become
one. Many small nations, knowing
that they can't survive alone, form a
major alliance. A few small countries
try to stay separate from it all,
"Corrosion"
Sculpture
Niels Maclellan
Honorable Mention
3-Dimensional Design
use it. Finally, the desert nation
attempted to neutralize the threat
by force.
A young boy sits on the stoop
of his apartment building, playing
with a little metal car and smearing
dirt everywhere. He looks up suddenly
as an air raid siren wails in
the distance. Fascinated, he watches
adults scream and run about
panicked on the streets, but he is
young, too young to remember
when his nation was created, forged
out of fear of elimination of all his
kind. He is far too young to
remember when the men of his
country eliminated their neighbors
in fierce, short wars and made their
lands his. He is too young to realize
that the air raid is not just another
drill and that the screams of the
adults are real this time. He smears
more dirt on his arms as a huge
fireball erupts in the distance, from
the direction of a military airfield.
All that remains of the boy seconds
later is his shadow on the wall and
his favorite toy car.
"I underestimated you," the
being in white said.
" 0, I merely learned from our
last game."
Putting all the white pieces he
had captured away in a box, the
being in black reaches for the white
king. Staring at the piece's life-like
detail, he looks to his white robed
opponent and says, "Another
game?"
"Very well, another game then.
However, since you won this time,
you play white."
A squat, dark shape stands on
the crest of a mOlmtain. He is
rather ugly and carries a hefty
branch that he uses as a club. His
progeny is sure to create something
better, but for now the Earth is
young again. As he stands, staring
in awe of the setting sun, he sees
figures walking toward his mountain.
Not recognizing them, he lets
out an explosive grunt and smashes
his club on a large stone. Several of
his tribe hear and come running,
taking a defensive posture against
the invaders.
13
14
"Surfer"
Watercolor
"A Reflection of Eve"
Charcoal Drawing
" Impression"
Color Pencil Illustration
Melvin Lambert
Mary Lou Bott
Third Place Fine Art
Sean Cervantes
Urn of Innocence
Kim Eugene Essendrup
Second Place Poetry
From the stygian wooded depths,
our halo offire glowed.
The rhythm of our vespers' whisper rose
above the cricket growl and pond frog
The pitch of night concealed our rites,
an invitation from our spirit hosts.
Campfire's light danced the cadence
of wonder and awe upon our faces,
Devouring aboriginal tales
of ages past, of deeds long done,
of Indian lore, of heroes now past.
A tribe of scouts feasting, still hungry
awaiting each bite, eager for more
the novelty of time-worn stories.
Staring into scarlet coals, I met an echo,
the ghost of a boy, an echo of me,
becoming a man before my eyes.
Into my ear, he spoke one word,
the price for this word:
it must be passed on.
The laughing smoke singed my eyes,
burning the vision upon my soul.
The campfire rejoiced, leaping and shouting
burning high with our childhood:
Urn of innocence, cauldron of youth.
Over the summers, around the flame
we laughed, we joked,
we grew up.
We danced the dance of our forefathers.
15
"Woman In Moon"
Computer Art
Mike Hastings
First Place Computer Art
16
"Untitled"
Photograph
Jerald Munk
First Place Photography
Della Notte
Robert R. Waller
First Place Poetry
He drives.
Nervously he prowls
the alleys and boulevards of the sleeping cityDying
streets named for long-dead presidents.
Quietly he searches for the fleeting satisfaction
of anonymous, purchased passion.
His frantic glances are llIet with the desperate cOllIe-on stares
and immodest proposals of the women della notte.
He drives.
His rear-view mirror rides shotgunVictimless
crime? Perhaps.
But crime 110ne-the-less.
Slowly he drives past boarded storefronts,
soap-blurred windows,
territorial markings,
all-niglzt la undries,
seedy pawn shops.
Dim memories of what once wasA
city of life, dreams, hope.
Forgotten men gather
in the parking lot of a late-night liquor store.
Quietly they share the external warmth offorbidden fire,
The internal warmth offortified wine.
Piss and vinegar hang in the early morning wind.
He drives.
He first notices her emotionless amber-green eyes
Reflecting, unblinking, knowing eyes,
not unlike those of a cat.
He maneuvers his car to the curb.
Moving with fluid grace,
she steps out of the coal-black shadows.
Saying nothing, she steps over the refuse
which fills the gutter-
And slides seductively into the familiar danger.
The heavy air is filled with sweet perfume,
electric anticipation, and musky sweat.
Partners in illicit conzmerceTogether
they drive.
17
18
Complete Perfection
Kathleen Brawn
First Place Short Story
My life had almost been perfect.
I owned a Porsche, a convertible,
and a motor home. I lived in a
mansion during the week and a
town-house on weekends. A cat, a
dog, and several horses all called
me master. My high IQ enabled me
to perform different jobs ranging
from nurse, to doctor, to scientist.
Physically, r had a figure that just
wouldn't quit: tiny waist, long
legs, large breasts. By all of society's
standards, I should have been
happy; instead, I was truly miserable.
r hated my boyfriend, Ken, who
was dumb as a doorknob. I hated
that everything I owned had a big
letter B on it. I hated the tiny high
heels r was forced to wear, and
most of all, r hated Jessica, the little
girl who controlled me. Jessica,
fondly known as Beezlebub's
daughter, was a spoiled, cruel nineyear-
old.
At least once a day someone
would get murdered acting out one
of her stories. Poor Bubble Haired
Barbie lost her head when it was
chopped off playing Marie
Antoinette. Skipper died less
painfully by drowning when Jessica
failed to empty her bath water.
Even Roughneck Ken, macho name
and all, was not immune to
Jessica's wrath. He died valiantly
hanging from the rafters of my
town-house in a supposed suicide.
I wasn't as afraid as the others.
After all, I was more mature and
expensive. Granted, my legs didn't
bend like Bend-Me-Shape-Me
Barbie, but being of old stock, I was
solid and sturdy, a rare collectible.
Jessica's mother made sure I was
gently laid to rest in my canopy
each night, insisting to Jessica that
if anything happened to me, she
would refuse to buy her another
Barbie Doll.
Because of this, Jessica changed
tactics, making my life an emotionalliving
hell. Every day she would
dress me in a seductive dress, tiny
matching high heels and couple me
with French Kissing Ken, the geek
of all Kens. He'd been with me for
several months now, mauling and
pawing my body, never once mentioning
marriage. I knew it wasn't
his fault, but the smirk on his face
told me he liked. it.
One night as Jessica slept, the
rage I'd been feeling was finally
unleashed. I climbed off my bed
and frantically ran about collecting
one of every shoe I could find.
Hiding them in the overstuffed toy
chest, I knew it would be weeks
before she could find a matching
pair to torture my feet.
Next, I sought out Wedding Day
Alan, my best friend's husband. I
knew it was wrong to want him. I
knew Midge would never forgive
me, but I was in pain and vulnerable,
so I seduced him. Later, as I
left his room, r was sickened by
what I had done. Jessica was the
one who reduced me to this. I just
wanted to be loved for who I was,
not for what I looked like.
Then I saw it, the end to all my
troubles and a sure way to stop
Jessica from ever torturing another
soul again. Tomorrow would tell
the tale, I reassured myself.
The next morning we were all
awakened by the scream of Jessica's
mother. "Jessie, how could you!
Look at what you've done."
Jessica innocently wiped the
sleep from her eyes and replied, "I
don't know what you're talking
about mother."
"Don't lie to me, little girl,"
Jessica's mother chastised. "Her
hair, Barbie's hair, you cut it!" she
shrieked.
Lying next to me in a pile, was
my beautiful, blond hair and
Jessica's little metal scissors.
"Who would want a bald Barbie,
Jessie? Huh? Answer me!" Before
Jessica could respond, her mother
continued, "No one, that's who.
Now this doll isn't worth anything!"
19
"Untitled"
Charcoal Drawing
Bursting into tears, Jessica
sobbed, "1 didn't do it. Honestly, I
didn't do it!"
Jessica's mother scooped me up
and shook me in Jessie's face as she
yelled, "00 you expect me to
believe that this doll snuck around
your room last night, found your
scissors, and in a fit of rage, cut her
own hair?" Answering her own
question, she added, "1 don't think
so!" As she bent to pick up the
mess, she didn't notice the tiny,
plastic hand print on the handle of
the scissors.
Stomping out of the room, with
me clutched in her hand, she
ordered, "Stay here Jessica, you're
grounded!"
The next few days were a blur as
I was ruthlessly thrown into a
dumpster, then retrieved by a shabbily
dressed man. The man tried to
bathe me with a dirty handkerchief
using the water from someone's
garden hose, but some of the trash
smell still lingered. The satin dress
I wore hung limp and wrinkled,
but the man smiled at me as though
I were a special treasure. Tying a
ribbon arolmd my waist, he gently
placed me in his pocket. Listening
to his sure footsteps, I knew we
were headed toward a certain destination.
It was dark in his pocket, but my
spirits were uplifted with thoughts
of a new life. I heard a car door
open and shut, and suddenly I was
thrust into the light. A little girl
stared open mouthed, with a look
of pure joy upon her face. "It's not
much Laura, but happy birthday
sweetheart," the man stammered.
"This is the best present I ever
got, Daddy!" Laura cried as she
Jeannette Wolf
First Place Fine Art
smothered his face with kisses. I
looked around at the inside of the
old beat up car and noticed the
scarce possessions neatly stacked
inside. Laura hugged me tightly to
her chest. She didn't notice my
bald head or dirty clothes; all she
saw was me. "She's so beautiful
Daddy, just like I dreamed!" Laura
whispered in awe. Feeling loved
for the first time in my existence, I
knew I had finally come home.
As we drove away to places
unknown, Laura's dad said,
"Honey, for Christmas I'll find you
an Alan doll. This Barbie looks like
she needs a real man." Laura sat
with her seat belt around both of
us, grinning, and for once, I actually
felt the smile on my face reach
my eyes.
You Never Know Where You'll Find a Hero
Jeffery Bachman
First Place Essay
20
At three years old, Sam
did not speak; he
would not play with
his toys. Most importantly, he
seemed to live in a world of his
own. Sam is my only son and my
oldest child. My wife and I had
taken him to several auditory,
developmental, and speech specialists.
These doctors diagnosed
some general problems but could
not fathom the underlying cause
for my little boy's behavior.
Finally, I arranged an appointment
with Dr. Kaplan at Phoenix
Children's Hospital. Dr. Kaplan
is a world renowned child psychiatrist
and pediatric neurologist;
we waited six months for an
appointment. Little did I know
that this appointment, his diagnosis,
and the rest of that day,
would impact all of our lives.
Sammy's appointment was at
nine in the morning, just a month
before his third birthday. It was a
drizzly, cloudy morning typical of
Arizona in early February. As we
drove to the hospital, I kept
thinking of how bad things
always seemed to happen on
rainy days. Next to me, my wife
chattered away about nothing, as
she always does when she is nervous.
When we finally arrived at
the hospital, we were rushed into
a room that seemed more like a
family room than a doctor's
office. I noticed a large window
of two-way glass. We were now
officially under observation, specimens
in a fish bowl. After about
five minutes, Dr. Kaplan walked
into the room.
He clinically examined Sam,
muttering cryptic comments to
his entourage of medical students.
In two minutes he was
able to diagnose Sammy. He
asked Sam to come over to him;
Sam slowly teetered across the
room and stopped two feet from
the doctor, not allowing the doctor
to invade his space. Sam had
flunked the final test. The doctor
then looked over to where we
were sitting. He seemed larger
than life. His gray, balding head,
impressive stature, and deep blue
eyes somehow gave me the confidence
to handle his next words.
With great coolness he said, "Mr.
and Mrs. Bachman, Sammy is
autistic. There are things we can
do to help, but autism is a severe,
lifelong disability. Autism occurs
in four of every ten thousand
births. Maybe, someday, there
will be a cure." The rest of the
appointment was a blur.
The rest of the day helped put
things in order. After being home
a few restless hours, I decided to
go into the office and try to get
some work done. When I got to
the office, the only person there
was Chuck. I had known Chuck
since I was a child. He was an
old Chicago fireman, crusty and
crass. He had always intimidated
me. Out of my grief, I told Chuck
what the doctor had said. I broke
down. No man had ever seen me
cry. Chuck listened for a long
time and then said something that
changed my life. He told me to
remember that it was Sammy that
this had happened to, not me. I
had been given a gift of a child
who would always be thrilled
with eating an ice cream cone and
holding his daddy's hand.
From that day on, our lives
have never been the same. The
appointment, the diagnosis, and
Chuck's words changed who I
was and who I wanted to become.
Up to that time, all I cared about
was making money and having
fun. I wasn't a very good father or
husband. After that day, I found
the strength hidden inside. My
wife and I worked together on
building our marriage. I became
an activist for the rights of children
with disabilities; I am now
back in school to get my special
ed uca tion certifica teo I often think
of the lyrics from Wind Beneath My
Wings:: "People say that I'm a
hero, but you're the wind beneath
my wings." Sam is now seven,
can speak a little, goes to school,
and shows talent for math. He
and I eat an awful lot of ice cream
cones. Sam is my hero and the
wind beneath my wings.
"Fruitcake"
Photograph
"Tattoo"
Photography
Alan T. Miller
Second Place Photography
Kelly Clement
"Mind Games"
Photograph
"Untitled"
Photograph
Donald C. Galloway, Jr.
Third Place Photography
Jerald Munk
21
22
"Fading"
Photograph
"Divinity"
Photograph
Kelly Clement
Kelly Clement
''Touch the Moon"
Photograph
Paul E.
Dameron
The Gift
Kathy M. Studer
Honorable Mention
Charles, known as Tiny,
sat and pondered the
list. It consisted of the
names of his three children, their
spouses, and seven grandchildren.
Thirteen. Thirteen gifts he had to
buy, and this wasn't even counting
friends. His head drooped,
and the list drifted from his hands
onto the table.
"Oh, Sarah, I miss you," he
whispered to himself. "Why did
you have to die?"
He remembered her flushed
cheeks as she came in after a daylong
shopping spree. It never
wore her out as it did him. On the
contrary, she had always appeared
rejuvenated at the bargains she
had discovered and was full of joy
from choosing that "perfect"
Christmas gift for each special person
in their lives.
Unconsciously, he rubbed the
bald spot on his head as he
retrieved the list. Tiny knew nothing
of sizes and fashions and wha t
toys were in or out this year. The
thought of the Christmas crowds
battling for a parking space, masses
pushing to get to the sales displays
first, and the unending
check-out lines made him shiver
in disgust.
As a sigh escaped Tiny's
mouth, his eyes fell on the bowl of
fruit sitting in the center of the
kitchen table. He reached over,
selected, and slowly started to
peel an orange. Juice squirted
onto his face, and the sharp, clear,
citrus smell teased his nostrils.
Time stood still for a second, as a
long hidden memory flashed
clearly across his brain and a
quick searing pain stabbed at his
heart.
Tiny was back in the tworoom
"house" of his youth. The
wind whistled and howled
around the corners and through
the walls. Old newspapers, preciously
scavenged, did their best
to block out the wind that fought
and searched with its icy fingers
to get in through the cracks. Frost
had overtaken the only window in
the room, its beautiful but deadly
design covering three-fourths of
the pane.
In a corner, a pine branch,
begged from the man at the tree
stall, stood precariously in a tin
can filled with rocks. Stolen tinsel
shimmered among its needles as
his older brother, Bill, struck a
match to light the fire in the coal
stove.
"Now, listen, when dad stumbles
in tonight, pretend to be
asleep if you're still awake. We
don't want to make him mad
tonight," Bill directed Tiny and
their younger sister, Alice.
Some warmth actually began
to radiate toward them as they
huddled together next to the
stove.
"We're lucky tonight. We've
actually got a fire. You know,
Alice, why don't you hang your
stocking on the door? I don't
think Santa can come down our
chimney while we're using the
stove," Bill said.
Bill pulled a chair over to the
door so Alice could hang up her
stocking on the hook usually
reserved for their fa ther's coa t.
Alice climbed up, hung her stocking
and Bill's sock on the hook.
Tiny watched and thought. If
he hung his stocking on the outside
of the door, well then, surely
Santa would see his first!
The next morning Tiny
jumped out of bed heedless of his
bare feet on the cold wooden floor
and raced to the door. He breathlessly
flung it open and stared in
horror as he beheld his empty
frozen sock. What had happened?
He had been a good boy
all year. Why, he had even, oh so
carefully and all by himself,
mended the toe of his best sock
before he hung it up last night.
His body tensed; he gulped
and blinked rapidly as he struggled
to hide his shame and pain.
He watched Alice take down her
stocking and empty it. A single
orange rolled out. Alice grabbed
her orange, cradled it, smelled it.
"I've been a good girl all
year."
"Hey, Tiny, I'll share mine
with you," Bill offered.
"Oh, you don't hafta. It's just
an orange," Tiny replied as he
shrugged his shoulders. He
quickly pulled on his shoes,
grabbed his jacket, and glanced at
their Christmas branch, still hoping...
hoping...no. Just like last
year, no other presents. Tiny
escaped to the snow-covered
world outside.
The whistling of the kettle
wrenched Tiny back into his own
kitchen. He arose, shuffled over
to the stove, and poured the
water for his instant coffee.
As he attempted to stir the
brown mass into something
drinkable, images of past
Christmases with Sarah and their
children flickered through his
thoughts. Piles of discarded
paper and ribbons competed for
space with toys carelessly flung
on the floor. Box after box piled
upon chairs, tables, and the sofa.
No room to sit, no room to walk.
And afterwards, the children
whining that their new toy was
broken or no one would share.
Some years the boxes were more
entertaining and fun than the toys.
Tiny lifted his head, and his
shoulders no longer drooped as
he decided what the perfect gift
for everyone would be this year.
With a spring in his step, Tiny
marched forward to accomplish
his Christmas shopping.
Christmas morning Tiny
watched as his family opened
their gifts from him. He had
asked them to save his for last.
Excited murmurings could be
heard.
"What can it be?" "I wonder
what Grandpa got me this year?"
It's too heavy for money."
Ribbons were torn off, and the
room rustled with the sound of
paper as the brightly festooned
packages were ripped open.
The room became hushed as
the last one opened her gift.
Puzzled expressions appeared on
the adult faces, and the children
struggled to appear grateful as
they beheld their oranges.
In the quiet room, a young
voice clearly rang out, "Is this all
there is, Grandpa? Is this all I
get?"
23
24
Hunt of the Gecko
Thomas M. Harris
Honorable Mention Poetry
Tiny, pied lizard
Tail of glass, bulging black eyes
Great insect hunter
Waxy green, sharp smell
Drying in desert windstorm
Quivers in the heat
It crept on gray bark
Patient past imagining
Slow, then quick, it ate
"Untitled"
Computer Art
Mike Hastings
Second Place -Computer Art
Stone Woman
Judy Blake
Honorable Mention Poetry
"Untitled"
Charcoal Drawing
Carrie Strachan
Honorable Mention Fine Art
I know a portrait of a beautiful woman
Her face is a study in cain!.
A smile of contentment graces her lips
Just a hint of the corners upturned.
No raucous grin offlashing teeth
Disturbs her image of sweetness
She is forever serene,
A model of pleasant agreement
in a world of chaos and discord.
She was carefully sculpted by a master craftsman.
Every finite detail displays his ability
to shape and define personality.
- A bit of human spirit cast into clay -
Just a tiny miracle might bring her soul to life.
Her eyes appear to speak to me
A shadowy message from another realm
Cold, trapped in this rocky chamber.
She was loved
by the man who created her.
I feel a chill of recognition.
Shaped, redefined, in attempts to please him
unable to become what he would have her be;
He left her when his work was finished.
- I am the woman become stone. -
25
26
"Untitled"
Photograph
Wagon Ruts
Richard Duncan
Night traveling in an ancient red Plymouth,
cigarettes and warm Coke for fuel.
AM radio crackles to the beat of distant lightning.
The glow on the horizon becomes a phosphorescent sea
at the crest of the hill.
Hours of black West Nebraska sky behind me.
Endless lIliles without so much as a porch light.
Ghosts of long dead, westbound travelers
wander the empty plains.
I crave people and light to
validate my suspicions of sanity.
A towering Exxon sign promises
fuel and hot coffee.
The lights draw me,
Moth to aflame.
Inside, truck drivers la IIgh and
flirt with tired waitresses.
I slide between naugahyde and Formica
in the civilian section.
Cradling the hot Clip to my face,
the steam and aroma lull and wake me.
As I sit, the din grows louder,
the lights now severe.
Sterile stainless steel and kitchen clatter
no longer comforting.
A sudden sense of urgency draws me
back to the interstate.
An hour later, the glow on the horizon
is in the rear view mirror.
The damp night wraps around the Plymouth like a cloak.
Tire whine cuts the world into where I've been
and where I'm going.
Don't Cross My Woman
Kari L. Hickman
1 met Iler at a hoe-down;
1never stood a clIn nce.
She had me in her clutches
before the second dance.
Faster than a rabbit,
like a snake, she strnck.
She picked me np like nothing
and tossed me in her tmck.
She's a IllOuntain of a WOIIInn,
ornery as a bear.
Her legs are thick as tree stumps
and covered with black hair.
But slle's pretty as a landscape
with all those hills and dales.
Her laugh can make an earthquake
that tops the RicMer scale.
Don't stare at her mustache
or laugh at her tattoo.
Keep your distance from my lady;
she'll make mincemeat out of you.
Don't cross Illy woman,
my giantess, my jewel.
You won't cross Illy woman,
unless you are afooi.
She gets blood from a turnip,
three nickels from a dime,
and eats her weight in pasta
when it comes supper time.
She's my fuJI-blown, queen-size mama,
my mighty amazon.
And when it comes to lovin',
she gives it by the ton.
"Mother Nature"
Photograph
Phil Branson
27
"Untitled"
Photograph
Cherie Lee
"Where I Am From"
Lon Raymond Jordan
Riding on a train going south,
I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
I dreamed the train was a siLver dream,
carrying me back to where I am from.
To the soiL where I was born!
Para la tierra en que naci!
Through flat dry deserts
past copper red mountains
the train advanced.
Piercing the heart of time
into the springtime ofmy youth.
,
"Passage of Time"
Photograph
Jerald Munk
Honorable Mention Photography
28
I have returned to the beginning
ofmy memories.
Childhood memories ofa mystic Land
of palo verde trees and century plants
beneath golden sunbursts.
Lavender hills and still evenings
under starry nights.
This is the land of
dark Sonoran night and white garlic moon
of whiskey and tequiLa
of biscuits and frijoLes.
Where the Blue Jay sings Lead
and the rattlesnake plays the maracas.
This is the Land of Geronimo,
of Pancho Villa and Texas John Slaughter.
Nearby in Skeleton Canyon
the sound of the outlaw rustler's hoof beats
riding south
are echoed a century Later by the roar
of the smuggler's 4-wheel-drive Blazer
going north.
This is the land where Mexicans going
north in search of work
meet Americans going south to play.
This is the Border-Esto es La Frontera.
This is the soil where 1was born.
Esto es La tierra en que naci.
"Shadows at the River"
Photograph
Niels Maclellan
1hear the familiar voice of comfort and joy
as Mother welcomes me home.
Home where I feel safest.
Home-solid grey block
with a large front door
worn like a smiLe.
It took Dad two years to build,
you can still see his fingerprints on the mortar.
In Spanish we call a house hagar
which means hearth or fireplace.
In our hagar my father let his family
know it was we who formed his fireside.
My parents never got around to painting
that grey block house.
You know they never got around
to painting themselves.
"MIS RAICES ESTAN AQUI"
(MY ROOTS ARE BURIED HERE)
Michael C. Middleton
Honorable Mention Essay
The bed was crude but sturdy
and laced with cowhide
cut into strips woven bas-ket
weave style. My Mexican friend,
Sergio, pointed as he spoke. "My
grandmother, mother, and I were
born here on that bed. Things
change, and my children were born
in a modern hospital in Hermosillo.
Mi cultura is disappearing quickly,
my friend," he said in Spanish with
his eyes lowered in sadness. He
spoke little English, and Tless
Spanish. As Tpondered over what
he'd said, he looked up. "My cOlmtry
was asleep but is slowly beginning to
wake up. Mexico is a country with
many natural resources and proud
people." I thought of the Vietnam era
in the United States. Disrespect for
the Mexican flag would result in
instant justice-at least a severe beating
by the bystanders and the police.
"Our lmiversities are teaching many
skills that will help my country modernize."
He spoke slowly-and simply-
so I'd understand.
"My friend, this ranch is over one
hundred and fifty years old and has
always belonged to my family. Let
me show you some important
places." He wasn't tall, but he was
muscular and lean. At thirty-five his
skin was weathered from enduring
the Sonoran desert sun and wind.
His black hair was beginning to turn
gray. I rushed to keep up with him,
and my heart pounded as I struggled
through the soft sand and up the
steep banks that he so easily traversed.
Little changed in one hlmdred
and fifty years. They still draw water
by hand at the well. Cooking is over
a wood fire. Ranch hands distill
bacanora (bootleg Tequila) at the
ranch house. A nineteen thirty-five
tractor, an unidentifiable pickup
truck, and two Fairbanks-Morse (one-cylinder
irrigation pumps that
haven't been used in the United
States since World War 11) are the
only modern technology. Utilities, air
conditioners, and coolers are decades
into the future and sixty miles
away-in town. Hands do all the
work.
The cook, Elvira, was patting tortillas
by hand (the heartbeat of
Mexico). "Quanto es" (how many)?
"Diez y diez" (ten and ten).
Virtually all women found on
Mexican ranches are illiterate. She
could count to ten, though, and knew
that ten rows of ten-one hundred
tortillas-was what she needed for
the next few meals.
After sunset we men sat around
the campfire. Women and children
sat elsewhere. A gallon jug of
bacanora passed from one man's
hand to the next. We chased that
throat burning elixir with beer. Elvira
sat behind me to one side. She intently
watched us gringos. An illiterate
woman in the "hills" just doesn't
socialize with rich American gringos.
All gringos are "rich." I gave her a
cold American beer periodically, but
she stayed in the shadows. Gringos
are considered crazy and capable of
doing anything-even giving a common
servant cold beer intended for
the men. She can always draw water
from the well if she's thirsty.
We sang in drunken Spanish, listened
to guitars, and drank for hours
until the ranch foreman collapsed to
the ground, unconscious. Slowly
most of us made our way toward our
cots. Very few hours later, at 5:00
a.m., the foreman was riding proficiently
in the saddle with no evidence
of a crudo (hangover). Mexican
vaqueros are muy duro (tough)!
"Mike, my wife and children
don't understand about the ranch.
It's our cultura. I've put in a solar
battery and a TV. But Hermosillo
has cars, easier work and better pay,
pizzas, and shopping. How can you
appreciate modern things unless
you've gone without them? They're
not necessary. My people lived here
for generations. They've all supported
themselves from this land. See
that cross on the hill? Yaqui Indians
lay buried there. My family wasn't
the first to live on this land."
"Four days a week I live in
Hermosillo and manage El Clochito
(The Little Clutch). I sell wholesale
auto parts. Hermosillo is the biggest
city in Sonora but one third the size
of Phoenix. I worked my way up
from an auto mechanic and started
El Clochito." Every visit Sergio
proudly shows me how he's
improved and expanded both the
ranch and El Clochito. In business
there's an expression-"You can't do
it all yourself and live very long."
My last visit, Sergio announced
El Clochito SuI (number two). "I
sold all my cows, Mike. I've kept
just enough to breed and pay
expenses. There's only two vaqueros
at the ranch. Two hundred cows
sold for about one hundred thousand
US. dollars-enough to buy my
daughter a house and me a new car.
Oscar, my brother, sold his portion
of our ranch to strangers, but I'll buy
it back. I've got to."
"My family's future is in
Hermosillo, but our culture and history
is at the ranch. Our ranch is the
place for weddings, christenings,
holidays, vacations, and simply resting.
Easter comes when the climate
is mild, and it is always special to
our whole family when we meet
each year and pray together at the
ranch. What a place for a partyhundreds
of hectares (acres).
"We can stand on the same
ground that our family has for the
last seven generations. The well
water's the same and so is the house
they lived in. Much of our ranch is
unchanged and here for my family's
future generations. Will they-my
grandchildren-ehange it? Probably,
but we all own a piece of the land
together-our land, this ranch-forever.
Mis raices estan aqui."
29
30
A Lost Love
David M. Cruz
This is for my father,
a person many would consider difficult to look at
yet, as friendly as could be.
Through crooked teeth and quad-focal eyes,
he had afriendliness about him.
At a young age, I recognized I really loved him;
yet, our commonness made us enemies.
How I wish times could return
so we could talk,
like afather and a son should have.
For as you lay there dying,
still with your sense of humor,
I could only hope
of what perhaps we could have had,
if only we weren't so much alike.
Though not educated in school,
you reflected the best education,
that of life.
Thank you for passing that on to me.
Thank you for making me see,
that even though you are gone,
you can still teach me.
So, here's to you, my Father,
My Instructor,
and dare I say,
My Model.
Thank you for being you
and letting me be you
but still be me. r;:;iV G
, (
"Heaven Bound"
Computer Art
I' r
I
, (
I
Cheryl Traughber
Third Place Computer Art
