Ellis speaks on TRAN FORMING TRANSPORTATION How do you get to campus? Do you ride the light-rail, take a bus, or drive your car? Maybe you cruise in on your bike. On Wednesday, February 23, 2010, during Vocation Chapel, transportation guru Lonnie Ellis spoke to students about the inequities that... Show moreEllis speaks on TRAN FORMING TRANSPORTATION How do you get to campus? Do you ride the light-rail, take a bus, or drive your car? Maybe you cruise in on your bike. On Wednesday, February 23, 2010, during Vocation Chapel, transportation guru Lonnie Ellis spoke to students about the inequities that exist in transportation. He also commented on his own faith journey and how he got involved in social justice. "We talk about disparities like we talk about the weather: the sky is blue, Minnesota is cold, and we have racial disparities in education, transportation, and housing," Ellis said. As new projects change the makeup of the metro, like the Central Corridor Light Rail Line, Ellis says that it is important to look at the neighborhoods that are overlooked. He noted that recent bus lines have been stripped from areas that have heavy traffic and high diversity. "These are not disparities," Ellis expressed, "they are inequities." Ellis believes that these decisions are systemic, interconnected, and interdependent. However, he does not believe that these structures are invincible. “They were built and they can be un-built," Ellis said. Ellis related this belief to a text from Isaiah, loosing the chains of injustice and untying the cords of the yoke to let the oppressed go free. "We need to shake up the power system that keeps the oppression going," Ellis stated. Ellis' experience with oppression began at a young age. He grew up in a household which had a lot of stress and very little money. In response, Ellis sought out to find a palpable fix. Alcohol and violence were outlets, but the enjoyment he experienced was always take. Through the trauma of his childhood and the struggles of others, he was forced to look seriously at the world. In his search, he saw abundance and he witnessed poverty. But the abundance was like the light breaking free in the dawn from the passage in Isaiah. It was God becoming real and stretching into overlooked, red-lined neighborhoods. When we challenge these inequities, Ellis concluded that we might he laughed at or shunned. “We must be bold," Ellis said. Peter Miller Show less
This year, new first-year students were moved into the dorms a week before the upper class students. The movein day for this year fell on September 6th, 2009. The transition from high school to college for the new students never really left room for nostalgia as Augsburg staff and students helped... Show moreThis year, new first-year students were moved into the dorms a week before the upper class students. The movein day for this year fell on September 6th, 2009. The transition from high school to college for the new students never really left room for nostalgia as Augsburg staff and students helped them move into their rooms at a fast but efficient pace and made the students participate in a full week of activities. This left them feeling "rushed, excited, and confused," according to one new student. On first arriving on the Augsburg campus, the students were shocked to see the cars lined up with parents and fellow students ready to unload their luggage. It surprised a lot of the younger students to see the football team, the big guys in Augsburg jerseys, helping unload the cars while handing out Jimmy John's sandwiches and drinks to those waiting in line. Entering their room and setting up their stuff while meeting their roommates allowed for a little breather before the week of activities began. The activities started off with naming games to get to know their fellow group mates and led to walks to different parts of town to get to know the neighbors and neighborhoods, and a day was officially committed to community service. Some of these social activities were required to receive their AugSem grade, a general required by Augsburg. Once this week was done, the upper class students also moved in and school officially started. Welcome to Augsburg, our young fellow Auggies! I hope you have had time to settle into the Augsburg routine and enjoy every minute of it. Samantha Steele Show less
~[o Auggie Days is an on-campus orientation experience for incomir first-year students designed to complement SUAR, provit opportunities to enhance academic and personal success, arr offer a-helgullraslvdntage in starting at Augsburg College. m mum 1,1 Photos by: Stephen lieffre r 7‘
MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed... Show more
MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor
Ryan Moore, Prose Editor
Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor
Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor
Cary Waterman, Advisor
2
WITH THANKS TO
Ivy Arts Copy and Print
Augsburg College Student Government
Augsburg College English Department
Augsburg College Art Department
The Echo
Augsburg Honors Program
QPA
3
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1
What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8
Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11
Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12
Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14
Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17
Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18
White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19
Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20
Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21
50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25
Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26
Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27
Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29
I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30
Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32
Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34
2
Gratitude, D.E Green ..............................................................................................................................
CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ......................................................................................................................
The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................
Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter ..........................................................................................................
Colors, Hannah Schmit ...........................................................................................................................
Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden .........................................................................................................
When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff ....................................................................................................
Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ...............................................................................................
Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ...................................................................................................................
36
38
39
41
42
43
44
46
48
The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49
After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50
Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51
Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55
Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56
Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57
El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60
The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61
Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62
Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63
Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64
Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65
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Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67
Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68
Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69
An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76
Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79
Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80
Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81
Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83
DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85
DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86
Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87
A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88
1
WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU?
Nikkyra Whittaker
On the spectrum of being black and female, we can
only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find
out what kind of black girl you really are!
1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target.
You’re playing…
a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless”
b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With
Me” or “Wildest Dreams”
c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal”
d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock”
2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing?
a. Blowing off steam on Facebook.
b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill
c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy
d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato!
3. What’s your dream home like?
a. Full of books on systemic oppression
b. Beverly Hills penthouse
c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion
d. Spacious New York Loft
8
4. Your favorite TV show is…
a. Docu-series on race
b. Sex in the City
c. Bad Girls Club
d. Love and Hip Hop
5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this
list?
a. Angela Davis
b. Taylor Swift
c. New York from I Love New York
d. Nicki Minaj
Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn
the page to find out who you really are!
If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl!
Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled
home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason
to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend
your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the
world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you
find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in
that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who
steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to
just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a
black female, possibly have? Why should you care
that your high school English teacher gives you a
C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied
it from the white man online? Why does it matter
that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases
you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,”
“cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of
this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire,
in this world, your anger means nothing.
If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo!
You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and
listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your
hair from the moment you were old enough to assert
yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your
friends were always shocked to see you bring collard
greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating
your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why
you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair
everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches
overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of
your friends how they just don’t see you as a black
girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit
the images of other black girls they see. You spend
most of your time edging away from the loud black
girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and
drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids
and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your
ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a
moment, but you did wish that you could be white.
But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s
a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t
see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the
world can’t.
9
If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho!
You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big
breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that
original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes
that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask.
You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch
in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that
men love to hate and hate to love. You became a
sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came
in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen.
They started looking at you differently, didn’t they?
Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter.
Your body became the tool used to diminish your
worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to
put on something less revealing than your shorts?
Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white
girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your
wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never
yours. You will never be yours.
10
If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl!
You make what little money you can working at
Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at
the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud
laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove
your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit
about you. When you’re out, you are often told to
stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got
baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew
up playing double dutch in the middle of the street
with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto,
your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept
yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police
spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages!
Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals
your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear
bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different.
Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to
be. You love your black too loudly and it makes
others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people
comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of
your melanin.
simul justus et peccator
andy anderson
11
QUEER
Eve Taft
You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says
“stonewall inn”?
You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair
and warn me
as I walk the streets of my city?
You think I don’t choke on the smoke
from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits
with sparks that sear and heat branding
irons
which scar your names on me to mark me as
danger?
You think my veins don’t shiver
when they think
of the devastation
wracking the cities
that some called deliverance
while Reagan fiddled
as we burned
You think that the prisons
pink triangles
asylums
bullets spitting into a nightclub
don’t whisper in my head as I make my
way through the world?
12
You think that I don’t notice—
I kiss her
and kiss her
—the headline blowing by with a death toll
and I kiss her
the skyline splashing out behind us
the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker
on and I kiss her
Putin criminalizes us, across the
world
I kiss her
Vigils held too late for young suicides
Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to
family values—
I kiss her
in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota
I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest
that shut down I-94
handed down from our grandmothers
hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive
I kiss her
You think I forget the lists and the candles and the
deaths and the pain and
all that roars in my ears is a chorus
screaming over and over again
you were not able to kill us
I kiss her
and all is still
13
JESUS IN A CRACKER
A. Tetzlaff
Eucharist
I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while
we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore
the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then
it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when
I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking
like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck.
It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt.
All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses.
All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking
their first communion despite the fact that most of
us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you
grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are
aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion
lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay,
Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a
realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but
it never went home with me. On Sundays when the
game was in town, God would not judge you for
wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was
bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to
your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at
14
that first communion. We would have appreciated it
more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual
that had been performed again and again. The
time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar
with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic
priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over
left. I’m a blonde deer again.
“The body of Christ.” This is the part where
I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then
put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must
cross myself (right hand touching head, then left
shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the
aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the
middle section, never too close to the altar. They
didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest
during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for
fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof
of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was
stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched
flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is
actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump
lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my
mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois-
ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed
without chewing.
Just go with it, I told myself. All these people
believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t
sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from
running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God
gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the
expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their
ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my
family comes out of the first communion Mass, but
I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I
hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I
felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday
late in October.
head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m
not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him.
Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the
ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen
a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside
the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being
small for my age, I circled the air below me with
my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs
under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a
silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes,
we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the
only part I heard or remember hearing; he started
talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t
pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after
admitting such a pitiful sin.
Marriage
I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place
of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell
of incense, and the light that filtered through the
stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun
became familiar and comforting over the years. The
nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’
wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons
and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a
sensory memory of that place. However, religion has
never been an inward practice; the practice and the
scene never joined together.
Anointing of the Sick
When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments
of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our
Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth
year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He
died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became
familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three
or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt
different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral
confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had
been ripped mercilessly from my arms.
Reconciliation
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the
words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt
sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew
what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of
a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his
Baptism
I sat in the shower until the water hitting my
face was colder than I could stand, reciting
the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing.
Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy
name.
I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view
15
of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused
me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron
blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t
belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get
that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith.
Confirmation
Religion was so stale, that when my Mother
would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity
and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I
thought, how can you be so blind to the real world?
Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in
an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I
can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism
and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to
laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my
Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering
Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic
church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional
value. Stale religion has no holy orders.
16
grey cloud island
david baboila
17
saint paul airport
david baboila
18
white bear lake
david baboila
19
zips coliseum
david baboila
20
BRIDGE
Jacob J. Miller
This was not way back when, as my dad would have
you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t
flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at
least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to
suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and
he a different person. He has been, after all, Born
Again. Except he was not the only person involved,
and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what
I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his
transgression was between himself and the Holy
Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to
an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority
in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance
to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past
is only what has happened at a particular point
in time, and not a factor in what determines what
has happened since then and what is happening
now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what
allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and
believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may
not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love
them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed
on to their children, which will become evident as
this story unfolds
You might be wondering, if you care at all, what
could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and
not even very uncommon, but it happened to me,
and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never
anything we could really do about it. We watched
it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit.
What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too
noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting
the beer, and getting punished even more for that.
What was scariest was when they fought with each
other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored
up. All of us children would be sitting in the living
room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded
and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having
hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties
who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and
intensely wrong. They would fight about anything,
or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would
yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw
things across the room at each other as if rehearsed.
One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking
about when I talk about how scary things got, my
21
dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one
that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he
hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the
sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin.
If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor
lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over
the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge.
As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under
him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that
point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been
encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it
can even be called that, was the only viable option.
I woke dad up most mornings from his typical
collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen
floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted
over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive
me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey
in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to
be operated—even though we used hammers and
nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of
cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods
littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if
a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication
would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials
or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been
salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from
other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up
wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually
made all this stuff? How did we move it from place
to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my
sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous
22
projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent
of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my
way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power,
and holding my breath until I could extricate myself
from this grim farce.
First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t
fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before
the support beams were all in place. I believed
him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two
sides over a raging river or anything; more of a
convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a
threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my
brother James tore partway through his leg with a
chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out
of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down,
ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from
where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog
shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that
dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline,
to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising
sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached
forward to grab the excess of sock which, although
bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey
before being completely removed. He screamed as
he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my—
whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember
what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t
assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him,
not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I
saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much
as I thought I probably should have been, and I
thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed
it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been
breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe
that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right
but I meant it more like did he think he was going to
die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became
afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until
he repeated himself more urgently:
“Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!”
I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was
trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and
I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off
drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking
right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a
big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold
with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from
a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket,
without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed
against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking
down and throwing off his equilibrium further than
the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to
regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t
notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his
attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me.
I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I
could have done that. Part of me still wished I could
have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish,
but I thought I might get slapped with the blame.
But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again,
skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on
not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me,
and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a
perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed
face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground
at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact,
but wasted no time in catapulting myself back
up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed
off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents
they bore into my face and palms, and sped back
to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound
summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded
by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which
had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return
sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if
he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my
brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over
the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which
could be heard clanging together in his pockets.
He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw
James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one
clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy,
meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing
stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward
turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’
face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned
down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned
back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open
again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself
together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever
buffoonery.
James turned out to live, no real thanks to
our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest
phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t
even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion
because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed
like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his
gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front
of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23
ing him to human shape at the coercion of some
stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far
more astonishing because it was methodologically
reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins,
and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad,
laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas
telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched
by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature
of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains
anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of
our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned
fucked up trait passed on in the family.
24
50 FEET TALL
Emilie Tomas
I was in 5th grade
When my class went
To see ‘The Human
Body’ and I watched
In childhood
Horror as
A 50 foot grin
Unfurled, loomed
Large enough
To pull me
Into orbit
Devoured
First a sandwich
And then my
Faith in humanity
With deafening
Smacks
Like thunder
If thunder
Was made
Of jelly and
Dismay and I
Knew it was a
Crime to allow a
Person to become
This
Inflated,
With every pore
Its own path to
Hell and I knew
I couldn’t trust
Anyone because
In our heads
We are all
50 feet tall.
25
meow you see
ashley waalen
26
MOUSETRAP
Halle Chambers
Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was
invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her
safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now,
almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if
someone did make it up here, she could easily get
away.
If she crawled rough the window, she’d be
securely locked in the apartment. There, it was
warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her
daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir”
wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy.
He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows
what in the “family business,” but he would be back
soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now.
If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down
to street level in seconds and be down the block
in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid
getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet.
That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older
brother, had taught her. With the life they lived,
it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call
her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast…
very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie
could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father”
had given him out of town till this weekend, and
she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual
head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either.
If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be
on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had
often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t
known till six years into her still short life that he’d
done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister
away from their father’s sight when the man would
come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t
known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s
hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she
and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her
each constellation was that Cobie was braver than
Orion and that she and her brothers were more
inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world
went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father
had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a
queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him,
Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or
so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years
gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie
27
was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the
roo, not alone.
She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s
wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by
a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a
reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought
by a brother who was likely never coming home
again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at
all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic
panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind.
For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped.
28
faces
connie kilppen
29
*I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED
Diamonique Walker
Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know
I don’t belong
Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t
consider my brown skin or kinky hair
I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being
made into an example fall back to the depths of my
mind
My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur
to me
I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s
identity
confidence
As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock
black girl names when they look at me
He asks me if my hair is real
I tell him he can’t ask me that
He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black
I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens
Trying to blend in, trying to live my life
I breathe, momentarily
Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked
Stabbed in the chest
Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the
face
An unsolicited violation of my personal space
A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white
amazement
Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to
me and not anyone else
I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter
30
*Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen
WHERE I AM FROM
Hannah Schmit
I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady
Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life
of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my
bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the
cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live
in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn
cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling
with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch
welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience
and nurturing.
I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in
my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement
that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my
kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my
prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted
bark and branches to survey the world and breath
in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my
crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people
were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs
filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies
and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity.
I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried
grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves
that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The
gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to
brown under the autumn sun.
I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the
time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine
white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded
for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be
counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids
and scars, each a story unique unto itself.
I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my
veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the
muted silence of holding my breath. From letting
go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the
haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in
early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified
earth, protecting the last of the dawn.
I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock
31
my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories.
Treasured memories that float fragmented in my
mind,
I was waltzing with my darling…
Goodnight, Irene…
Then sings my soul…
Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit
sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my
personality.
The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind.
My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced
through recitals and music competitions. My history
is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the
metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a
musty accordion.
I am from survivors. From broken families and lives
I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the
ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught
compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege.
A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo,
and relentless nightmares that went unspoken.
Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I
have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness.
I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first
and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to
fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test
my own strength.
I am from fading memories. From sweat and
ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is
a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with
love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun
and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to
the land of a generation gone by.
I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried
dreams. From the fjords and
32
I am from strength. From weary hands that sought
to move forward. From songs crooned in different
tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives.
I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn
brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales
of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the
canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane
keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized
rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners.
I am from loss and tears.
I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from
steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am…
The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with
snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are
the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me.
Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait
patiently, longingly for me to recall.
future. I seek not where I am going only
exist here, as I am.
I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for
the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible
desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the
stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable.
I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions.
Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am
grounded in the church yet growing in the temple
and the mosque.
I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to
give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and
protect. I am a collection of places and people that I
have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience.
I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed
from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves
call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am
at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows
no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that
exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down
forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow
out from under me and cloud the clarity of the
33
who am i?
ashley waalen
34
2
GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS
D.E. Green
1. Le Chaim
2. In Praise of Delusion
Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star:
your red head radiates strange aerial spikes.
When he walks down the sloping skyway from
Memorial
to the Music building on his way to a long evening
class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom
window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger
than his sixty years.
The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the
Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of
an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance)
good-looking.
Of course as man and image converge, his Other
shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather
compact, little old man.
Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself.
Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions.
Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks
on a head never bowed in prayer hover
over his guitar and, till he gets it just so,
a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old
pup,—
his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal
you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand
gently
strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently
because the movie has ended well—a good death,
timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed
breath.
36
3. Thanksgiving
4: To My Son
This morning, as I drive
from Northfield to Hampton
past field after barren field,
three wild turkeys
foraging and gobbling
at the edge of the road—
their white-splashed wings,
black-feathered trunks,
It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how
much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t
say it often enough though I feel it every minute)
and how much I miss you and hope you can spend
a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend
in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz
that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense
of how strong you are: How much you have been
through, how far you’ve come, and how you face
each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter
is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I
sometimes sit around and whine about our work,
about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be
walking across campus and the light will be just right
and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young
people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think
that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you
up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy
stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still
be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?—
filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among
whom I am about to number, have proverbially been
beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned
word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are
among the wonders of my world.
red combs poking
and pecking the gravel
and weeds—surprise me.
I flinch.
The car swerves.
I breathe.
They range unruffled.
37
work in progress
gabriel bergstrom
38
THE FIRE
Elisabeth Beam
I stood with my back to the crowd watching the
house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had
expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire
to spread from the kitchen to the living room and
even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into
the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had
been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his
face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in
a sickeningly gleeful smile.
Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a
troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away
from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I
first met him he would bring me friends and make
me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter,
and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all
run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t
like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter
always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled
shrieks always brought a smile to his face.
Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the
chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the
floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead
things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once
he brought a live snake into the house and slipped
it into the shower when Momma was in it. She
screamed something awful and had locked me in
my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s
wicked tricks.
Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house
after that. She brought in men wearing long white
coats who talked with me and asked questions about
Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind
them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t
understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew
frustrated with their questions.
Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit.
He walked around the house mumbling in a strange
language, throwing water on the walls and waving
his cross around like a baton. I thought he was
crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and
sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his
strange way and holding his cross on my forehead.
It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got
upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was
39
shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the
floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was
laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers
showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what
he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma
and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as
the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s
gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams.
Grandma came after Momma. She was mean.
She locked me in my room and told me to stay
there until I learned my lesson. I watched him
stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to
himself. Grandma made me to go church with her
every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for
what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t
understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks
and was tired of being punished for all the naughty
things that he did.
One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the
twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and
yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the
twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I
pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might.
This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel
told me they were going to send me away. They
would separate us and I would never be able to see
him again. I told him I was fine with that because he
was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate
Snowy. I cried. He laughed.
Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could
stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do
40
something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to
the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me
to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter.
I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried
to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the
times Momma blamed me for something he did.
That if I did this everyone would finally realize it
was him doing all the bad things and not me. My
hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to
get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and
stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered
with every shuttering breath that came out of my
mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter
out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a
large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light.
My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down
my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the
fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and
danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but
his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was
frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t
want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was
going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed
my hand and led me outside.
We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly
ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that
the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in.
Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my
side for Joel, but he had disappeared.
DESERT DRUMS
Abigail Carpenter
When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested
we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing
the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting
the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we
quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable
Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local
drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert.
After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the
sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near
our camp, and I realized a place that once only
existed in my dreams was now before me.
I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened
them over and over again until I was sure of it. I
had to reach down and let the sand fall between my
fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening
air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the
sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands
and thousands of them.
When the drum circle began, I let its music
fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher,
tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms
and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and
when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter.
My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it
was miles and miles away.
I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and
watched my friends dance around the fire to the
beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down
as their hands joined the ashes flying through the
night air.
For many hours, we sat around the fire, told
our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced
and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We
slept under the stars among the silence of the desert
for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the
horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the
sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus
to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up
whole.
41
COLORS
Hannah Schmit
If I am a color call me red
The color of passion and love
Humanity worn on my sleeve
The color of my blood, beating heart.
Call me red.
If I am a season call me fall
With baited chilled breath I speak
My words on whirlwind breezes fall
An omen of changes to come
Call me fall.
If I am a sound call me silence.
The chaos and stillness of calm
My words lost yet encompassing
In anticipation of something
Call me silence
If I am a thought call me hope
The desire for something more
A yearning call deep within me
The need to breathe
Call me hope.
42
urban delight
jazmin crittenden
43
WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE
A. Tetzlaff
“Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice
broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between
us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that
communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at
the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space
well.
Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my
childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless
we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline
rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time.
But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue
t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or
spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills
rose nakedly as we quietly approached.
I’ve come back to the memory time and again;
the images are blurred, like a positive photograph
that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly.
I can’t recall how my father responded to my
question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t
shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t
remember a man who loved me and was so dearly
loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside
from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed,
44
yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to
work like Dad?
When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work.
He woke up around five in the morning in order to
be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the
fact that no one expects him in the office till eight.
I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell
the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives
of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and
pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On
the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne.
Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was
either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken
time away to grieve.
I don’t remember the call to our corded
telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling
Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart
attack while showering. I don’t know if he died
immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold,
and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking
the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m
vain enough to assume so––grandparents always
think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I
can only hope.
At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember
Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She
keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower
garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park
that summer day deep in my mind.
Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long
as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a
miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to
tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.”
Christopher, my younger and only brother,
inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises.
He was born the year after my grandfather died.
Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my
grandfather was a Marine in the 60s.
During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the
collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet.
I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the
artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and
each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct
now.
The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far
less valuable to me than those of my travels––those,
at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have
memories attached of the real thing.
I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and
objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory
of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that
brings him back to me like the early morning scent
of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the
hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time
washed away my grandfather.
45
SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS
Elisabeth Beam
When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money.
But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at
the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street
from the elementary school. You know, the kind
of motel that charges by the hour instead of night.
She hated it but it was close to school and paid just
enough. Around November she would start picking
up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more
money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill
always went up mid-October when the chill started
to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were
always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah
was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All
of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of
money. Money we just didn’t have.
One year there was a huge blizzard and they
canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at
the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care
of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom
had to stay home from work and look after us. She
tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out
about the money, but I knew she was. She would
pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to
46
herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake
her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed.
I always noticed when she got like that. A week of
work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the
gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a
week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill
was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and
get food stamps. So money that would normally go
towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast.
We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that
Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of
my life. The day before school let out our landlord
took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it
was due to be replaced and that someone would be
over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s
the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he
had happily told us. No one came. The floor was
cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking
up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small
red dots appeared throughout the house as we all
made the mistake of stepping in the living room
without socks.
Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one
that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small
fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It
was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches
were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of
the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it
couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones
out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d
taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily
placed string lights. We put an old family picture at
the top of the tree because we were too scared that
our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break
if we tried to stick her up there.
Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty
looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best
thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on
the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking
at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was
a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I
thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on
a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be
able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before
me.
For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music
and ran around the living room twirling and waving
our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow
found time to make new flannel pajamas for both
me and Sarah and we had immediately put them
on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d
found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty
but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted
patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The
dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree
and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t
what made that night so special. It was that we were
all together, making the most out of what we had
and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as
we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls
and shitty Christmas trees.
47
summer nights
adam ruff
48
the people united
adam ruff
49
after the hike
adam ruff
50
CRUMBS
Malena Larsen
He’s looking for love
In the crevices of his couch
Like loose change.
I saw him lift up the cushions
And pull out crumbs
His mother’s earring
A quarter
The spoon he dropped last week
After eating ice cream out of the container.
It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing.
I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket
and the spoon back in the cushions.
I told him I had been in love once
And he said
I like it when girls call me daddy.
I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up.
I became a spoon in the couch cushion
Who said words like
Daddy
And
Fuck me
And
Hard.
At the end of every night I was put back with the
crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there
was more cat hair or lint stuck to me
I waited patiently
Dirty
For him to pick me up.
It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped
getting me from the cushions.
He told me that he found somebody to love and we
can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I
asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was
in love with somebody.
The inside of my ribcage
Was being scraped empty
51
Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container
And my stomach hurt
Like it did after the dream
Where he wasn’t mine
I can’t help it.
He told me.
I like it when girls call me daddy.
When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked
like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I
didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend
when I was drunk.
Across the table
On the other side of red cups
And puddles of water
He stared at me
In a grey tank top.
His eyes
And arms
Were strong
52
And dark.
Making eye contact felt like sex
And he smelled like Fireball
And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with
And too much cologne.
We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep.
He took off his shirt
I kept mine on.
The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep
his body covered for too long. He picked me up and
folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into
the 6 am summer sweet lake water.
He drove me home
At 7 am
Still drunk and
Smitten.
It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let
him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat.
I couldn’t wait anymore
He told me
In the house that smelled like
Liquor and dust
And damp wood.
The first time we
Fucked
Was in the front seat of his
White Pontiac Grand prix
At 11 pm on a Tuesday.
I saw him almost
As an animal.
His fists
Were clenched
And his eyebrows
Like shelves
Over his beetle eyes.
Do you like fucking daddy?
After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom
because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he
was the best fuck and that he could make me cum
and that I should call him
Daddy.
I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I
was a dirty spoon it had only been called love.
His eyes started to remind me
Of Tiny
Round
Black beetles.
There’s nobody else anymore
We should just keep fucking.
And when we fucked
It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to
my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told
me
I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants
and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then
put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of
53
his couch
Where he keeps looking for love
Like it’s the loose change
In his back pocket.
54
bloomed
audrey campbell
55
pruned
audrey campbell
56
HERMAN
Danny Polaschek
Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and
landed in scattered droplets down the front of his
white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting
down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon
and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the
kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman
—but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he
wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child
looks through a window and, seeing nothing but
gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that
day.
As Herman sat there facing the white wall and
chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen
and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the
coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind
him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman
assumed had to be walking laps around the center
island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout.
Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end
the footsteps stopped as well.
Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic
mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started
and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed,
monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice.
“How are the flakes this morning, Dad?”
Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but
continued with what he was doing, looking like a
cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in
between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.”
Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up
from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away
when he noticed that his father was still turned away
from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another
sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep
pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee
mug in hand.
A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down
his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman
scooted himself back from the kitchen table and
slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for
balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to
steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had
57
missed a stair descending to the basement and found
himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way
until crashing to a stop on the last few steps.
Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to
time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination
by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for
support and then flinging himself to another sturdy
checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached
his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from
vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful.
With his feet finally under him, legs steady,
Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and
launched himself to the kitchen counter, which
caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over,
Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before
beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble
counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end.
“This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted.
Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped.
With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to
the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He
couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was
looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug—
one of the only things worth bringing with when he
moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling
around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman
eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished
itself by having only half of a handle still attached.
With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and
middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and
brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on
the counter with a soft “clink.”
Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this
58
point, and wished for a moment that he had listened
to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,”
the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use
it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take
the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to
walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I
don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time
someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was
always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to
change that.
Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this
same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost
seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who
was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home,
and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly
make it to the opposite end of the room without
feeling fatigued.
Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed
in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had
five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for
the final stretch, determined to get there even if it
killed him.
With a focused balance and patient, shuffling
steps Herman managed to get to the end of the
counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and
a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up
ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on
pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after
his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot
and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops
remained rolling around in the bottom.
Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his
brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small,
tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter,
Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing
his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s
hands were visibly trembling and he was having
a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the
counter. He contemplated making more coffee but
dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he
could not remain standing and moving around the
kitchen much longer.
Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and
could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples
and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up
and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it
shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers
and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen,
the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass.
Herman heard footsteps drumming down the
staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in
the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces
of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened?
Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands
on his knees. He was struggling for breath now,
and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In
between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You
didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a
bitch.”
His son stood there eyeing first his father and
then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit.
He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned
to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and
returned a minute later with broom in hand. He
began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug
into a dustpan.
After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back
into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping
under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone
last night,” he said.
Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood
and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow
at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated.
His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes
trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.”
59
EL BARRIO SUYO
Chad Berryman
El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los
vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una
casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas
ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los
lamentos penosos de sus hijos.
Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un
parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él
Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches
del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido
insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para
descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable.
Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y
ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro.
Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara
la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras
acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su
hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a
la casa sin otra palabra.
El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto
la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos.
60
No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa
canto los himnos con risa bendita
no tengo nada salvo alma amada
y sin despedida no hay la llegada
THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD
Chad Berryman
The frigid air wrapped around the man like a
blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own
neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him.
As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house,
complete with flowers and giant windows, he could
make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children.
The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in
which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod
of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers
past filled his mind, nights in which the bench
had not offered insults or accusations but rather a
consoling place of rest while he presented it with the
gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench
froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and
neither could provide the other with any relief.
He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the
driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded
expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung
sigh. The two entered the house without another
word.
As the wandering man continued walking, the
snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune
he commenced to hum in time with his steps.
I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush
in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive
there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved
for without a farewell one could never arrive
61
ODYSSEY
Eve Taft
Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind
Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin
James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates?
Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation
Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind
Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament
Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature
You spoke with your soul to our souls
Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink
I understand you, “life is many days”
I understand you, “god is a shout in the street”
I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same”
You understand me “everything speaks in its own way”
Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland
Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism
Now as free of rigid form
As Ireland of England
62
postcards from my bedroom
audrey campbell
63
postcards from my bedroom
audrey campbell
64
COUNTING SHEEP
Danny Polaschek
What can you do
when the world is asleep?
Go to sleep too?
I’ve counted all my sheep.
They jumped through the air
gliding for 5 or 6 feet
cleared the fence and then flew
with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however
on these aerial sheep antics
because far away in the distance
was a sight oh so fantastic.
A blue house, with a single light on
in the window sat a girl
a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn.
I looked up at her
and she down at me
addicted to the eyesight
too distracted to count sheep.
65
3
sky nights
keeyonna fox
67
inner self
keeyonna fox
68
VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE
Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk
Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal
point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were
sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills
until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We
walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we
turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought
we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence.
Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the
cold.
~
He was outrageously tall.
He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and
he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor.
Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an
image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone
who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated
me.
I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want
in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of
his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens
behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I
didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in
town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He
was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness.
I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After
discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became
nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept
me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept
me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t
tell you about functional depression: you can feel
like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words
people will stop asking questions.
He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good
price. I had never met him but I figured what the
hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark,
long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking
lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I
was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy
Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a
parking spot a few yards away from me. The man
driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We
69
made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got
my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side
window.
“You Nikita?” I said.
He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to
know.
“You can call me Kita.”
~
He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they
were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did
he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs
together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking
about life and what we crave. He told me that he
was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think
anything of it.
Before long we saw each other every day. He was
a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the
morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight
in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in
a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about
things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He
told me he struggled with his relationship with his
father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled
with eating disorders since I was thirteen.
We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke
cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we
smoked.
70
“You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I
smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.”
His mother loved me. She thought that I was
spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She
did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very
clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long
curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would
lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick
and powerful. She had run away to the United
States when she was twenty-one and seven months
pregnant with her first son. Nikita.
“Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your
name.”
He smiled when he answered.
“My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’”
he said.
Oh Kita,
you have no victory.
You are the secret I keep from my mother
the hidden disease that projectile vomits
and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth.
Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret,
your secrets so dark and beautiful
and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers.
His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting
people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her
home country of Ukraine and according to the
story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant
personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she
was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According
to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not
ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her
way to America to create a life of victory and hope.
He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello
and came in and that was the last that I understood.
The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me.
He taught me how to say
Hello
(Privet)
Yes
(da)
No
(net)
And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent
almost the entire time we were there trying to help
his grandmother set up a new movie streaming
program on her computer. I know nothing about
computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was
overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my
nervous sweat more noticeable.
She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it
was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest
to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita
would translate for me. I wanted to leave.
After we left his grandmother’s house he told me
to wait in his car while he talked privately with his
grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t
question it. I played mindless games on my phone
while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that
they were talking about me, but I continued to deny
it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing
anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then.
When he returned to the car I asked what they had
talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.”
I paused, then asked him to elaborate.
“She likes you,” he said. And that was that.
How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who
never explicitly spoke a word to me.
~
Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after
his father.
Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with
tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that
would make you look twice. He lived in a nice,
expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who
was twenty years younger than him. Apparently
that was a theme.
Kita had only seen his father a handful of times
in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend
some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have
too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he
went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall,
thin, and handsome. His father noticed this.
“So what happened?” I asked him one day.
71
Kita shrugged.
“He kicked me out and I came back to the states,”
he said without a flinch.
He said this as though it was a commonality.
“He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as
he lit a cigarette.
There was a very long, uncomfortable silence.
“Did you?” I asked.
He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured
out of his mouth.
“No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to
listen to a sixteen year old.”
~
“I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.”
“Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where
there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you
look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.”
He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine.
He insisted that I learn all that I could about the
Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable
articles daily. Through him I learned about the
importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights
that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and
2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his
people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed
with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered
in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.”
His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields
of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes
lit up every time he got angry.
Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes.
We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets
and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was
late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which
were both off and hidden somewhere in the room.
He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His
eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed
home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good.
“Where in Ukraine?” I asked.
“Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my
shirt.
“Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of
flowers.”
“What kind of flowers?”
72
~
I squirm away and pull my shirt down.
“Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still
taste the salt in my mouth.
“You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain
in his voice.
My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for
my stomach again and once again I’m backing away.
We get into the car and drive to the gas station.
I say that I need to go use the restroom. While
Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small
Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground
and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my
finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet.
As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his
car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita
looks at me quizzically.
“You okay?” he asks me.
My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my
breath is putrid.
“I’m fine,” I say with a smile.
~
The elevator door was so cold against my cheek.
I watched the red numbers blink as they rose.
8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey,
my ears started ringing and throbbing.
11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my
wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I
watched them push my key into my apartment door
I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my
living room window. I closed the door behind me
and collapsed on the ground.
“Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the
screen of my phone.
“I just haven’t eaten a lot today.”
There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear
in my heart. Fear I had not known.
“When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice.
I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate
the truth.
“I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly.
“What did you eat?” His reply was sharp.
I was shaking.
“I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a
quivering voice.
I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh.
“How many times have we talked about this?” He
exclaimed.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry…”
It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him
again.
“Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that
can’t even take care of herself ?”
“What am I going to tell my friends?”
“You’re not even trying.”
I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all
from my bed from which I could not move.
My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy
to remove it.
“So what are you going to do about this?” There
was intense spite in his words.
With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?”
He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed
73
at my pain.
“And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my
friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who
can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead.
Maybe that’ll help you change.”
I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach
kept whispering “never again, never again,
never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic
because it reminded me of eating.
I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked
outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of
cigarettes.
~
Months go by. Months.
I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had
never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few
shirts and two pairs of pants.
“My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,”
he said.
I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus
on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of
the bed, staring at me. I started to cry.
“Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without
breaking focus.
I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had
grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted
flower petals.
74
“Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to
the wilted pile.
“My father won’t like them,” he said.
Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his
bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled
against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked
my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but
not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita
sighed too.
“Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice.
“If I ever treat you like my father treats women,
please leave me.”
~
I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian.
“я люблю тебя.”
Ya lyublyu tebya.
~
My fingers were bones.
Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it
brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t
like when other people noticed me.
He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to
do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would
say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he
would tell me he was disappointed.
I lived with three men at the time, something that
Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few
days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my
roommates. If I was spending too much time with a
friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him.
He sent me articles outlining how to be a better
partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me
to be the best that I could be. The screaming and
hour-long phone calls were footnotes.
You stripped me of my dignity and told me,
“This is what you have.”
Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares
Your titanic stature collided with my glacier
and though you claim I sank you
You were a behemoth and I was a stone.
At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me.
My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of
the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of
dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I
did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of
my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled
Ukraine.
My goodbyes have been said,
These addictions fed.
It’s the cost that comes with the sickness.
And your screams won’t be heeded anymore.
75
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS
Halle Chambers
When we are little, even before we can speak
We are told that we’re special and that we’re
unique.
That we all are made different and that none are
the same
Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame.
And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside,
That what makes us different is not something to
hide.
But then quite soon after, things start to change;
The word “different” stops meaning “special” and
starts meaning “strange.”
We’re sectioned off from our average peers
In our own little category and told,
“you belong here,”
And then different is bad and normal is good,
And for the different ones, nothing is working the
way that it should
The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been
shown
All we know is that we do not like being lost on
our own.
76
So once again we are taken away
To a place where things makes sense again and
we’re ok:
Where no one hurts us,
Where no one can see,
Where no one deserts us,
Where we can be free.
But because the un-specials can’t see what goes
on,
They decide to make things up and get so much
wrong.
And it’s happened for years because they can’t see
through that door.
So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong
anymore.
It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right;
They judge each special kid by their stereotype.
But today that will end.
So you sit there and you wait,
cause it’s about time someone set the dang record
straight.
You probably think that this poem won’t cut it,
But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you
dare shut it!
To start, let’s be clear:
I am...I was in Special Ed.
But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean
I’m brain dead!
So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me!
Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see:
If I need your help, I will tell you I do.
Just please,
Please don’t mock me.
In my place, would you want me to mock you?
“Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on
her!”
Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur.
I’m not invalid
So don’t play that card.
Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive,
But I’m not, and I quote,
“A little retard.”
Yeah, I’ve been called names.
And those words?
They hurt.
They catch in the center,
In your pit of self worth.
And they tear and they rip,
And those words are collective.
Soon you start to believe that you are defective.
I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly,
I actually prefer the straight up bullies
To those who pretend to like me.
Fake friends and two-faces
Of all genders and races.
They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see
me cry.
Or they use me,
abuse me,
Oh, how they confuse me!
Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie.
“Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!”
And because I don’t know better, I believe this.
But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid,
They just wanna make me look stupid.
For their entertainment, they make me play the
77
fool;
They pretend that they care for me
When they’re really just cruel.
It takes time and takes work to make you forget;
Even now, I’m not quite there yet.
I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be
home,
And yet here I am, still feeling alone.
I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end;
I still have to ask if someone’s my friend.
I say one thing and mean another;
I make a mistake,
But you take it verbatim.
Can’t you cut me a break?
If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost,
Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost.
Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain,
So please just take a minute to explain.
Do these quirks make me broken?
Is there something wrong with me?
The way society has spoken,
There would seem to be.
78
Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young
women and men.
I don’t like being defective....
Can I be special again?
SOREX PALUSTRIS
Emilie Tomas
Did they name you for
Your wit, pointed
Nose of pointed judgement
Who brought us fire;
five to seven inches of shrewd truth?
Or was it your mischief
That Inspired them? Your
Presence followed by screams
And a three inch tail.
I saw your likeness on a stage,
Dirt in place of your midnight coat
Though she is reformed now.
Perhaps it was the gleam in your
Eyes; whispered fortunes and
A summer of silver birth.
Maybe you are a messenger
Of God, somehow in your Eighteen
months you learned to walk
On water, the second coming
Of Christ.
79
woodsy adam ruff
gabriel bergstrom
80
WORDS
Malena Larsen
The bathroom wall was covered in words.
Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and
names with hearts around them. His body
looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and
slumped against the door. His head hung to his
right shoulder and his mouth was open like he
was about to say something but was interrupted.
There was blood running down his left arm like
a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin.
The words that he had heard her say several
hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter.
“It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m
sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her
apartment when she said it. She knew he had
been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days
of treatment and one week in a sober house on
Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was
twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked
clean and strong; there was no more grey in his
cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance
that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her
the difference between wrong and right and that
she should stay in on the weekends. His family
couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were
of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just
seem so much better?” She would answer with yes
but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to
make mistakes. His family had a party after he got
out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying
things like, “Men in this family have always been
strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His
grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt
that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He
didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf
or the way she agreed with everything he said
without a second thought.
As he sat on the bathroom floor the words
she had said were getting quieter and quieter.
They were almost gone. He had been sober for
thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t
feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay
loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was
waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so
proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his
life without her.
Long after her words had faded completely,
the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the
floor. His head hitting hard against the tile.
81
“Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door
yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his
phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed
over to where the man was dialing. A young man
pushed past the group of people.
“Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on
the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out
something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into
the arm of the body that was needle free. People
gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang
in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked
up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck
and love and song lyrics and names with hearts
around them. He looked up at the group of people.
“It’s not working,” he said.
82
MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE
Danny Polaschek
Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet
in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like
a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his
teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty
playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge
and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on
his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through,
Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her
hair scratching and tickling his neck.
When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this
exact same bench many times with his mother.
They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks
away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would
say and Malcolm would make it his mission to
jump and bunny-hop the whole way there.
When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting
together on the narrow, wooden bench. After
each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his
mother to let him go play, to which she would give
in once she herself had Show less
MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed... Show more
MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor
Ryan Moore, Prose Editor
Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor
Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor
Cary Waterman, Advisor
2
WITH THANKS TO
Ivy Arts Copy and Print
Augsburg College Student Government
Augsburg College English Department
Augsburg College Art Department
The Echo
Augsburg Honors Program
QPA
3
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1
What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8
Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11
Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12
Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14
Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17
Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18
White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19
Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20
Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21
50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25
Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26
Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27
Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29
I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30
Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32
Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34
2
Gratitude, D.E Green ..............................................................................................................................
CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ......................................................................................................................
The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................
Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter ..........................................................................................................
Colors, Hannah Schmit ...........................................................................................................................
Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden .........................................................................................................
When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff ....................................................................................................
Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ...............................................................................................
Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ...................................................................................................................
36
38
39
41
42
43
44
46
48
The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49
After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50
Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51
Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55
Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56
Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57
El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60
The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61
Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62
Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63
Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64
Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65
3
Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67
Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68
Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69
An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76
Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79
Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80
Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81
Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83
DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85
DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86
Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87
A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88
1
WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU?
Nikkyra Whittaker
On the spectrum of being black and female, we can
only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find
out what kind of black girl you really are!
1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target.
You’re playing…
a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless”
b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With
Me” or “Wildest Dreams”
c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal”
d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock”
2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing?
a. Blowing off steam on Facebook.
b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill
c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy
d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato!
3. What’s your dream home like?
a. Full of books on systemic oppression
b. Beverly Hills penthouse
c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion
d. Spacious New York Loft
8
4. Your favorite TV show is…
a. Docu-series on race
b. Sex in the City
c. Bad Girls Club
d. Love and Hip Hop
5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this
list?
a. Angela Davis
b. Taylor Swift
c. New York from I Love New York
d. Nicki Minaj
Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn
the page to find out who you really are!
If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl!
Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled
home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason
to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend
your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the
world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you
find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in
that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who
steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to
just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a
black female, possibly have? Why should you care
that your high school English teacher gives you a
C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied
it from the white man online? Why does it matter
that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases
you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,”
“cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of
this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire,
in this world, your anger means nothing.
If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo!
You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and
listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your
hair from the moment you were old enough to assert
yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your
friends were always shocked to see you bring collard
greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating
your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why
you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair
everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches
overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of
your friends how they just don’t see you as a black
girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit
the images of other black girls they see. You spend
most of your time edging away from the loud black
girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and
drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids
and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your
ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a
moment, but you did wish that you could be white.
But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s
a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t
see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the
world can’t.
9
If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho!
You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big
breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that
original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes
that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask.
You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch
in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that
men love to hate and hate to love. You became a
sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came
in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen.
They started looking at you differently, didn’t they?
Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter.
Your body became the tool used to diminish your
worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to
put on something less revealing than your shorts?
Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white
girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your
wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never
yours. You will never be yours.
10
If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl!
You make what little money you can working at
Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at
the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud
laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove
your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit
about you. When you’re out, you are often told to
stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got
baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew
up playing double dutch in the middle of the street
with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto,
your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept
yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police
spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages!
Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals
your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear
bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different.
Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to
be. You love your black too loudly and it makes
others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people
comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of
your melanin.
simul justus et peccator
andy anderson
11
QUEER
Eve Taft
You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says
“stonewall inn”?
You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair
and warn me
as I walk the streets of my city?
You think I don’t choke on the smoke
from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits
with sparks that sear and heat branding
irons
which scar your names on me to mark me as
danger?
You think my veins don’t shiver
when they think
of the devastation
wracking the cities
that some called deliverance
while Reagan fiddled
as we burned
You think that the prisons
pink triangles
asylums
bullets spitting into a nightclub
don’t whisper in my head as I make my
way through the world?
12
You think that I don’t notice—
I kiss her
and kiss her
—the headline blowing by with a death toll
and I kiss her
the skyline splashing out behind us
the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker
on and I kiss her
Putin criminalizes us, across the
world
I kiss her
Vigils held too late for young suicides
Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to
family values—
I kiss her
in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota
I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest
that shut down I-94
handed down from our grandmothers
hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive
I kiss her
You think I forget the lists and the candles and the
deaths and the pain and
all that roars in my ears is a chorus
screaming over and over again
you were not able to kill us
I kiss her
and all is still
13
JESUS IN A CRACKER
A. Tetzlaff
Eucharist
I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while
we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore
the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then
it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when
I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking
like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck.
It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt.
All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses.
All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking
their first communion despite the fact that most of
us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you
grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are
aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion
lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay,
Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a
realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but
it never went home with me. On Sundays when the
game was in town, God would not judge you for
wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was
bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to
your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at
14
that first communion. We would have appreciated it
more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual
that had been performed again and again. The
time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar
with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic
priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over
left. I’m a blonde deer again.
“The body of Christ.” This is the part where
I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then
put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must
cross myself (right hand touching head, then left
shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the
aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the
middle section, never too close to the altar. They
didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest
during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for
fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof
of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was
stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched
flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is
actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump
lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my
mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois-
ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed
without chewing.
Just go with it, I told myself. All these people
believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t
sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from
running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God
gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the
expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their
ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my
family comes out of the first communion Mass, but
I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I
hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I
felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday
late in October.
head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m
not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him.
Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the
ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen
a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside
the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being
small for my age, I circled the air below me with
my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs
under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a
silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes,
we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the
only part I heard or remember hearing; he started
talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t
pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after
admitting such a pitiful sin.
Marriage
I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place
of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell
of incense, and the light that filtered through the
stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun
became familiar and comforting over the years. The
nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’
wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons
and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a
sensory memory of that place. However, religion has
never been an inward practice; the practice and the
scene never joined together.
Anointing of the Sick
When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments
of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our
Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth
year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He
died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became
familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three
or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt
different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral
confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had
been ripped mercilessly from my arms.
Reconciliation
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the
words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt
sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew
what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of
a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his
Baptism
I sat in the shower until the water hitting my
face was colder than I could stand, reciting
the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing.
Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy
name.
I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view
15
of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused
me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron
blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t
belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get
that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith.
Confirmation
Religion was so stale, that when my Mother
would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity
and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I
thought, how can you be so blind to the real world?
Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in
an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I
can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism
and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to
laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my
Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering
Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic
church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional
value. Stale religion has no holy orders.
16
grey cloud island
david baboila
17
saint paul airport
david baboila
18
white bear lake
david baboila
19
zips coliseum
david baboila
20
BRIDGE
Jacob J. Miller
This was not way back when, as my dad would have
you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t
flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at
least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to
suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and
he a different person. He has been, after all, Born
Again. Except he was not the only person involved,
and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what
I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his
transgression was between himself and the Holy
Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to
an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority
in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance
to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past
is only what has happened at a particular point
in time, and not a factor in what determines what
has happened since then and what is happening
now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what
allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and
believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may
not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love
them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed
on to their children, which will become evident as
this story unfolds
You might be wondering, if you care at all, what
could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and
not even very uncommon, but it happened to me,
and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never
anything we could really do about it. We watched
it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit.
What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too
noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting
the beer, and getting punished even more for that.
What was scariest was when they fought with each
other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored
up. All of us children would be sitting in the living
room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded
and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having
hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties
who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and
intensely wrong. They would fight about anything,
or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would
yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw
things across the room at each other as if rehearsed.
One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking
about when I talk about how scary things got, my
21
dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one
that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he
hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the
sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin.
If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor
lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over
the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge.
As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under
him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that
point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been
encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it
can even be called that, was the only viable option.
I woke dad up most mornings from his typical
collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen
floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted
over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive
me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey
in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to
be operated—even though we used hammers and
nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of
cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods
littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if
a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication
would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials
or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been
salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from
other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up
wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually
made all this stuff? How did we move it from place
to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my
sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous
22
projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent
of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my
way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power,
and holding my breath until I could extricate myself
from this grim farce.
First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t
fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before
the support beams were all in place. I believed
him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two
sides over a raging river or anything; more of a
convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a
threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my
brother James tore partway through his leg with a
chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out
of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down,
ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from
where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog
shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that
dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline,
to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising
sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached
forward to grab the excess of sock which, although
bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey
before being completely removed. He screamed as
he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my—
whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember
what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t
assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him,
not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I
saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much
as I thought I probably should have been, and I
thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed
it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been
breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe
that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right
but I meant it more like did he think he was going to
die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became
afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until
he repeated himself more urgently:
“Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!”
I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was
trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and
I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off
drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking
right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a
big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold
with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from
a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket,
without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed
against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking
down and throwing off his equilibrium further than
the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to
regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t
notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his
attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me.
I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I
could have done that. Part of me still wished I could
have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish,
but I thought I might get slapped with the blame.
But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again,
skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on
not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me,
and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a
perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed
face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground
at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact,
but wasted no time in catapulting myself back
up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed
off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents
they bore into my face and palms, and sped back
to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound
summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded
by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which
had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return
sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if
he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my
brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over
the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which
could be heard clanging together in his pockets.
He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw
James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one
clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy,
meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing
stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward
turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’
face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned
down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned
back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open
again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself
together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever
buffoonery.
James turned out to live, no real thanks to
our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest
phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t
even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion
because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed
like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his
gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front
of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23
ing him to human shape at the coercion of some
stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far
more astonishing because it was methodologically
reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins,
and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad,
laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas
telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched
by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature
of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains
anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of
our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned
fucked up trait passed on in the family.
24
50 FEET TALL
Emilie Tomas
I was in 5th grade
When my class went
To see ‘The Human
Body’ and I watched
In childhood
Horror as
A 50 foot grin
Unfurled, loomed
Large enough
To pull me
Into orbit
Devoured
First a sandwich
And then my
Faith in humanity
With deafening
Smacks
Like thunder
If thunder
Was made
Of jelly and
Dismay and I
Knew it was a
Crime to allow a
Person to become
This
Inflated,
With every pore
Its own path to
Hell and I knew
I couldn’t trust
Anyone because
In our heads
We are all
50 feet tall.
25
meow you see
ashley waalen
26
MOUSETRAP
Halle Chambers
Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was
invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her
safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now,
almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if
someone did make it up here, she could easily get
away.
If she crawled rough the window, she’d be
securely locked in the apartment. There, it was
warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her
daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir”
wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy.
He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows
what in the “family business,” but he would be back
soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now.
If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down
to street level in seconds and be down the block
in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid
getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet.
That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older
brother, had taught her. With the life they lived,
it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call
her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast…
very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie
could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father”
had given him out of town till this weekend, and
she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual
head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either.
If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be
on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had
often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t
known till six years into her still short life that he’d
done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister
away from their father’s sight when the man would
come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t
known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s
hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she
and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her
each constellation was that Cobie was braver than
Orion and that she and her brothers were more
inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world
went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father
had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a
queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him,
Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or
so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years
gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie
27
was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the
roo, not alone.
She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s
wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by
a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a
reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought
by a brother who was likely never coming home
again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at
all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic
panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind.
For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped.
28
faces
connie kilppen
29
*I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED
Diamonique Walker
Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know
I don’t belong
Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t
consider my brown skin or kinky hair
I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being
made into an example fall back to the depths of my
mind
My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur
to me
I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s
identity
confidence
As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock
black girl names when they look at me
He asks me if my hair is real
I tell him he can’t ask me that
He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black
I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens
Trying to blend in, trying to live my life
I breathe, momentarily
Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked
Stabbed in the chest
Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the
face
An unsolicited violation of my personal space
A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white
amazement
Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to
me and not anyone else
I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter
30
*Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen
WHERE I AM FROM
Hannah Schmit
I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady
Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life
of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my
bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the
cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live
in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn
cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling
with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch
welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience
and nurturing.
I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in
my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement
that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my
kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my
prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted
bark and branches to survey the world and breath
in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my
crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people
were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs
filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies
and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity.
I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried
grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves
that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The
gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to
brown under the autumn sun.
I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the
time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine
white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded
for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be
counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids
and scars, each a story unique unto itself.
I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my
veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the
muted silence of holding my breath. From letting
go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the
haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in
early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified
earth, protecting the last of the dawn.
I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock
31
my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories.
Treasured memories that float fragmented in my
mind,
I was waltzing with my darling…
Goodnight, Irene…
Then sings my soul…
Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit
sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my
personality.
The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind.
My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced
through recitals and music competitions. My history
is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the
metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a
musty accordion.
I am from survivors. From broken families and lives
I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the
ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught
compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege.
A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo,
and relentless nightmares that went unspoken.
Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I
have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness.
I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first
and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to
fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test
my own strength.
I am from fading memories. From sweat and
ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is
a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with
love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun
and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to
the land of a generation gone by.
I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried
dreams. From the fjords and
32
I am from strength. From weary hands that sought
to move forward. From songs crooned in different
tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives.
I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn
brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales
of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the
canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane
keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized
rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners.
I am from loss and tears.
I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from
steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am…
The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with
snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are
the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me.
Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait
patiently, longingly for me to recall.
future. I seek not where I am going only
exist here, as I am.
I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for
the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible
desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the
stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable.
I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions.
Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am
grounded in the church yet growing in the temple
and the mosque.
I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to
give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and
protect. I am a collection of places and people that I
have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience.
I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed
from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves
call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am
at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows
no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that
exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down
forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow
out from under me and cloud the clarity of the
33
who am i?
ashley waalen
34
2
GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS
D.E. Green
1. Le Chaim
2. In Praise of Delusion
Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star:
your red head radiates strange aerial spikes.
When he walks down the sloping skyway from
Memorial
to the Music building on his way to a long evening
class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom
window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger
than his sixty years.
The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the
Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of
an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance)
good-looking.
Of course as man and image converge, his Other
shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather
compact, little old man.
Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself.
Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions.
Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks
on a head never bowed in prayer hover
over his guitar and, till he gets it just so,
a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old
pup,—
his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal
you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand
gently
strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently
because the movie has ended well—a good death,
timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed
breath.
36
3. Thanksgiving
4: To My Son
This morning, as I drive
from Northfield to Hampton
past field after barren field,
three wild turkeys
foraging and gobbling
at the edge of the road—
their white-splashed wings,
black-feathered trunks,
It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how
much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t
say it often enough though I feel it every minute)
and how much I miss you and hope you can spend
a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend
in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz
that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense
of how strong you are: How much you have been
through, how far you’ve come, and how you face
each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter
is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I
sometimes sit around and whine about our work,
about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be
walking across campus and the light will be just right
and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young
people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think
that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you
up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy
stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still
be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?—
filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among
whom I am about to number, have proverbially been
beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned
word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are
among the wonders of my world.
red combs poking
and pecking the gravel
and weeds—surprise me.
I flinch.
The car swerves.
I breathe.
They range unruffled.
37
work in progress
gabriel bergstrom
38
THE FIRE
Elisabeth Beam
I stood with my back to the crowd watching the
house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had
expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire
to spread from the kitchen to the living room and
even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into
the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had
been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his
face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in
a sickeningly gleeful smile.
Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a
troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away
from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I
first met him he would bring me friends and make
me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter,
and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all
run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t
like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter
always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled
shrieks always brought a smile to his face.
Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the
chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the
floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead
things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once
he brought a live snake into the house and slipped
it into the shower when Momma was in it. She
screamed something awful and had locked me in
my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s
wicked tricks.
Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house
after that. She brought in men wearing long white
coats who talked with me and asked questions about
Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind
them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t
understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew
frustrated with their questions.
Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit.
He walked around the house mumbling in a strange
language, throwing water on the walls and waving
his cross around like a baton. I thought he was
crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and
sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his
strange way and holding his cross on my forehead.
It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got
upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was
39
shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the
floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was
laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers
showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what
he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma
and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as
the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s
gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams.
Grandma came after Momma. She was mean.
She locked me in my room and told me to stay
there until I learned my lesson. I watched him
stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to
himself. Grandma made me to go church with her
every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for
what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t
understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks
and was tired of being punished for all the naughty
things that he did.
One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the
twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and
yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the
twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I
pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might.
This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel
told me they were going to send me away. They
would separate us and I would never be able to see
him again. I told him I was fine with that because he
was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate
Snowy. I cried. He laughed.
Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could
stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do
40
something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to
the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me
to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter.
I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried
to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the
times Momma blamed me for something he did.
That if I did this everyone would finally realize it
was him doing all the bad things and not me. My
hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to
get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and
stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered
with every shuttering breath that came out of my
mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter
out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a
large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light.
My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down
my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the
fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and
danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but
his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was
frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t
want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was
going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed
my hand and led me outside.
We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly
ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that
the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in.
Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my
side for Joel, but he had disappeared.
DESERT DRUMS
Abigail Carpenter
When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested
we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing
the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting
the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we
quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable
Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local
drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert.
After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the
sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near
our camp, and I realized a place that once only
existed in my dreams was now before me.
I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened
them over and over again until I was sure of it. I
had to reach down and let the sand fall between my
fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening
air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the
sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands
and thousands of them.
When the drum circle began, I let its music
fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher,
tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms
and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and
when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter.
My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it
was miles and miles away.
I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and
watched my friends dance around the fire to the
beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down
as their hands joined the ashes flying through the
night air.
For many hours, we sat around the fire, told
our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced
and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We
slept under the stars among the silence of the desert
for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the
horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the
sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus
to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up
whole.
41
COLORS
Hannah Schmit
If I am a color call me red
The color of passion and love
Humanity worn on my sleeve
The color of my blood, beating heart.
Call me red.
If I am a season call me fall
With baited chilled breath I speak
My words on whirlwind breezes fall
An omen of changes to come
Call me fall.
If I am a sound call me silence.
The chaos and stillness of calm
My words lost yet encompassing
In anticipation of something
Call me silence
If I am a thought call me hope
The desire for something more
A yearning call deep within me
The need to breathe
Call me hope.
42
urban delight
jazmin crittenden
43
WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE
A. Tetzlaff
“Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice
broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between
us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that
communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at
the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space
well.
Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my
childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless
we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline
rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time.
But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue
t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or
spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills
rose nakedly as we quietly approached.
I’ve come back to the memory time and again;
the images are blurred, like a positive photograph
that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly.
I can’t recall how my father responded to my
question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t
shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t
remember a man who loved me and was so dearly
loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside
from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed,
44
yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to
work like Dad?
When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work.
He woke up around five in the morning in order to
be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the
fact that no one expects him in the office till eight.
I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell
the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives
of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and
pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On
the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne.
Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was
either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken
time away to grieve.
I don’t remember the call to our corded
telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling
Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart
attack while showering. I don’t know if he died
immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold,
and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking
the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m
vain enough to assume so––grandparents always
think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I
can only hope.
At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember
Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She
keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower
garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park
that summer day deep in my mind.
Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long
as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a
miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to
tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.”
Christopher, my younger and only brother,
inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises.
He was born the year after my grandfather died.
Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my
grandfather was a Marine in the 60s.
During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the
collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet.
I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the
artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and
each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct
now.
The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far
less valuable to me than those of my travels––those,
at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have
memories attached of the real thing.
I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and
objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory
of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that
brings him back to me like the early morning scent
of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the
hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time
washed away my grandfather.
45
SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS
Elisabeth Beam
When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money.
But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at
the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street
from the elementary school. You know, the kind
of motel that charges by the hour instead of night.
She hated it but it was close to school and paid just
enough. Around November she would start picking
up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more
money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill
always went up mid-October when the chill started
to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were
always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah
was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All
of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of
money. Money we just didn’t have.
One year there was a huge blizzard and they
canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at
the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care
of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom
had to stay home from work and look after us. She
tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out
about the money, but I knew she was. She would
pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to
46
herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake
her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed.
I always noticed when she got like that. A week of
work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the
gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a
week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill
was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and
get food stamps. So money that would normally go
towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast.
We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that
Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of
my life. The day before school let out our landlord
took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it
was due to be replaced and that someone would be
over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s
the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he
had happily told us. No one came. The floor was
cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking
up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small
red dots appeared throughout the house as we all
made the mistake of stepping in the living room
without socks.
Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one
that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small
fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It
was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches
were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of
the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it
couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones
out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d
taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily
placed string lights. We put an old family picture at
the top of the tree because we were too scared that
our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break
if we tried to stick her up there.
Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty
looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best
thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on
the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking
at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was
a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I
thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on
a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be
able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before
me.
For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music
and ran around the living room twirling and waving
our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow
found time to make new flannel pajamas for both
me and Sarah and we had immediately put them
on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d
found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty
but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted
patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The
dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree
and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t
what made that night so special. It was that we were
all together, making the most out of what we had
and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as
we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls
and shitty Christmas trees.
47
summer nights
adam ruff
48
the people united
adam ruff
49
after the hike
adam ruff
50
CRUMBS
Malena Larsen
He’s looking for love
In the crevices of his couch
Like loose change.
I saw him lift up the cushions
And pull out crumbs
His mother’s earring
A quarter
The spoon he dropped last week
After eating ice cream out of the container.
It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing.
I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket
and the spoon back in the cushions.
I told him I had been in love once
And he said
I like it when girls call me daddy.
I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up.
I became a spoon in the couch cushion
Who said words like
Daddy
And
Fuck me
And
Hard.
At the end of every night I was put back with the
crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there
was more cat hair or lint stuck to me
I waited patiently
Dirty
For him to pick me up.
It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped
getting me from the cushions.
He told me that he found somebody to love and we
can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I
asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was
in love with somebody.
The inside of my ribcage
Was being scraped empty
51
Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container
And my stomach hurt
Like it did after the dream
Where he wasn’t mine
I can’t help it.
He told me.
I like it when girls call me daddy.
When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked
like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I
didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend
when I was drunk.
Across the table
On the other side of red cups
And puddles of water
He stared at me
In a grey tank top.
His eyes
And arms
Were strong
52
And dark.
Making eye contact felt like sex
And he smelled like Fireball
And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with
And too much cologne.
We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep.
He took off his shirt
I kept mine on.
The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep
his body covered for too long. He picked me up and
folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into
the 6 am summer sweet lake water.
He drove me home
At 7 am
Still drunk and
Smitten.
It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let
him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat.
I couldn’t wait anymore
He told me
In the house that smelled like
Liquor and dust
And damp wood.
The first time we
Fucked
Was in the front seat of his
White Pontiac Grand prix
At 11 pm on a Tuesday.
I saw him almost
As an animal.
His fists
Were clenched
And his eyebrows
Like shelves
Over his beetle eyes.
Do you like fucking daddy?
After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom
because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he
was the best fuck and that he could make me cum
and that I should call him
Daddy.
I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I
was a dirty spoon it had only been called love.
His eyes started to remind me
Of Tiny
Round
Black beetles.
There’s nobody else anymore
We should just keep fucking.
And when we fucked
It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to
my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told
me
I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants
and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then
put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of
53
his couch
Where he keeps looking for love
Like it’s the loose change
In his back pocket.
54
bloomed
audrey campbell
55
pruned
audrey campbell
56
HERMAN
Danny Polaschek
Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and
landed in scattered droplets down the front of his
white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting
down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon
and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the
kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman
—but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he
wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child
looks through a window and, seeing nothing but
gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that
day.
As Herman sat there facing the white wall and
chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen
and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the
coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind
him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman
assumed had to be walking laps around the center
island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout.
Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end
the footsteps stopped as well.
Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic
mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started
and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed,
monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice.
“How are the flakes this morning, Dad?”
Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but
continued with what he was doing, looking like a
cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in
between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.”
Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up
from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away
when he noticed that his father was still turned away
from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another
sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep
pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee
mug in hand.
A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down
his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman
scooted himself back from the kitchen table and
slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for
balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to
steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had
57
missed a stair descending to the basement and found
himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way
until crashing to a stop on the last few steps.
Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to
time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination
by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for
support and then flinging himself to another sturdy
checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached
his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from
vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful.
With his feet finally under him, legs steady,
Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and
launched himself to the kitchen counter, which
caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over,
Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before
beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble
counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end.
“This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted.
Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped.
With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to
the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He
couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was
looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug—
one of the only things worth bringing with when he
moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling
around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman
eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished
itself by having only half of a handle still attached.
With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and
middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and
brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on
the counter with a soft “clink.”
Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this
58
point, and wished for a moment that he had listened
to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,”
the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use
it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take
the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to
walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I
don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time
someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was
always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to
change that.
Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this
same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost
seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who
was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home,
and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly
make it to the opposite end of the room without
feeling fatigued.
Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed
in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had
five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for
the final stretch, determined to get there even if it
killed him.
With a focused balance and patient, shuffling
steps Herman managed to get to the end of the
counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and
a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up
ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on
pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after
his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot
and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops
remained rolling around in the bottom.
Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his
brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small,
tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter,
Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing
his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s
hands were visibly trembling and he was having
a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the
counter. He contemplated making more coffee but
dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he
could not remain standing and moving around the
kitchen much longer.
Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and
could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples
and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up
and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it
shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers
and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen,
the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass.
Herman heard footsteps drumming down the
staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in
the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces
of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened?
Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands
on his knees. He was struggling for breath now,
and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In
between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You
didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a
bitch.”
His son stood there eyeing first his father and
then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit.
He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned
to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and
returned a minute later with broom in hand. He
began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug
into a dustpan.
After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back
into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping
under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone
last night,” he said.
Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood
and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow
at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated.
His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes
trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.”
59
EL BARRIO SUYO
Chad Berryman
El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los
vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una
casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas
ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los
lamentos penosos de sus hijos.
Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un
parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él
Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches
del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido
insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para
descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable.
Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y
ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro.
Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara
la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras
acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su
hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a
la casa sin otra palabra.
El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto
la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos.
60
No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa
canto los himnos con risa bendita
no tengo nada salvo alma amada
y sin despedida no hay la llegada
THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD
Chad Berryman
The frigid air wrapped around the man like a
blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own
neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him.
As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house,
complete with flowers and giant windows, he could
make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children.
The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in
which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod
of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers
past filled his mind, nights in which the bench
had not offered insults or accusations but rather a
consoling place of rest while he presented it with the
gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench
froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and
neither could provide the other with any relief.
He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the
driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded
expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung
sigh. The two entered the house without another
word.
As the wandering man continued walking, the
snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune
he commenced to hum in time with his steps.
I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush
in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive
there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved
for without a farewell one could never arrive
61
ODYSSEY
Eve Taft
Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind
Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin
James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates?
Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation
Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind
Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament
Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature
You spoke with your soul to our souls
Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink
I understand you, “life is many days”
I understand you, “god is a shout in the street”
I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same”
You understand me “everything speaks in its own way”
Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland
Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism
Now as free of rigid form
As Ireland of England
62
postcards from my bedroom
audrey campbell
63
postcards from my bedroom
audrey campbell
64
COUNTING SHEEP
Danny Polaschek
What can you do
when the world is asleep?
Go to sleep too?
I’ve counted all my sheep.
They jumped through the air
gliding for 5 or 6 feet
cleared the fence and then flew
with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however
on these aerial sheep antics
because far away in the distance
was a sight oh so fantastic.
A blue house, with a single light on
in the window sat a girl
a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn.
I looked up at her
and she down at me
addicted to the eyesight
too distracted to count sheep.
65
3
sky nights
keeyonna fox
67
inner self
keeyonna fox
68
VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE
Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk
Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal
point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were
sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills
until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We
walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we
turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought
we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence.
Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the
cold.
~
He was outrageously tall.
He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and
he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor.
Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an
image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone
who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated
me.
I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want
in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of
his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens
behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I
didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in
town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He
was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness.
I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After
discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became
nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept
me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept
me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t
tell you about functional depression: you can feel
like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words
people will stop asking questions.
He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good
price. I had never met him but I figured what the
hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark,
long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking
lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I
was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy
Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a
parking spot a few yards away from me. The man
driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We
69
made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got
my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side
window.
“You Nikita?” I said.
He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to
know.
“You can call me Kita.”
~
He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they
were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did
he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs
together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking
about life and what we crave. He told me that he
was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think
anything of it.
Before long we saw each other every day. He was
a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the
morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight
in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in
a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about
things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He
told me he struggled with his relationship with his
father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled
with eating disorders since I was thirteen.
We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke
cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we
smoked.
70
“You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I
smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.”
His mother loved me. She thought that I was
spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She
did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very
clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long
curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would
lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick
and powerful. She had run away to the United
States when she was twenty-one and seven months
pregnant with her first son. Nikita.
“Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your
name.”
He smiled when he answered.
“My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’”
he said.
Oh Kita,
you have no victory.
You are the secret I keep from my mother
the hidden disease that projectile vomits
and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth.
Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret,
your secrets so dark and beautiful
and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers.
His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting
people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her
home country of Ukraine and according to the
story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant
personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she
was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According
to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not
ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her
way to America to create a life of victory and hope.
He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello
and came in and that was the last that I understood.
The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me.
He taught me how to say
Hello
(Privet)
Yes
(da)
No
(net)
And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent
almost the entire time we were there trying to help
his grandmother set up a new movie streaming
program on her computer. I know nothing about
computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was
overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my
nervous sweat more noticeable.
She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it
was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest
to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita
would translate for me. I wanted to leave.
After we left his grandmother’s house he told me
to wait in his car while he talked privately with his
grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t
question it. I played mindless games on my phone
while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that
they were talking about me, but I continued to deny
it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing
anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then.
When he returned to the car I asked what they had
talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.”
I paused, then asked him to elaborate.
“She likes you,” he said. And that was that.
How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who
never explicitly spoke a word to me.
~
Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after
his father.
Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with
tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that
would make you look twice. He lived in a nice,
expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who
was twenty years younger than him. Apparently
that was a theme.
Kita had only seen his father a handful of times
in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend
some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have
too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he
went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall,
thin, and handsome. His father noticed this.
“So what happened?” I asked him one day.
71
Kita shrugged.
“He kicked me out and I came back to the states,”
he said without a flinch.
He said this as though it was a commonality.
“He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as
he lit a cigarette.
There was a very long, uncomfortable silence.
“Did you?” I asked.
He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured
out of his mouth.
“No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to
listen to a sixteen year old.”
~
“I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.”
“Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where
there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you
look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.”
He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine.
He insisted that I learn all that I could about the
Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable
articles daily. Through him I learned about the
importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights
that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and
2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his
people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed
with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered
in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.”
His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields
of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes
lit up every time he got angry.
Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes.
We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets
and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was
late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which
were both off and hidden somewhere in the room.
He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His
eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed
home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good.
“Where in Ukraine?” I asked.
“Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my
shirt.
“Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of
flowers.”
“What kind of flowers?”
72
~
I squirm away and pull my shirt down.
“Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still
taste the salt in my mouth.
“You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain
in his voice.
My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for
my stomach again and once again I’m backing away.
We get into the car and drive to the gas station.
I say that I need to go use the restroom. While
Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small
Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground
and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my
finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet.
As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his
car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita
looks at me quizzically.
“You okay?” he asks me.
My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my
breath is putrid.
“I’m fine,” I say with a smile.
~
The elevator door was so cold against my cheek.
I watched the red numbers blink as they rose.
8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey,
my ears started ringing and throbbing.
11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my
wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I
watched them push my key into my apartment door
I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my
living room window. I closed the door behind me
and collapsed on the ground.
“Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the
screen of my phone.
“I just haven’t eaten a lot today.”
There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear
in my heart. Fear I had not known.
“When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice.
I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate
the truth.
“I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly.
“What did you eat?” His reply was sharp.
I was shaking.
“I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a
quivering voice.
I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh.
“How many times have we talked about this?” He
exclaimed.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry…”
It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him
again.
“Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that
can’t even take care of herself ?”
“What am I going to tell my friends?”
“You’re not even trying.”
I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all
from my bed from which I could not move.
My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy
to remove it.
“So what are you going to do about this?” There
was intense spite in his words.
With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?”
He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed
73
at my pain.
“And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my
friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who
can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead.
Maybe that’ll help you change.”
I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach
kept whispering “never again, never again,
never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic
because it reminded me of eating.
I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked
outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of
cigarettes.
~
Months go by. Months.
I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had
never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few
shirts and two pairs of pants.
“My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,”
he said.
I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus
on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of
the bed, staring at me. I started to cry.
“Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without
breaking focus.
I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had
grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted
flower petals.
74
“Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to
the wilted pile.
“My father won’t like them,” he said.
Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his
bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled
against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked
my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but
not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita
sighed too.
“Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice.
“If I ever treat you like my father treats women,
please leave me.”
~
I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian.
“я люблю тебя.”
Ya lyublyu tebya.
~
My fingers were bones.
Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it
brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t
like when other people noticed me.
He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to
do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would
say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he
would tell me he was disappointed.
I lived with three men at the time, something that
Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few
days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my
roommates. If I was spending too much time with a
friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him.
He sent me articles outlining how to be a better
partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me
to be the best that I could be. The screaming and
hour-long phone calls were footnotes.
You stripped me of my dignity and told me,
“This is what you have.”
Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares
Your titanic stature collided with my glacier
and though you claim I sank you
You were a behemoth and I was a stone.
At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me.
My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of
the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of
dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I
did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of
my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled
Ukraine.
My goodbyes have been said,
These addictions fed.
It’s the cost that comes with the sickness.
And your screams won’t be heeded anymore.
75
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS
Halle Chambers
When we are little, even before we can speak
We are told that we’re special and that we’re
unique.
That we all are made different and that none are
the same
Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame.
And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside,
That what makes us different is not something to
hide.
But then quite soon after, things start to change;
The word “different” stops meaning “special” and
starts meaning “strange.”
We’re sectioned off from our average peers
In our own little category and told,
“you belong here,”
And then different is bad and normal is good,
And for the different ones, nothing is working the
way that it should
The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been
shown
All we know is that we do not like being lost on
our own.
76
So once again we are taken away
To a place where things makes sense again and
we’re ok:
Where no one hurts us,
Where no one can see,
Where no one deserts us,
Where we can be free.
But because the un-specials can’t see what goes
on,
They decide to make things up and get so much
wrong.
And it’s happened for years because they can’t see
through that door.
So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong
anymore.
It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right;
They judge each special kid by their stereotype.
But today that will end.
So you sit there and you wait,
cause it’s about time someone set the dang record
straight.
You probably think that this poem won’t cut it,
But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you
dare shut it!
To start, let’s be clear:
I am...I was in Special Ed.
But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean
I’m brain dead!
So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me!
Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see:
If I need your help, I will tell you I do.
Just please,
Please don’t mock me.
In my place, would you want me to mock you?
“Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on
her!”
Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur.
I’m not invalid
So don’t play that card.
Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive,
But I’m not, and I quote,
“A little retard.”
Yeah, I’ve been called names.
And those words?
They hurt.
They catch in the center,
In your pit of self worth.
And they tear and they rip,
And those words are collective.
Soon you start to believe that you are defective.
I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly,
I actually prefer the straight up bullies
To those who pretend to like me.
Fake friends and two-faces
Of all genders and races.
They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see
me cry.
Or they use me,
abuse me,
Oh, how they confuse me!
Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie.
“Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!”
And because I don’t know better, I believe this.
But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid,
They just wanna make me look stupid.
For their entertainment, they make me play the
77
fool;
They pretend that they care for me
When they’re really just cruel.
It takes time and takes work to make you forget;
Even now, I’m not quite there yet.
I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be
home,
And yet here I am, still feeling alone.
I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end;
I still have to ask if someone’s my friend.
I say one thing and mean another;
I make a mistake,
But you take it verbatim.
Can’t you cut me a break?
If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost,
Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost.
Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain,
So please just take a minute to explain.
Do these quirks make me broken?
Is there something wrong with me?
The way society has spoken,
There would seem to be.
78
Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young
women and men.
I don’t like being defective....
Can I be special again?
SOREX PALUSTRIS
Emilie Tomas
Did they name you for
Your wit, pointed
Nose of pointed judgement
Who brought us fire;
five to seven inches of shrewd truth?
Or was it your mischief
That Inspired them? Your
Presence followed by screams
And a three inch tail.
I saw your likeness on a stage,
Dirt in place of your midnight coat
Though she is reformed now.
Perhaps it was the gleam in your
Eyes; whispered fortunes and
A summer of silver birth.
Maybe you are a messenger
Of God, somehow in your Eighteen
months you learned to walk
On water, the second coming
Of Christ.
79
woodsy adam ruff
gabriel bergstrom
80
WORDS
Malena Larsen
The bathroom wall was covered in words.
Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and
names with hearts around them. His body
looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and
slumped against the door. His head hung to his
right shoulder and his mouth was open like he
was about to say something but was interrupted.
There was blood running down his left arm like
a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin.
The words that he had heard her say several
hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter.
“It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m
sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her
apartment when she said it. She knew he had
been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days
of treatment and one week in a sober house on
Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was
twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked
clean and strong; there was no more grey in his
cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance
that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her
the difference between wrong and right and that
she should stay in on the weekends. His family
couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were
of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just
seem so much better?” She would answer with yes
but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to
make mistakes. His family had a party after he got
out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying
things like, “Men in this family have always been
strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His
grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt
that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He
didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf
or the way she agreed with everything he said
without a second thought.
As he sat on the bathroom floor the words
she had said were getting quieter and quieter.
They were almost gone. He had been sober for
thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t
feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay
loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was
waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so
proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his
life without her.
Long after her words had faded completely,
the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the
floor. His head hitting hard against the tile.
81
“Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door
yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his
phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed
over to where the man was dialing. A young man
pushed past the group of people.
“Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on
the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out
something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into
the arm of the body that was needle free. People
gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang
in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked
up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck
and love and song lyrics and names with hearts
around them. He looked up at the group of people.
“It’s not working,” he said.
82
MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE
Danny Polaschek
Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet
in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like
a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his
teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty
playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge
and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on
his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through,
Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her
hair scratching and tickling his neck.
When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this
exact same bench many times with his mother.
They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks
away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would
say and Malcolm would make it his mission to
jump and bunny-hop the whole way there.
When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting
together on the narrow, wooden bench. After
each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his
mother to let him go play, to which she would give
in once she herself had Show less
MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed... Show more
MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor
Ryan Moore, Prose Editor
Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor
Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor
Cary Waterman, Advisor
2
WITH THANKS TO
Ivy Arts Copy and Print
Augsburg College Student Government
Augsburg College English Department
Augsburg College Art Department
The Echo
Augsburg Honors Program
QPA
3
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1
What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8
Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11
Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12
Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14
Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17
Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18
White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19
Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20
Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21
50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25
Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26
Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27
Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29
I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30
Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32
Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34
2
Gratitude, D.E Green ..............................................................................................................................
CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ......................................................................................................................
The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................
Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter ..........................................................................................................
Colors, Hannah Schmit ...........................................................................................................................
Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden .........................................................................................................
When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff ....................................................................................................
Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ...............................................................................................
Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ...................................................................................................................
36
38
39
41
42
43
44
46
48
The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49
After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50
Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51
Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55
Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56
Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57
El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60
The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61
Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62
Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63
Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64
Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65
3
Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67
Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68
Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69
An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76
Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79
Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80
Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81
Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83
DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85
DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86
Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87
A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88
1
WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU?
Nikkyra Whittaker
On the spectrum of being black and female, we can
only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find
out what kind of black girl you really are!
1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target.
You’re playing…
a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless”
b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With
Me” or “Wildest Dreams”
c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal”
d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock”
2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing?
a. Blowing off steam on Facebook.
b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill
c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy
d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato!
3. What’s your dream home like?
a. Full of books on systemic oppression
b. Beverly Hills penthouse
c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion
d. Spacious New York Loft
8
4. Your favorite TV show is…
a. Docu-series on race
b. Sex in the City
c. Bad Girls Club
d. Love and Hip Hop
5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this
list?
a. Angela Davis
b. Taylor Swift
c. New York from I Love New York
d. Nicki Minaj
Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn
the page to find out who you really are!
If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl!
Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled
home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason
to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend
your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the
world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you
find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in
that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who
steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to
just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a
black female, possibly have? Why should you care
that your high school English teacher gives you a
C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied
it from the white man online? Why does it matter
that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases
you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,”
“cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of
this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire,
in this world, your anger means nothing.
If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo!
You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and
listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your
hair from the moment you were old enough to assert
yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your
friends were always shocked to see you bring collard
greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating
your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why
you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair
everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches
overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of
your friends how they just don’t see you as a black
girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit
the images of other black girls they see. You spend
most of your time edging away from the loud black
girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and
drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids
and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your
ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a
moment, but you did wish that you could be white.
But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s
a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t
see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the
world can’t.
9
If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho!
You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big
breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that
original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes
that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask.
You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch
in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that
men love to hate and hate to love. You became a
sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came
in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen.
They started looking at you differently, didn’t they?
Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter.
Your body became the tool used to diminish your
worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to
put on something less revealing than your shorts?
Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white
girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your
wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never
yours. You will never be yours.
10
If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl!
You make what little money you can working at
Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at
the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud
laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove
your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit
about you. When you’re out, you are often told to
stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got
baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew
up playing double dutch in the middle of the street
with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto,
your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept
yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police
spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages!
Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals
your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear
bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different.
Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to
be. You love your black too loudly and it makes
others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people
comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of
your melanin.
simul justus et peccator
andy anderson
11
QUEER
Eve Taft
You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says
“stonewall inn”?
You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair
and warn me
as I walk the streets of my city?
You think I don’t choke on the smoke
from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits
with sparks that sear and heat branding
irons
which scar your names on me to mark me as
danger?
You think my veins don’t shiver
when they think
of the devastation
wracking the cities
that some called deliverance
while Reagan fiddled
as we burned
You think that the prisons
pink triangles
asylums
bullets spitting into a nightclub
don’t whisper in my head as I make my
way through the world?
12
You think that I don’t notice—
I kiss her
and kiss her
—the headline blowing by with a death toll
and I kiss her
the skyline splashing out behind us
the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker
on and I kiss her
Putin criminalizes us, across the
world
I kiss her
Vigils held too late for young suicides
Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to
family values—
I kiss her
in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota
I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest
that shut down I-94
handed down from our grandmothers
hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive
I kiss her
You think I forget the lists and the candles and the
deaths and the pain and
all that roars in my ears is a chorus
screaming over and over again
you were not able to kill us
I kiss her
and all is still
13
JESUS IN A CRACKER
A. Tetzlaff
Eucharist
I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while
we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore
the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then
it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when
I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking
like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck.
It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt.
All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses.
All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking
their first communion despite the fact that most of
us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you
grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are
aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion
lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay,
Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a
realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but
it never went home with me. On Sundays when the
game was in town, God would not judge you for
wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was
bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to
your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at
14
that first communion. We would have appreciated it
more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual
that had been performed again and again. The
time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar
with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic
priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over
left. I’m a blonde deer again.
“The body of Christ.” This is the part where
I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then
put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must
cross myself (right hand touching head, then left
shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the
aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the
middle section, never too close to the altar. They
didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest
during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for
fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof
of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was
stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched
flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is
actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump
lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my
mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois-
ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed
without chewing.
Just go with it, I told myself. All these people
believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t
sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from
running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God
gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the
expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their
ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my
family comes out of the first communion Mass, but
I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I
hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I
felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday
late in October.
head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m
not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him.
Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the
ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen
a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside
the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being
small for my age, I circled the air below me with
my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs
under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a
silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes,
we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the
only part I heard or remember hearing; he started
talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t
pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after
admitting such a pitiful sin.
Marriage
I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place
of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell
of incense, and the light that filtered through the
stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun
became familiar and comforting over the years. The
nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’
wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons
and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a
sensory memory of that place. However, religion has
never been an inward practice; the practice and the
scene never joined together.
Anointing of the Sick
When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments
of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our
Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth
year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He
died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became
familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three
or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt
different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral
confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had
been ripped mercilessly from my arms.
Reconciliation
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the
words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt
sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew
what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of
a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his
Baptism
I sat in the shower until the water hitting my
face was colder than I could stand, reciting
the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing.
Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy
name.
I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view
15
of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused
me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron
blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t
belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get
that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith.
Confirmation
Religion was so stale, that when my Mother
would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity
and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I
thought, how can you be so blind to the real world?
Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in
an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I
can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism
and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to
laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my
Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering
Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic
church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional
value. Stale religion has no holy orders.
16
grey cloud island
david baboila
17
saint paul airport
david baboila
18
white bear lake
david baboila
19
zips coliseum
david baboila
20
BRIDGE
Jacob J. Miller
This was not way back when, as my dad would have
you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t
flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at
least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to
suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and
he a different person. He has been, after all, Born
Again. Except he was not the only person involved,
and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what
I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his
transgression was between himself and the Holy
Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to
an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority
in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance
to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past
is only what has happened at a particular point
in time, and not a factor in what determines what
has happened since then and what is happening
now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what
allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and
believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may
not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love
them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed
on to their children, which will become evident as
this story unfolds
You might be wondering, if you care at all, what
could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and
not even very uncommon, but it happened to me,
and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never
anything we could really do about it. We watched
it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit.
What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too
noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting
the beer, and getting punished even more for that.
What was scariest was when they fought with each
other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored
up. All of us children would be sitting in the living
room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded
and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having
hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties
who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and
intensely wrong. They would fight about anything,
or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would
yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw
things across the room at each other as if rehearsed.
One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking
about when I talk about how scary things got, my
21
dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one
that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he
hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the
sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin.
If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor
lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over
the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge.
As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under
him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that
point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been
encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it
can even be called that, was the only viable option.
I woke dad up most mornings from his typical
collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen
floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted
over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive
me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey
in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to
be operated—even though we used hammers and
nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of
cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods
littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if
a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication
would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials
or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been
salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from
other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up
wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually
made all this stuff? How did we move it from place
to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my
sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous
22
projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent
of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my
way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power,
and holding my breath until I could extricate myself
from this grim farce.
First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t
fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before
the support beams were all in place. I believed
him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two
sides over a raging river or anything; more of a
convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a
threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my
brother James tore partway through his leg with a
chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out
of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down,
ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from
where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog
shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that
dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline,
to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising
sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached
forward to grab the excess of sock which, although
bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey
before being completely removed. He screamed as
he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my—
whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember
what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t
assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him,
not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I
saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much
as I thought I probably should have been, and I
thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed
it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been
breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe
that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right
but I meant it more like did he think he was going to
die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became
afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until
he repeated himself more urgently:
“Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!”
I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was
trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and
I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off
drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking
right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a
big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold
with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from
a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket,
without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed
against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking
down and throwing off his equilibrium further than
the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to
regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t
notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his
attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me.
I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I
could have done that. Part of me still wished I could
have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish,
but I thought I might get slapped with the blame.
But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again,
skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on
not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me,
and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a
perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed
face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground
at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact,
but wasted no time in catapulting myself back
up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed
off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents
they bore into my face and palms, and sped back
to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound
summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded
by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which
had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return
sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if
he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my
brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over
the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which
could be heard clanging together in his pockets.
He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw
James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one
clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy,
meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing
stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward
turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’
face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned
down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned
back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open
again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself
together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever
buffoonery.
James turned out to live, no real thanks to
our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest
phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t
even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion
because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed
like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his
gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front
of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23
ing him to human shape at the coercion of some
stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far
more astonishing because it was methodologically
reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins,
and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad,
laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas
telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched
by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature
of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains
anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of
our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned
fucked up trait passed on in the family.
24
50 FEET TALL
Emilie Tomas
I was in 5th grade
When my class went
To see ‘The Human
Body’ and I watched
In childhood
Horror as
A 50 foot grin
Unfurled, loomed
Large enough
To pull me
Into orbit
Devoured
First a sandwich
And then my
Faith in humanity
With deafening
Smacks
Like thunder
If thunder
Was made
Of jelly and
Dismay and I
Knew it was a
Crime to allow a
Person to become
This
Inflated,
With every pore
Its own path to
Hell and I knew
I couldn’t trust
Anyone because
In our heads
We are all
50 feet tall.
25
meow you see
ashley waalen
26
MOUSETRAP
Halle Chambers
Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was
invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her
safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now,
almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if
someone did make it up here, she could easily get
away.
If she crawled rough the window, she’d be
securely locked in the apartment. There, it was
warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her
daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir”
wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy.
He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows
what in the “family business,” but he would be back
soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now.
If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down
to street level in seconds and be down the block
in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid
getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet.
That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older
brother, had taught her. With the life they lived,
it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call
her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast…
very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie
could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father”
had given him out of town till this weekend, and
she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual
head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either.
If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be
on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had
often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t
known till six years into her still short life that he’d
done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister
away from their father’s sight when the man would
come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t
known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s
hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she
and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her
each constellation was that Cobie was braver than
Orion and that she and her brothers were more
inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world
went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father
had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a
queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him,
Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or
so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years
gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie
27
was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the
roo, not alone.
She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s
wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by
a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a
reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought
by a brother who was likely never coming home
again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at
all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic
panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind.
For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped.
28
faces
connie kilppen
29
*I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED
Diamonique Walker
Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know
I don’t belong
Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t
consider my brown skin or kinky hair
I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being
made into an example fall back to the depths of my
mind
My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur
to me
I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s
identity
confidence
As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock
black girl names when they look at me
He asks me if my hair is real
I tell him he can’t ask me that
He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black
I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens
Trying to blend in, trying to live my life
I breathe, momentarily
Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked
Stabbed in the chest
Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the
face
An unsolicited violation of my personal space
A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white
amazement
Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to
me and not anyone else
I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter
30
*Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen
WHERE I AM FROM
Hannah Schmit
I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady
Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life
of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my
bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the
cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live
in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn
cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling
with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch
welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience
and nurturing.
I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in
my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement
that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my
kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my
prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted
bark and branches to survey the world and breath
in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my
crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people
were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs
filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies
and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity.
I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried
grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves
that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The
gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to
brown under the autumn sun.
I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the
time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine
white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded
for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be
counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids
and scars, each a story unique unto itself.
I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my
veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the
muted silence of holding my breath. From letting
go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the
haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in
early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified
earth, protecting the last of the dawn.
I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock
31
my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories.
Treasured memories that float fragmented in my
mind,
I was waltzing with my darling…
Goodnight, Irene…
Then sings my soul…
Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit
sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my
personality.
The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind.
My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced
through recitals and music competitions. My history
is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the
metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a
musty accordion.
I am from survivors. From broken families and lives
I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the
ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught
compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege.
A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo,
and relentless nightmares that went unspoken.
Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I
have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness.
I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first
and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to
fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test
my own strength.
I am from fading memories. From sweat and
ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is
a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with
love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun
and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to
the land of a generation gone by.
I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried
dreams. From the fjords and
32
I am from strength. From weary hands that sought
to move forward. From songs crooned in different
tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives.
I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn
brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales
of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the
canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane
keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized
rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners.
I am from loss and tears.
I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from
steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am…
The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with
snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are
the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me.
Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait
patiently, longingly for me to recall.
future. I seek not where I am going only
exist here, as I am.
I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for
the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible
desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the
stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable.
I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions.
Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am
grounded in the church yet growing in the temple
and the mosque.
I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to
give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and
protect. I am a collection of places and people that I
have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience.
I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed
from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves
call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am
at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows
no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that
exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down
forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow
out from under me and cloud the clarity of the
33
who am i?
ashley waalen
34
2
GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS
D.E. Green
1. Le Chaim
2. In Praise of Delusion
Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star:
your red head radiates strange aerial spikes.
When he walks down the sloping skyway from
Memorial
to the Music building on his way to a long evening
class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom
window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger
than his sixty years.
The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the
Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of
an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance)
good-looking.
Of course as man and image converge, his Other
shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather
compact, little old man.
Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself.
Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions.
Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks
on a head never bowed in prayer hover
over his guitar and, till he gets it just so,
a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old
pup,—
his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal
you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand
gently
strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently
because the movie has ended well—a good death,
timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed
breath.
36
3. Thanksgiving
4: To My Son
This morning, as I drive
from Northfield to Hampton
past field after barren field,
three wild turkeys
foraging and gobbling
at the edge of the road—
their white-splashed wings,
black-feathered trunks,
It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how
much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t
say it often enough though I feel it every minute)
and how much I miss you and hope you can spend
a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend
in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz
that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense
of how strong you are: How much you have been
through, how far you’ve come, and how you face
each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter
is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I
sometimes sit around and whine about our work,
about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be
walking across campus and the light will be just right
and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young
people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think
that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you
up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy
stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still
be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?—
filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among
whom I am about to number, have proverbially been
beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned
word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are
among the wonders of my world.
red combs poking
and pecking the gravel
and weeds—surprise me.
I flinch.
The car swerves.
I breathe.
They range unruffled.
37
work in progress
gabriel bergstrom
38
THE FIRE
Elisabeth Beam
I stood with my back to the crowd watching the
house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had
expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire
to spread from the kitchen to the living room and
even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into
the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had
been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his
face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in
a sickeningly gleeful smile.
Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a
troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away
from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I
first met him he would bring me friends and make
me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter,
and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all
run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t
like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter
always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled
shrieks always brought a smile to his face.
Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the
chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the
floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead
things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once
he brought a live snake into the house and slipped
it into the shower when Momma was in it. She
screamed something awful and had locked me in
my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s
wicked tricks.
Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house
after that. She brought in men wearing long white
coats who talked with me and asked questions about
Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind
them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t
understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew
frustrated with their questions.
Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit.
He walked around the house mumbling in a strange
language, throwing water on the walls and waving
his cross around like a baton. I thought he was
crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and
sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his
strange way and holding his cross on my forehead.
It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got
upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was
39
shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the
floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was
laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers
showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what
he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma
and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as
the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s
gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams.
Grandma came after Momma. She was mean.
She locked me in my room and told me to stay
there until I learned my lesson. I watched him
stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to
himself. Grandma made me to go church with her
every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for
what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t
understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks
and was tired of being punished for all the naughty
things that he did.
One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the
twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and
yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the
twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I
pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might.
This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel
told me they were going to send me away. They
would separate us and I would never be able to see
him again. I told him I was fine with that because he
was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate
Snowy. I cried. He laughed.
Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could
stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do
40
something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to
the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me
to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter.
I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried
to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the
times Momma blamed me for something he did.
That if I did this everyone would finally realize it
was him doing all the bad things and not me. My
hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to
get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and
stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered
with every shuttering breath that came out of my
mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter
out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a
large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light.
My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down
my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the
fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and
danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but
his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was
frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t
want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was
going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed
my hand and led me outside.
We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly
ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that
the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in.
Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my
side for Joel, but he had disappeared.
DESERT DRUMS
Abigail Carpenter
When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested
we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing
the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting
the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we
quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable
Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local
drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert.
After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the
sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near
our camp, and I realized a place that once only
existed in my dreams was now before me.
I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened
them over and over again until I was sure of it. I
had to reach down and let the sand fall between my
fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening
air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the
sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands
and thousands of them.
When the drum circle began, I let its music
fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher,
tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms
and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and
when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter.
My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it
was miles and miles away.
I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and
watched my friends dance around the fire to the
beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down
as their hands joined the ashes flying through the
night air.
For many hours, we sat around the fire, told
our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced
and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We
slept under the stars among the silence of the desert
for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the
horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the
sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus
to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up
whole.
41
COLORS
Hannah Schmit
If I am a color call me red
The color of passion and love
Humanity worn on my sleeve
The color of my blood, beating heart.
Call me red.
If I am a season call me fall
With baited chilled breath I speak
My words on whirlwind breezes fall
An omen of changes to come
Call me fall.
If I am a sound call me silence.
The chaos and stillness of calm
My words lost yet encompassing
In anticipation of something
Call me silence
If I am a thought call me hope
The desire for something more
A yearning call deep within me
The need to breathe
Call me hope.
42
urban delight
jazmin crittenden
43
WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE
A. Tetzlaff
“Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice
broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between
us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that
communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at
the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space
well.
Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my
childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless
we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline
rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time.
But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue
t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or
spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills
rose nakedly as we quietly approached.
I’ve come back to the memory time and again;
the images are blurred, like a positive photograph
that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly.
I can’t recall how my father responded to my
question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t
shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t
remember a man who loved me and was so dearly
loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside
from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed,
44
yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to
work like Dad?
When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work.
He woke up around five in the morning in order to
be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the
fact that no one expects him in the office till eight.
I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell
the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives
of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and
pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On
the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne.
Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was
either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken
time away to grieve.
I don’t remember the call to our corded
telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling
Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart
attack while showering. I don’t know if he died
immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold,
and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking
the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m
vain enough to assume so––grandparents always
think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I
can only hope.
At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember
Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She
keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower
garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park
that summer day deep in my mind.
Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long
as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a
miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to
tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.”
Christopher, my younger and only brother,
inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises.
He was born the year after my grandfather died.
Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my
grandfather was a Marine in the 60s.
During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the
collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet.
I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the
artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and
each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct
now.
The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far
less valuable to me than those of my travels––those,
at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have
memories attached of the real thing.
I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and
objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory
of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that
brings him back to me like the early morning scent
of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the
hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time
washed away my grandfather.
45
SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS
Elisabeth Beam
When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money.
But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at
the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street
from the elementary school. You know, the kind
of motel that charges by the hour instead of night.
She hated it but it was close to school and paid just
enough. Around November she would start picking
up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more
money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill
always went up mid-October when the chill started
to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were
always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah
was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All
of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of
money. Money we just didn’t have.
One year there was a huge blizzard and they
canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at
the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care
of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom
had to stay home from work and look after us. She
tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out
about the money, but I knew she was. She would
pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to
46
herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake
her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed.
I always noticed when she got like that. A week of
work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the
gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a
week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill
was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and
get food stamps. So money that would normally go
towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast.
We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that
Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of
my life. The day before school let out our landlord
took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it
was due to be replaced and that someone would be
over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s
the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he
had happily told us. No one came. The floor was
cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking
up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small
red dots appeared throughout the house as we all
made the mistake of stepping in the living room
without socks.
Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one
that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small
fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It
was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches
were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of
the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it
couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones
out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d
taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily
placed string lights. We put an old family picture at
the top of the tree because we were too scared that
our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break
if we tried to stick her up there.
Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty
looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best
thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on
the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking
at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was
a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I
thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on
a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be
able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before
me.
For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music
and ran around the living room twirling and waving
our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow
found time to make new flannel pajamas for both
me and Sarah and we had immediately put them
on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d
found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty
but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted
patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The
dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree
and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t
what made that night so special. It was that we were
all together, making the most out of what we had
and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as
we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls
and shitty Christmas trees.
47
summer nights
adam ruff
48
the people united
adam ruff
49
after the hike
adam ruff
50
CRUMBS
Malena Larsen
He’s looking for love
In the crevices of his couch
Like loose change.
I saw him lift up the cushions
And pull out crumbs
His mother’s earring
A quarter
The spoon he dropped last week
After eating ice cream out of the container.
It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing.
I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket
and the spoon back in the cushions.
I told him I had been in love once
And he said
I like it when girls call me daddy.
I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up.
I became a spoon in the couch cushion
Who said words like
Daddy
And
Fuck me
And
Hard.
At the end of every night I was put back with the
crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there
was more cat hair or lint stuck to me
I waited patiently
Dirty
For him to pick me up.
It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped
getting me from the cushions.
He told me that he found somebody to love and we
can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I
asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was
in love with somebody.
The inside of my ribcage
Was being scraped empty
51
Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container
And my stomach hurt
Like it did after the dream
Where he wasn’t mine
I can’t help it.
He told me.
I like it when girls call me daddy.
When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked
like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I
didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend
when I was drunk.
Across the table
On the other side of red cups
And puddles of water
He stared at me
In a grey tank top.
His eyes
And arms
Were strong
52
And dark.
Making eye contact felt like sex
And he smelled like Fireball
And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with
And too much cologne.
We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep.
He took off his shirt
I kept mine on.
The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep
his body covered for too long. He picked me up and
folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into
the 6 am summer sweet lake water.
He drove me home
At 7 am
Still drunk and
Smitten.
It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let
him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat.
I couldn’t wait anymore
He told me
In the house that smelled like
Liquor and dust
And damp wood.
The first time we
Fucked
Was in the front seat of his
White Pontiac Grand prix
At 11 pm on a Tuesday.
I saw him almost
As an animal.
His fists
Were clenched
And his eyebrows
Like shelves
Over his beetle eyes.
Do you like fucking daddy?
After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom
because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he
was the best fuck and that he could make me cum
and that I should call him
Daddy.
I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I
was a dirty spoon it had only been called love.
His eyes started to remind me
Of Tiny
Round
Black beetles.
There’s nobody else anymore
We should just keep fucking.
And when we fucked
It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to
my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told
me
I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants
and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then
put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of
53
his couch
Where he keeps looking for love
Like it’s the loose change
In his back pocket.
54
bloomed
audrey campbell
55
pruned
audrey campbell
56
HERMAN
Danny Polaschek
Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and
landed in scattered droplets down the front of his
white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting
down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon
and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the
kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman
—but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he
wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child
looks through a window and, seeing nothing but
gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that
day.
As Herman sat there facing the white wall and
chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen
and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the
coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind
him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman
assumed had to be walking laps around the center
island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout.
Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end
the footsteps stopped as well.
Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic
mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started
and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed,
monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice.
“How are the flakes this morning, Dad?”
Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but
continued with what he was doing, looking like a
cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in
between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.”
Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up
from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away
when he noticed that his father was still turned away
from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another
sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep
pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee
mug in hand.
A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down
his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman
scooted himself back from the kitchen table and
slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for
balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to
steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had
57
missed a stair descending to the basement and found
himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way
until crashing to a stop on the last few steps.
Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to
time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination
by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for
support and then flinging himself to another sturdy
checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached
his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from
vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful.
With his feet finally under him, legs steady,
Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and
launched himself to the kitchen counter, which
caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over,
Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before
beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble
counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end.
“This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted.
Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped.
With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to
the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He
couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was
looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug—
one of the only things worth bringing with when he
moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling
around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman
eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished
itself by having only half of a handle still attached.
With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and
middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and
brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on
the counter with a soft “clink.”
Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this
58
point, and wished for a moment that he had listened
to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,”
the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use
it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take
the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to
walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I
don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time
someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was
always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to
change that.
Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this
same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost
seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who
was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home,
and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly
make it to the opposite end of the room without
feeling fatigued.
Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed
in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had
five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for
the final stretch, determined to get there even if it
killed him.
With a focused balance and patient, shuffling
steps Herman managed to get to the end of the
counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and
a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up
ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on
pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after
his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot
and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops
remained rolling around in the bottom.
Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his
brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small,
tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter,
Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing
his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s
hands were visibly trembling and he was having
a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the
counter. He contemplated making more coffee but
dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he
could not remain standing and moving around the
kitchen much longer.
Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and
could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples
and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up
and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it
shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers
and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen,
the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass.
Herman heard footsteps drumming down the
staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in
the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces
of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened?
Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands
on his knees. He was struggling for breath now,
and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In
between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You
didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a
bitch.”
His son stood there eyeing first his father and
then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit.
He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned
to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and
returned a minute later with broom in hand. He
began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug
into a dustpan.
After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back
into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping
under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone
last night,” he said.
Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood
and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow
at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated.
His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes
trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.”
59
EL BARRIO SUYO
Chad Berryman
El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los
vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una
casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas
ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los
lamentos penosos de sus hijos.
Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un
parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él
Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches
del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido
insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para
descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable.
Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y
ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro.
Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara
la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras
acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su
hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a
la casa sin otra palabra.
El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto
la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos.
60
No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa
canto los himnos con risa bendita
no tengo nada salvo alma amada
y sin despedida no hay la llegada
THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD
Chad Berryman
The frigid air wrapped around the man like a
blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own
neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him.
As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house,
complete with flowers and giant windows, he could
make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children.
The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in
which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod
of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers
past filled his mind, nights in which the bench
had not offered insults or accusations but rather a
consoling place of rest while he presented it with the
gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench
froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and
neither could provide the other with any relief.
He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the
driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded
expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung
sigh. The two entered the house without another
word.
As the wandering man continued walking, the
snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune
he commenced to hum in time with his steps.
I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush
in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive
there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved
for without a farewell one could never arrive
61
ODYSSEY
Eve Taft
Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind
Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin
James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates?
Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation
Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind
Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament
Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature
You spoke with your soul to our souls
Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink
I understand you, “life is many days”
I understand you, “god is a shout in the street”
I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same”
You understand me “everything speaks in its own way”
Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland
Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism
Now as free of rigid form
As Ireland of England
62
postcards from my bedroom
audrey campbell
63
postcards from my bedroom
audrey campbell
64
COUNTING SHEEP
Danny Polaschek
What can you do
when the world is asleep?
Go to sleep too?
I’ve counted all my sheep.
They jumped through the air
gliding for 5 or 6 feet
cleared the fence and then flew
with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however
on these aerial sheep antics
because far away in the distance
was a sight oh so fantastic.
A blue house, with a single light on
in the window sat a girl
a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn.
I looked up at her
and she down at me
addicted to the eyesight
too distracted to count sheep.
65
3
sky nights
keeyonna fox
67
inner self
keeyonna fox
68
VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE
Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk
Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal
point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were
sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills
until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We
walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we
turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought
we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence.
Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the
cold.
~
He was outrageously tall.
He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and
he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor.
Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an
image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone
who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated
me.
I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want
in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of
his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens
behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I
didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in
town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He
was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness.
I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After
discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became
nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept
me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept
me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t
tell you about functional depression: you can feel
like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words
people will stop asking questions.
He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good
price. I had never met him but I figured what the
hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark,
long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking
lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I
was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy
Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a
parking spot a few yards away from me. The man
driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We
69
made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got
my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side
window.
“You Nikita?” I said.
He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to
know.
“You can call me Kita.”
~
He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they
were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did
he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs
together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking
about life and what we crave. He told me that he
was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think
anything of it.
Before long we saw each other every day. He was
a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the
morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight
in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in
a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about
things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He
told me he struggled with his relationship with his
father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled
with eating disorders since I was thirteen.
We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke
cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we
smoked.
70
“You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I
smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.”
His mother loved me. She thought that I was
spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She
did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very
clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long
curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would
lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick
and powerful. She had run away to the United
States when she was twenty-one and seven months
pregnant with her first son. Nikita.
“Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your
name.”
He smiled when he answered.
“My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’”
he said.
Oh Kita,
you have no victory.
You are the secret I keep from my mother
the hidden disease that projectile vomits
and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth.
Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret,
your secrets so dark and beautiful
and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers.
His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting
people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her
home country of Ukraine and according to the
story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant
personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she
was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According
to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not
ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her
way to America to create a life of victory and hope.
He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello
and came in and that was the last that I understood.
The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me.
He taught me how to say
Hello
(Privet)
Yes
(da)
No
(net)
And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent
almost the entire time we were there trying to help
his grandmother set up a new movie streaming
program on her computer. I know nothing about
computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was
overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my
nervous sweat more noticeable.
She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it
was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest
to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita
would translate for me. I wanted to leave.
After we left his grandmother’s house he told me
to wait in his car while he talked privately with his
grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t
question it. I played mindless games on my phone
while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that
they were talking about me, but I continued to deny
it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing
anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then.
When he returned to the car I asked what they had
talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.”
I paused, then asked him to elaborate.
“She likes you,” he said. And that was that.
How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who
never explicitly spoke a word to me.
~
Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after
his father.
Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with
tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that
would make you look twice. He lived in a nice,
expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who
was twenty years younger than him. Apparently
that was a theme.
Kita had only seen his father a handful of times
in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend
some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have
too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he
went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall,
thin, and handsome. His father noticed this.
“So what happened?” I asked him one day.
71
Kita shrugged.
“He kicked me out and I came back to the states,”
he said without a flinch.
He said this as though it was a commonality.
“He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as
he lit a cigarette.
There was a very long, uncomfortable silence.
“Did you?” I asked.
He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured
out of his mouth.
“No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to
listen to a sixteen year old.”
~
“I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.”
“Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where
there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you
look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.”
He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine.
He insisted that I learn all that I could about the
Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable
articles daily. Through him I learned about the
importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights
that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and
2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his
people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed
with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered
in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.”
His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields
of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes
lit up every time he got angry.
Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes.
We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets
and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was
late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which
were both off and hidden somewhere in the room.
He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His
eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed
home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good.
“Where in Ukraine?” I asked.
“Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my
shirt.
“Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of
flowers.”
“What kind of flowers?”
72
~
I squirm away and pull my shirt down.
“Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still
taste the salt in my mouth.
“You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain
in his voice.
My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for
my stomach again and once again I’m backing away.
We get into the car and drive to the gas station.
I say that I need to go use the restroom. While
Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small
Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground
and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my
finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet.
As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his
car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita
looks at me quizzically.
“You okay?” he asks me.
My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my
breath is putrid.
“I’m fine,” I say with a smile.
~
The elevator door was so cold against my cheek.
I watched the red numbers blink as they rose.
8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey,
my ears started ringing and throbbing.
11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my
wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I
watched them push my key into my apartment door
I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my
living room window. I closed the door behind me
and collapsed on the ground.
“Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the
screen of my phone.
“I just haven’t eaten a lot today.”
There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear
in my heart. Fear I had not known.
“When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice.
I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate
the truth.
“I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly.
“What did you eat?” His reply was sharp.
I was shaking.
“I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a
quivering voice.
I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh.
“How many times have we talked about this?” He
exclaimed.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry…”
It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him
again.
“Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that
can’t even take care of herself ?”
“What am I going to tell my friends?”
“You’re not even trying.”
I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all
from my bed from which I could not move.
My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy
to remove it.
“So what are you going to do about this?” There
was intense spite in his words.
With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?”
He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed
73
at my pain.
“And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my
friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who
can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead.
Maybe that’ll help you change.”
I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach
kept whispering “never again, never again,
never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic
because it reminded me of eating.
I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked
outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of
cigarettes.
~
Months go by. Months.
I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had
never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few
shirts and two pairs of pants.
“My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,”
he said.
I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus
on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of
the bed, staring at me. I started to cry.
“Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without
breaking focus.
I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had
grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted
flower petals.
74
“Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to
the wilted pile.
“My father won’t like them,” he said.
Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his
bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled
against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked
my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but
not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita
sighed too.
“Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice.
“If I ever treat you like my father treats women,
please leave me.”
~
I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian.
“я люблю тебя.”
Ya lyublyu tebya.
~
My fingers were bones.
Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it
brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t
like when other people noticed me.
He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to
do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would
say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he
would tell me he was disappointed.
I lived with three men at the time, something that
Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few
days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my
roommates. If I was spending too much time with a
friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him.
He sent me articles outlining how to be a better
partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me
to be the best that I could be. The screaming and
hour-long phone calls were footnotes.
You stripped me of my dignity and told me,
“This is what you have.”
Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares
Your titanic stature collided with my glacier
and though you claim I sank you
You were a behemoth and I was a stone.
At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me.
My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of
the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of
dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I
did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of
my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled
Ukraine.
My goodbyes have been said,
These addictions fed.
It’s the cost that comes with the sickness.
And your screams won’t be heeded anymore.
75
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS
Halle Chambers
When we are little, even before we can speak
We are told that we’re special and that we’re
unique.
That we all are made different and that none are
the same
Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame.
And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside,
That what makes us different is not something to
hide.
But then quite soon after, things start to change;
The word “different” stops meaning “special” and
starts meaning “strange.”
We’re sectioned off from our average peers
In our own little category and told,
“you belong here,”
And then different is bad and normal is good,
And for the different ones, nothing is working the
way that it should
The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been
shown
All we know is that we do not like being lost on
our own.
76
So once again we are taken away
To a place where things makes sense again and
we’re ok:
Where no one hurts us,
Where no one can see,
Where no one deserts us,
Where we can be free.
But because the un-specials can’t see what goes
on,
They decide to make things up and get so much
wrong.
And it’s happened for years because they can’t see
through that door.
So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong
anymore.
It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right;
They judge each special kid by their stereotype.
But today that will end.
So you sit there and you wait,
cause it’s about time someone set the dang record
straight.
You probably think that this poem won’t cut it,
But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you
dare shut it!
To start, let’s be clear:
I am...I was in Special Ed.
But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean
I’m brain dead!
So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me!
Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see:
If I need your help, I will tell you I do.
Just please,
Please don’t mock me.
In my place, would you want me to mock you?
“Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on
her!”
Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur.
I’m not invalid
So don’t play that card.
Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive,
But I’m not, and I quote,
“A little retard.”
Yeah, I’ve been called names.
And those words?
They hurt.
They catch in the center,
In your pit of self worth.
And they tear and they rip,
And those words are collective.
Soon you start to believe that you are defective.
I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly,
I actually prefer the straight up bullies
To those who pretend to like me.
Fake friends and two-faces
Of all genders and races.
They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see
me cry.
Or they use me,
abuse me,
Oh, how they confuse me!
Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie.
“Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!”
And because I don’t know better, I believe this.
But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid,
They just wanna make me look stupid.
For their entertainment, they make me play the
77
fool;
They pretend that they care for me
When they’re really just cruel.
It takes time and takes work to make you forget;
Even now, I’m not quite there yet.
I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be
home,
And yet here I am, still feeling alone.
I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end;
I still have to ask if someone’s my friend.
I say one thing and mean another;
I make a mistake,
But you take it verbatim.
Can’t you cut me a break?
If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost,
Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost.
Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain,
So please just take a minute to explain.
Do these quirks make me broken?
Is there something wrong with me?
The way society has spoken,
There would seem to be.
78
Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young
women and men.
I don’t like being defective....
Can I be special again?
SOREX PALUSTRIS
Emilie Tomas
Did they name you for
Your wit, pointed
Nose of pointed judgement
Who brought us fire;
five to seven inches of shrewd truth?
Or was it your mischief
That Inspired them? Your
Presence followed by screams
And a three inch tail.
I saw your likeness on a stage,
Dirt in place of your midnight coat
Though she is reformed now.
Perhaps it was the gleam in your
Eyes; whispered fortunes and
A summer of silver birth.
Maybe you are a messenger
Of God, somehow in your Eighteen
months you learned to walk
On water, the second coming
Of Christ.
79
woodsy adam ruff
gabriel bergstrom
80
WORDS
Malena Larsen
The bathroom wall was covered in words.
Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and
names with hearts around them. His body
looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and
slumped against the door. His head hung to his
right shoulder and his mouth was open like he
was about to say something but was interrupted.
There was blood running down his left arm like
a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin.
The words that he had heard her say several
hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter.
“It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m
sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her
apartment when she said it. She knew he had
been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days
of treatment and one week in a sober house on
Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was
twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked
clean and strong; there was no more grey in his
cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance
that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her
the difference between wrong and right and that
she should stay in on the weekends. His family
couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were
of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just
seem so much better?” She would answer with yes
but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to
make mistakes. His family had a party after he got
out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying
things like, “Men in this family have always been
strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His
grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt
that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He
didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf
or the way she agreed with everything he said
without a second thought.
As he sat on the bathroom floor the words
she had said were getting quieter and quieter.
They were almost gone. He had been sober for
thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t
feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay
loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was
waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so
proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his
life without her.
Long after her words had faded completely,
the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the
floor. His head hitting hard against the tile.
81
“Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door
yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his
phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed
over to where the man was dialing. A young man
pushed past the group of people.
“Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on
the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out
something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into
the arm of the body that was needle free. People
gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang
in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked
up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck
and love and song lyrics and names with hearts
around them. He looked up at the group of people.
“It’s not working,” he said.
82
MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE
Danny Polaschek
Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet
in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like
a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his
teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty
playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge
and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on
his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through,
Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her
hair scratching and tickling his neck.
When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this
exact same bench many times with his mother.
They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks
away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would
say and Malcolm would make it his mission to
jump and bunny-hop the whole way there.
When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting
together on the narrow, wooden bench. After
each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his
mother to let him go play, to which she would give
in once she herself had Show less
Sideline support
Beyond fjords and freeways
Boom or bust
Homecoming 2015
SCHOLARSHIP
IN ACTION
FALL 2015 | VOL. 78, NO. 1
INSIDE
AUGSBURG NOW
Vice President of Marketing
and Communication
Rebecca John ’13 MBA
rjohn@augsburg.edu
Director of News and
Media Services
Stephanie Weiss
weis... Show more
Sideline support
Beyond fjords and freeways
Boom or bust
Homecoming 2015
SCHOLARSHIP
IN ACTION
FALL 2015 | VOL. 78, NO. 1
INSIDE
AUGSBURG NOW
Vice President of Marketing
and Communication
Rebecca John ’13 MBA
rjohn@augsburg.edu
Director of News and
Media Services
Stephanie Weiss
weisss@augsburg.edu
NOTES FROM PRESIDENT PRIBBENOW
On being faculty-guided
In recent issues of Augsburg Now (apparently still
the name of this fine publication—see page 7!),
I’ve written about our Augsburg2019 vision to be
“a new kind of student-centered urban university,
small to our students and big for the world.”
I’ve also turned cultural myths on their heads,
arguing that colleges should be student-ready
and not the other way around.
As compelling as our vision is, the studentcentered and student-ready Augsburg still has at
its heart a distinguished and dedicated faculty
whose commitment to our students and their
education is as it always has been—unparalleled,
hard-working, and full of imagination and resolve.
In other words, as we aspire to be studentcentered, we will always be faculty-guided.
In all of my travels to visit alumni on behalf
of Augsburg, the conversation inevitably turns
to the faculty member who asked the right
question, introduced a new way of thinking,
became a mentor, stayed in touch, changed my
life. The values and commitments of the legends
of Augsburg’s faculty—Christensen, Chrislock,
Torstenson, Quanbeck, Peterson, Nelson, Colacci,
Sateren, Mitchell, Hesser, Shackelford, Gus,
Gabe—are now alive in the Augsburg faculty of
the 21st century.
And some of their stories are in the pages
that follow.
Stories of creative and groundbreaking
teaching, such as the work of Associate Professor
of Political Science Joe Underhill, whose 15-year
dream to spend a semester with students on the
Mississippi River is now a reality with this fall’s
“River Semester.” Imagine a dozen students,
two faculty members, and a river guide or two
traveling almost 1,800 miles from St. Paul to
New Orleans in canoes, engaging the biology and
politics of the Mississippi River over three and
a half months. Makes you want to go back to
college!
Stories of relevant and timely research, such
as the project undertaken by Associate Professor
of Sociology Tim Pippert to explore the impact
of the oil boom in North Dakota, seeking to
understand the various social implications for
the communities at the center of the dramatic
change. It’s the Gold Rush all over again, but
with 21st century challenges to the well-being of
individuals and communities.
Stories of faithful service, which has been
recognized by President Obama in naming
Augsburg one of five finalists (for the second year
in a row) for the President’s Award for Interfaith
Dialogue and Service. Our robust interfaith work
with students and our neighbors is led by faculty
members Martha Stortz and Matt Maruggi from
the Religion Department, along with College
Pastor Sonja Hagander and Distinguished Fellow
Mark Hanson ’68. And don’t miss the fun
interview with Nancy Fischer, associate professor
of sociology and urban studies, who ties her
research about secondhand clothes to serving the
needs of our neighbors.
For almost 150 years, it has been Augsburg’s
faculty who have guided our work as a college
and whose wisdom and experience have
equipped our students to change the world. May
it always be so.
Faithfully yours,
Director of Marketing
Communication
Stephen Jendraszak
jendra@augsburg.edu
Communication Copywriter
and Editorial Coordinator
Laura Swanson ’15 MBA
swansonl@augsburg.edu
Creative Associate
Denielle Johnson ’11
johnsod@augsburg.edu
Marketing Copywriter
Christina Haller
haller@augsburg.edu
Production Manager
Mark Chamberlain
chamberm@augsburg.edu
Photographer
Stephen Geffre
geffre@augsburg.edu
Advancement Communication
Specialist
Jen Lowman Day
dayj@augsburg.edu
Contributor
Kate H. Elliott
augsburg.edu
Augsburg Now is published by
Augsburg College
2211 Riverside Ave.
Minneapolis, MN 55454
Opinions expressed in Augsburg
Now do not necessarily reflect
official College policy.
ISSN 1058-1545
PAUL C. PRIBBENOW, PRESIDENT
Send address corrections to:
langemo@augsburg.edu.
Email: now@augsburg.edu
AUGSBURG NOW
Fall 2015
02 Around the quad
08
Annual report to donors
10
Uncorking the mysteries of wine
13
Sideline support
18
Beyond fjords and freeways
20
Boom or bust
26
Homecoming 2015
28
Auggies connect
32
Class notes
40
In memoriam
26
Andrew Held ’05 celebrates his 10-year class reunion and totes his daughter, Mabel, through the
Taste of Augsburg at Homecoming 2015. Learn more about Homecoming events and honorees on
pages 26 and 32.
On the cover: A pump jack extracts oil from the Bakken
shale formation that lies miles below a field of grain outside
Williston, North Dakota. Learn about the state’s new oil
landscape: pages 20-25.
Correction: In the Summer 2015 issue of Augsburg Now,
U.S. Rep. Keith Ellison of Minnesota mistakenly was
identified as a U.S. senator in the article “Making their
mark,” which described a research experience that drew a
student-faculty duo to East Africa and Capitol Hill.
All photos by Stephen Geffre unless otherwise
indicated.
A scene from the River Semester
launch event held September 1.
AUGGIES MAKE A SPLASH
WITH HANDS-ON LEARNING
The first-ever Augsburg College River Semester—a three-and-a-half month
program in which a dozen students as well as faculty members will travel
almost 2,000 miles of the 2,350-mile Mississippi River from St. Paul to
New Orleans while studying the arts, humanities, and sciences—departed
from St. Paul’s Harriet Island on September 1. As part of the kickoff, the
River Semester class, created and led by Associate Professor of Political
Science Joe Underhill, was
joined by a group of nearly
“This is my ideal form of higher education.
100 community members
It’s experiential, engaged with the community,
who paddled in canoes
interdisciplinary, physical, and mental.”
from St. Paul to South St.
—Joe Underhill, lead River Semester professor
Paul. Many media outlets
Winona Daily News, September 15
covered the launch, and
Minnesota Gov. Mark
Dayton proclaimed September 1
Follow the crew on their journey at
augsburg.edu/river/blog.
“Augsburg College River Semester Day.”
2
Augsburg Now
AUGGIE PLAN
OFFERS PATHWAY
to four-year degree
This past spring, officials from
Augsburg College and Minneapolis
Community and Technical College
launched the Auggie Plan, an efficient
and affordable track to a four-year
degree for students whose academic
achievement at MCTC prepares them
for upper-level coursework at Augsburg.
This partnership was a natural fit for
the colleges as both are located in the
heart of Minneapolis, provide student
support services, value intentional
diversity, and are committed to
developing future leaders.
COLLEGE AWARDS 2015
Augsburg College is nationally recognized for its
commitment to intentional diversity in its life and
work. This year’s accolades include:
• The 2015 Higher Education Excellence in
Diversity Award from INSIGHT Into Diversity
magazine for the College’s commitment to
intentional diversity and student engagement
and activism.
Augsburg College physician assistant students gather outside their new
classrooms in Northwestern Hall at Luther Seminary.
PHYSICIAN ASSISTANT PROGRAM
relocates to Luther Seminary campus
Augsburg College’s Master of Science in Physician Assistant Studies
program recently relocated to a leased space on the Luther Seminary
campus in St. Paul. The new location provides improved educational and
office space for the program and makes room on Augsburg’s main campus
for other groups whose current space doesn’t fully support their needs.
The agreement with Luther Seminary models the type of collaborative
partnership that Augsburg, as a new kind of urban university, seeks.
Augsburg’s signature PA program will have effective space to remain
competitive, and Luther Seminary will be able to better optimize the use
of its own facilities. In addition, since Luther Seminary primarily serves
graduate-level students, the Augsburg PA program aligns with the campus’s
commitment to graduate academic achievement and contributes to its
vibrant higher education experience.
• Placing No. 6 on the UCLA Higher Education
Research Institute’s 2015 Rankings of the Best
Christian Colleges and Universities published
based on academic reputation, financial aid
offerings, overall cost, and success of graduates
in the job market.
• The American Indian Science and Engineering
Society’s Winds of Change magazine’s Top 200
Schools for Native Americans—the second time
since 2013 Augsburg earned this recognition
for its American Indian support community and
graduation rates.
• Ranking No. 5 on College Magazine’s Most
Transgender-Friendly College list for working
to make campus welcoming for transgender
students and offering comfort, safety, and
freedom to all students.
• Recognition as one of five U.S. finalists for the
2015 President’s Higher Education Community
Service Honor Roll with Distinction in interfaith
and community service—the only institution
named a finalist in both 2014 and 2015.
• Being named a 2016 Military Friendly® School
for extraordinary work in providing transitioning
veterans the best possible experience in higher
education.
GRANT OF NEARLY $450,000 FUNDS INTERNSHIPS FOR 200 AUGGIES
An Augsburg College education plays an
integral role in preparing our world’s future
leaders to make meaningful contributions
to their communities, businesses,
governments, and families. At the same
time, Augsburg offers opportunities for
students to gain on-the-job and internship
experience so that they can focus on
their vocational exploration. The College’s
efforts in these areas garnered a boost
when the nonprofit Great Lakes Higher
Education Guaranty Corporation extended
for an additional three years the Career
Ready Internship grant first awarded to
Augsburg in 2014-15. In all, the College
will receive nearly $450,000 through the
new grant, which will be used to create
200 paid internships for low-income and
first-generation students interested in
the opportunities available at for-profit
corporations and nonprofit organizations.
Moreover, this grant supports the College’s
Clair and Gladys Strommen Center for
Meaningful Work—a highly visible anchor
of the College’s commitment to students’
experiential education and vocational
discernment.
Fall 2015
3
BOARD OF REGENTS
At its annual meeting in
September, the Augsburg
Corporation elected a new
member to the Board of
Regents and reelected
several board members.
Vicki Turnquist [pictured]
was elected to her first,
four-year term. She has
more than 30 years of banking experience and
serves on the Board of Directors of Citizens
Independent Bank in St. Louis Park, Minnesota.
Turnquist was the founder and CEO of Private
Bank Minnesota, which sold in June 2014.
Unhealthy trees are safely removed from campus.
EMBRACING GREEN HORIZONS
In late summer, two of the three remaining elm trees in Augsburg’s quad—
an alumni gift from more than 50 years ago—were removed because of
Dutch Elm disease. While it was sad to lose the trees, the College reserved
some of the wood to be transformed into pieces of art, partnering with Tom
Peter, a local certified arborist and woodturning artist.
The elms created wonderful character of space in the quad for decades
and have helped inspire a longer-term vision of the central campus as a
larger green space that, over time, will become an even more significant
component of campus life. The design for an expanded quad is one of the
principal ideas resulting from work done in 2011 to develop a campus
master plan and has inspired new thinking around a special campaign
effort to support the creation of an “urban arboretum”—a multi-functional
green space that deepens the student, faculty, staff, and community
experience through hands-on education, research, and recreation.
Courtesy Photo
welcomes new member
Regents elected to a second, four-year term
include:
• Karen (Miller) Durant ’81, vice president
and controller of Tennant Company;
• Matthew Entenza, an attorney in private
practice at the Entenza Law Firm; and
• Jeffrey Nodland ’77, president and CEO of
KIK Custom Products.
Those elected to third, four-year terms include:
• Andra Adolfson, business development
director for Adolfson & Peterson
Construction; and
• Rolf Jacobson, pastor, writer, speaker,
and professor of Old Testament at Luther
Seminary.
LEADING FOUNDATIONS AND CORPORATIONS SUPPORT CAPITAL CAMPAIGN
A recent $1 million grant from the
Margaret A. Cargill Foundation has helped
the campaign to build the Norman and
Evangeline Hagfors Center for Science,
Business, and Religion to surpass its goal.
During the fundraising campaign,
several large philanthropic foundations
and corporations joined forces in support
4
Augsburg Now
of the Hagfors Center, including the Bush
Foundation, the Bill & Melinda Gates
Foundation, and the Eli Lilly and Company
Foundation. The campaign also received
support from 3M, Ameriprise Financial,
General Mills, U.S. Bank, and Wells Fargo.
“We are honored that the College’s
work to promote interdisciplinary studies
through the Hagfors Center received
generous funding from the Margaret
A. Cargill Foundation,” said Heather
Riddle, vice president for Institutional
Advancement. “The Hagfors Center will
support Augsburg in expanding research
opportunities and will help shape student
learning for 21st century realities.”
AROUND THE QUAD
This fall, the Student Lounge in the Christensen Center reopened
following a renovation designed to offer improved spaces
for student organization meetings, community events, study
sessions, and—of course—fun.
Courtesy Photos
CONVOCATION SERIES 2015-16
Now in its 25th year, the Convocation Series offers the Augsburg
community an opportunity to share in enlightening conversation
with outstanding leaders and visionaries.
In September, the series kicked off with the joint Bernhard M.
Christensen Symposium and Fine Arts and Humanities Convocation
featuring renowned author, Pulitzer Prize nominee, and PBS
NewsHour contributor Richard Rodriguez and his presentation
“Living Religion.” Rodriguez is recognized for writing about
provocative topics such as education, race, politics, the AIDS
epidemic, and religious violence.
In November, the Center for Wellness and Counseling Convocation
welcomed Antony Stately, director of the Behavioral Health
Program for the Shakopee Mdewakanton Sioux Community, and his
presentation, “Running into the Storm: Renewal of the Spirit.”
SAVE THE DATE
Join us on Monday, January 18, for
the annual Martin Luther King Jr.
Convocation, and on Tuesday, February 16,
for the Batalden Seminar in Applied Ethics
featuring Donald Warne, a member of the
Oglala Lakota Tribe and director of the
Master of Public Health Program at North
Dakota State University.
All events are free, public, and held in the
Foss Center. For detailed information, go
to augsburg.edu/convo.
Fall 2015
5
ON THE SPOT
Nancy Fischer discusses
“The Social Life of Secondhand Clothes”
Photos taken at Succotash
781 Raymond Ave., St. Paul
REDUCE. REUSE. RECYCLE.
For decades this adage has prescribed an
approach for improving individuals’ personal
impact on the environment, and today the once
underrated middle “R” is among the chicest ways
to go green.
Augsburg College Associate Professor
Nancy Fischer teaches courses in sociology;
environmental studies; urban studies; and
gender, sexuality, and women’s studies. Her
current project, “The Social Life of Secondhand
Clothes,” is a sociological analysis of the
secondhand and vintage clothing industry.
Fischer is exploring the emergence of secondhand
clothing as a trend in pop culture, the places and
urban spaces that sell these clothes, and the
many reasons people buy them. Here is a glimpse
into an area of the fashion world where some
looks are truly timeless.
Q:
What factors have contributed to the
emergence of vintage clothing as a
popular fashion trend?
A:
Wearing old, out-of-style clothing was
first a subcultural fashion statement—
think beatniks, hippies, and punks. It was
6
Augsburg Now
a rebellion against post-war consumerism,
an appreciation of craftsmanship, and ecoconsciousness (as a political statement
against a wasteful society). In the late
1960s—first in London, then in New York
City—fashionable youth started visiting thrift
stores, purchasing Edwardian coats and
Victorian petticoats, and vintage dressing
began to move into the mainstream.
The emergence of the vintage trend
accompanied a global expansion and
standardization of the international garment
industry. People who buy vintage usually buy
new clothing as well, but vintage shopping
provides a different experience; you never
know what you might find.
Q:
A:
How is purchasing secondhand
clothing advantageous for society?
Buying secondhand clothing generally
is a form of reuse and keeps clothing
out of landfills. Ideally, clothing should
never go into landfills. Torn and dirty
clothing can be reused as insulation and
as paper. But that doesn’t mean we should
buy clothes with abandon and then donate
them. Most secondhand clothing winds
up being shipped to developing countries
where in some cases it has undermined
traditional garment-making industries.
Vintage clothing—as a subset of
secondhand—is advantageous because it
tends to retain its value. Vintage clothes
also reveal our own industrial history.
We see those “Made in the USA” labels,
and sometimes more specifically “Made
in Minneapolis.” There’s value in that
historical glimpse at the past.
Q:
A:
What’s your favorite vintage piece
to wear?
I have a favorite for every season. For
winter in Minnesota, my favorite is
a 1950s plaid swing coat. It was made in
Dallas(!) from boiled wool, which is thick
and super warm. It’s custom-made, and I
always picture the Texan coat-maker taking
on this garment as a rare challenge.
Go to augsburg.edu/now to learn more about the
social life of secondhand clothing.
Nancy Fischer is collaborating with other
secondhand clothing lovers on a new book.
If you wear vintage and are interested in
discussing your role as a consumer as part
of her research, email fischern@augsburg.edu.
AROUND THE QUAD
AUGSBURG HOSTS FIRST-EVER
CAREER EXPLORATION SERIES
More than 25 companies and organizations
participated in an on-campus career and
internship fair.
Augsburg College this autumn hosted an on-campus
career and internship fair along with its first five-week
career exploration series. The students who attended
the fair met with organizations seeking individuals
trained in disciplines including accounting, biology,
chemistry, communications, computer science,
marketing, religion, and more.
The major and career exploration series,
organized by staff of the Clair and Gladys
Strommen Center for Meaningful Work and
Institutional Advancement, provided nearly
175 students opportunities to explore
majors and careers by disciplines.
The series included programming
on professional studies, fine arts
and humanities, natural and social
sciences, pre-health sciences, and the
needs of students still exploring several degree
programs. This series was made successful in part
due to nearly two dozen Augsburg College alumni
who served as panelists and who shared details about
their career paths since graduation.
SIGNS OF CHANGE
Excitement for the future Norman and Evangeline Hagfors Center for Science, Business,
and Religion grew on campus after its construction site was marked. This multidisciplinary
building will house, among other departments, many of the programs currently residing in
Science Hall—a building that had its own site marker as pictured [below on right] during the
1947-48 academic year.
Archive Photo
AUGSBURG NOW
to remain name of
College magazine
This summer, members of the
Augsburg College community
were invited to consider whether
the College’s magazine name,
Augsburg Now, aligned with and
supported the publication’s
purpose and key roles. A
survey allowed people
to share feedback
on the magazine’s
existing name and
to consider whether
two options, Augsburg
Experience and Augsburg
Spirit, would be better.
The results from the
survey point us toward
retaining the name
Augsburg Now. There
clearly is an established resonance
with the current name, which
uplifts the publication’s ability to:
•
•
Foster inspiration and pride.
•
Bridge the Augsburg of today
with people’s past experiences.
•
Define and illustrate what it
means to be an “Auggie.”
•
Help the Augsburg community
learn how to talk about itself
and equip individuals to
advocate for the College.
Provide intellectual stimulation
and ongoing education.
We appreciate the opportunity
for conversation on the magazine
name and are grateful to all those
who took time to participate in
this process.
Fall 2015
7
2014-2015
AUGSBURG COLLEGE
ANNUAL REPORT
TO DONORS
G
enerous donors have come together to make this the
most successful fundraising year in Augsburg College
history. Driven largely by contributions to the campaign
for the Norman and Evangeline Hagfors Center for Science,
Business, and Religion, alumni and friends gave $35,404,222
during fiscal year 2014-15.
This is the fourth year in a row in which donors have
contributed more than $10 million to the College and more
than doubled last year’s total of $14.6 million. In addition
Aybike Bakan ’11, ’15 MPA
Dahlberg and Peterson Family Scholarship
Hometown: Istanbul
Studying: Master of Science in Physician Assistant Studies
Favorite thing about Augsburg: “I appreciate its focus on community service
and social justice. It also allowed me to grow as an open-minded individual and
encouraged me to seek meaning in the work that I want to do in the future.”
Joseph David “J.D.” Mechelke ’16
David Huglen Strommen Endowment, the Glen and Marilyn Person
Scholarship, and the Joel and Mary Ann Elftmann Scholarship
Hometown: Stillwater, Minnesota
Studying: Youth and Family Ministry
Augsburg College’s influence: “I have become vocation-centered, concerned
with social justice, and I am learning to connect faith to social issues.”
8
Augsburg Now
to providing crucial funding for the transformative Hagfors
Center, the philanthropy of more than 5,600 donors this year
helps Augsburg attract talented students and the dedicated
faculty and staff who teach and guide them. The gifts
provide financial aid, building maintenance and support,
and instructional and other resources that allow Augsburg
to educate informed citizens, thoughtful stewards, critical
thinkers, and responsible leaders.
REVENUE BY SOURCE
67% Tuition
11% Room and board
11% Private gifts and grants
4% Government grants
7% Other sources
EXPENSES BY CATEGORY
43% Salary and benefits
28% Financial aid
19% Operating expenses*
3% Debt service
3% Utilities and insurance
2% Capital improvements
2% Student salaries
*Expenses in this category include: facility repairs and maintenance, information
technology expenditures, marketing expenditures, membership dues and fees, outside
consultants, supplies, and travel and business meetings.
ENDOWMENT MARKET VALUE
May 31, 2015—$40,463,556
$38.3
$34.6
$33.3
$32.4 $31.5
$28.2
$27.2 $27.8
$40.5
$29.8
$24.5
2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015
(IN MILLIONS)
Aisha Mohamed ’16
General Memorial Scholarship
Hometown: Minneapolis
Studying: Biology
Proudest academic achievement: “Being able to say
I’m a biology major and feeling at home in a lab.”
As of May 31, 2015, Augsburg had annual realized and
unrealized gains of 10.7 percent on the Augsburg College
endowment. The five-year average annual return on the
endowment is 7.12 percent, and the 10-year average
annual return is 4.47 percent. The College is committed to
maintaining the value of the principal in order to provide
support to the College in perpetuity.
Fall 2015
9
BY CHRISTINA HALLER
Jennifer Chou ’99 has never been afraid to ask deep and
probing questions—a quality that helped her to make
the most of her time at Augsburg, where students are
encouraged to explore their talents and learn through
hands-on experiences in order to find their callings. Her
thirst for inquiry, as well as her ambition, helped get her to
where she is today—a successful entrepreneur who made a
career out of her great interest in and passion for vino.
Craving knowledge
Chou’s curiosity sparked her fascination with wine. During
her childhood, she noticed her grandmother would always
serve wine at holidays. What does wine taste like? Why is
wine only for grownups? Why is wine enjoyed on special
occasions?
Chou’s enthusiasm grew into a passion. While an
Augsburg College student, she further explored her
interest by joining a monthly wine club where she
attended tasting events to learn more—from how to
identify main flavor and scent components to the basic
characteristics of all the varietal grapes to the histories of
the world’s best wine-producing regions.
Seizing key opportunities
As a communication studies major and business minor,
Chou found work as a financial advisor shortly after
graduation. While attending job-training courses in
Dallas, she made friends with a man in the hotel gym who
recommended a very specific wine to her. She bluntly told
him that she’d never heard of it, and asked if he was a
10
Augsburg Now
“sales guy” for the company.
Once again her inquisitiveness pulled through for her.
It just so happened that he, in fact, was the winemaker and
CEO of Napa Wine Company. Their friendship blossomed,
and his knowledge helped hers to grow. “So I always joke
that I got into the wine business by working out,” said Chou.
Soon after that serendipitous encounter, Children’s
Home Society, for whom Chou volunteered, asked if she
would request wine donations from distributors for their
annual winemakers dinner.
“I said, ‘Yeah, I’m fearless, I’m not afraid to ask!’”
Chou recalled. “So I went and asked four different
distributors for wine donations, and they said, ‘Wow, you
really know quite a bit about wine and seem to enjoy it.
Have you ever thought about selling it?’”
So Chou took a job selling wines for a distributor,
traveling to California, Oregon, France, Italy, and South
Africa to gain a deeper understanding of each supplier’s
wine so she could better sell it.
Learning over a glass of wine
Because of her extensive wine savvy, friends started asking
her for wine etiquette advice.
“I would get asked questions like, ‘How am I
supposed to hold a glass of wine, under the bowl or the
stem? Are you supposed to swirl the glass? In a restaurant,
why does the server present the bottle?’’’ said Chou. “This
was stuff my friends realized they needed to know in order
to stay relevant in the business world—hosting clients at a
restaurant or thanking someone with a bottle of wine.”
As a way to share her knowledge and enlighten others,
she founded The Savvy Grape, a business dedicated
to educating people about wine through fun, hands-on
experiences. To be an authority on the subject, Chou
became a Certified Wine Specialist. This certification
required rigorous examinations by the Society of Wine
Educators, testing Chou’s expertise and mastery of
viticulture and wine production.
Chou quickly found a niche with professional
organizations and was able to start out by connecting with
fellow Auggies who were also business owners. “Being an
Augsburg alumna helped because one thing I always find
is that Auggies like to help other Auggies!” said Chou.
For employers, such as finance and law firms, Chou
educates people about wine etiquette while providing a
fun and entertaining wine-tasting activity at events such
as member drives, holiday parties, employee development
conferences, and client appreciation events.
At these events, Chou teaches people “how to taste
wine like a professional,” offers tips on food and wine
pairings, and answers attendees’ questions about wine.
Fighting for what you believe in
In order for Chou to legally pour wine in a corporate
event space, she had to work hard lobbying to change
the law, making it legal for a licensed wine educator
like herself to hold wine education events in
commercial spaces.
With determination and grit, Chou hit the
pavement, reaching out to her local senators and
representatives to see who would be willing to
assist. She found Minnesota Sen. Dan Hall ’74
who helped her to navigate the system at the
Capitol and get the Wine Educator License
signed into law by Gov. Mark Dayton in 2012.
Making a living out of wine
Chou’s unquenchable curiosity for the
world, unstoppable work ethic, liberal arts
education, and strong Auggie connections
helped to make her dream of making a
living out of wine a reality.
Chou has authored Wine Savvy, a chapter in
the book, “Socially Smart & Savvy.” Below are
some of her favorite tips featured in the book.
Tips for the wine lover
Put red wines in the refrigerator 10-15
minutes before serving, and take white
wines out of the refrigerator 10-15 minutes
before serving. This will help your red wines
be less acidic and allow you to taste more
flavor in your whites.
Don’t know what to give as a hostess
gift? When in doubt, choose a
sparkling wine, or “bubbly,” as Chou likes
to call it. You can spend as little or as
much as your budget allows, and it’s festive
for most occasions.
Not sure which wine to order in
a restaurant? Ask the server for a
sample to see if you like it. A restaurant
would prefer that you like a wine and order
more rather than not like it and order water.
This works especially well if you are trying
to order a bottle for the table.
12
Augsburg Now
Student Sports Medicine Assistant
Kayla Fuechtmann ’16
Augsburg athletic trainers
collaborate across campus
and within the community to
achieve a holistic approach
to the safety and wellness of
student-athletes BY KATE H. ELLIOTT
T
he score was tied at 2-2 in the
fourth inning as a University of
Wisconsin-Stout slugger knocked a
foul ball down the right field line.
Auggie outfielder Brian Bambenek ’07
sailed through the air—glove extended.
The ball landed in the pocket, then
popped out as his body slammed into an
unprotected portion of fence at the Hubert
H. Humphrey Metrodome in Minneapolis.
After minutes of darkness, the
then-senior’s eyes blinked opened to see
Augsburg College’s Head Athletic Trainer
Missy Strauch hovering over him. She
monitored numbness in his fingers and
toes, held his hand in the ambulance,
and called his parents, Nancy and Mike,
to report that their son had injured three
disks in his neck.
During the days and weeks that
followed, Strauch went well beyond her
job description to get Bambenek back in
action.
“I am forever in debt to Missy for
all she did for me,” said Bambenek,
who today is co-owner of the Great
Lakes Baseball Academy in Woodbury,
Minnesota. “She is an incredible trainer
who truly loves Augsburg College, and we
still find time to catch up a few times a
year. And her cutting-edge research in arm
care continues to influence my work with
athletes.”
These types of bonds with athletic
training staff are the norm at Augsburg.
During her 18-year tenure, Strauch
has built an expert, dynamic team
of professional trainers and student
assistants who collaborate across campus
and within the community to achieve
a holistic approach to the safety and
wellness of Augsburg’s more than 500
student-athletes.
It’s fast-paced, passionate work.
Strauch and her staff know players’
names. They generate daily injury reports
Fall 2015
13
Student Sports Medicine Assistants Jack Duffy ’16 (left) and Alison Ranum ’17 (right) aid Auggie
running back Michael Busch ’16.
and conduct pre- and post-season
screenings, and a member of the
medical staff travels with every team to
most away contests. Strauch demands
best practices and has championed
increased data collection and the
adoption of many advancements,
including the computerized concussion
evaluation system, IMPACT. She and
her staff connect with professors to
formulate accommodations for injured
student-athletes.
“At its core, our role is about
relationships—building trust with
coaches and student-athletes and
developing supportive partnerships
throughout campus and with
professionals in the community. We work
to become part of the team. Assistant
Mitch Deets, for instance, camped for a
week in northern Minnesota for a cross
country team training trip. Assistant
Athletic Trainer Kassi Nordmeyer will
be traveling to Boston with volleyball
this fall and then wrestling and softball
throughout the year,” said Strauch, who
works specifically with football, men’s
and women’s hockey, and baseball.
“We don’t have all the bells and
whistles of Division I schools, but I
14
Augsburg Now
would stack our program’s continuity
of care against any of them. And you
won’t find stronger bonds. I should show
you our stack of Christmas cards and
wedding invitations from former studentathletes. Those personal connections
make all the difference.”
Baseball head coach Keith Bateman
agrees.
“First-year and transfer studentathletes are often a little hesitant to
disclose an injury because they are
afraid of not playing. And coaches like
being in charge, so I would say many
athletic trainers run into walls with team
leadership. But not here, not with Missy.
She won’t let them or us get away with
that,” said Bateman, who is in his 13th
year at Augsburg. “She and her staff
become such a part of our teams that they
know when players are having a bad day
by the way they carry themselves. They
want student-athletes to play, to be tough,
but not to be stupid.”
A thoughtful evolution
Former head football coach Jack
Osberg ’62 worked closely with Strauch
for more than 10 years, watching the
sports medicine program grow from a
part-time enterprise to a comprehensive
team that features four certified athletic
trainers, one athletic training intern,
one physician assistant fellow, 11
student sports medicine assistants, two
physicians, one chiropractor, and two
physical therapists.
“As students at Augsburg in the
late ’50s and early ’60s, we didn’t have
athletic trainers. Coaches took care of
taping, injury rehab, and other training
situations. The technology, knowledge,
equipment, facilities, communication,
and pre-season conditioning available
to coaches and student-athletes now is
remarkable,” said Osberg, who served
as head coach for 14 years and as an
assistant coach from 2007-10. “I respect
Missy and her staff having observed their
mentoring of student assistants, poise
when handling serious injuries, and focus
on the latest training techniques.”
Women’s hockey player Claire
Cripps ’16 is one such student who
can testify to the program’s expert
attention and nurturing approach. Days
before midterms last year, the forward
sustained a concussion on the ice,
leaving her with headaches, dizziness,
sensitivity to light, and an inability to
focus for almost two weeks.
“Missy sent an email to the dean and
each of my professors explaining what
happened, which led to postponing my
exams until I had the ability to study and
focus again,” said the exercise science
major who plans to pursue a doctorate
of physical therapy. “There were no
issues with any of my professors, and
they all wished me well, which made me
really feel that sense of community that
convinced me to come to Augsburg after
my first visit to campus.”
Advancements in prevention
Although the most common injuries are
routine sprains and bruises, concussions
and other serious traumas are a growing
area of concern as student-athletes’
speed, size, and strength has increased.
But, Strauch says, the diagnosis,
treatment, and rehabilitation also
have improved. In collaboration with
Twin Cities Orthopedics, Augsburg’s
implementation of IMPACT (Immediate
Post-Concussion Assessment and
Cognitive Testing) establishes a baseline
for each student-athlete so that health
care professionals can quickly and
accurately measure changes and
potential damage in the aftermath
of a concussion. The team’s cuttingedge equipment and data collection,
paired with the College’s longstanding
relationships with area doctors, ensure
that concussions are addressed promptly
and thoroughly.
Dr. B.J. Anderson, who serves as
Augsburg’s director of general medicine,
said the College’s sports medicine
program offers a “gold standard” of
care, particularly when it comes to
addressing serious injuries.
“I’ve worked with athletic trainers
across the globe, and Augsburg’s team
is second to none,” said Anderson,
who is a primary care provider for the
University of Minnesota Boynton Health
Service. “The College’s neurocognitive
testing is state of the art, and the staff’s
relationship with me and other doctors
results in continuity of care. We get
them in early, address the problem, and
get them back in action.”
It’s collaboration and conversation
among Augsburg faculty and staff that
make all the difference in ensuring
student-athletes perform their best in
competition and in the classroom.
When Carol Enke, instructor for
Health, Physical Education and Exercise
Science, noticed that a typically
advanced student turned in puzzlingly
poor work, she reached out to her
colleagues.
“Earlier in the semester, I had used
the student-athlete’s work as an example
of excellence in class, so when she turned
in a below-average lab assignment, I
called Missy right away,” said Enke, who
served as Augsburg’s head softball coach
for 21 seasons. “I knew the student
had experienced a concussion weeks
prior because Missy called me after the
incident. [When] we realized that the
injury affected the student-athlete’s
ability to analyze ... the entire campus
community came together in support.
That’s what we do at Augsburg.”
And, while Augsburg Athletics
employs progressive protocols to safely
assess and treat injuries, the College
is equally focused on prevention. In
June, Ryan Rasmussen came on board as
Augsburg’s head strength and conditioning
coach and has since worked closely with
athletic trainers to keep student-athletes
in optimum condition. He is the first
collegiate strength and conditioning coach
certified in a novel restorative movement
approach called RESET. Rasmussen
says the system pinpoints and eliminates
compensation patterns, empowering
Augsburg student-athletes to return to
play faster and achieve better performance
through optimal movement.
“To reap the full benefits of physical
activity, we need flawless posture and
movement, and this restorative approach
helps us achieve just that,” Rasmussen
said. “Having a team of people who
are concerned with the health of our
athletes is hugely important. We recently
collaborated on rehab for a hockey player
with a torn ACL. She is returning to play
this year and was the top performing
woman among the five teams reviewed
during our conditioning test.”
Inspiring mindful studentathletes
Mental health and nutrition also are
pillars of wellness that the Athletics
staff is committed to addressing in a
collective, proactive manner. Sports
medicine professionals advise studentathletes about the latest in nutrition and
collaborate regularly with Augsburg’s
Center for Wellness and Counseling to
ensure student-athletes are aware of
the center’s resources and community
support. Center Director Nancy Guilbeault
said anxiety and stress are increasingly
present in student-athletes lives, but
Augsburg is committed to helping all
students have healthy, happy college days.
Head Athletic Trainer Missy Strauch assists offensive lineman Andrew Konieczny ’15 during Augsburg’s
Homecoming football game.
“This fall, we worked with Athletics to develop
four sessions for incoming student-athletes to address
alcohol consumption, mindfulness, body image, and
healthy relationships. Athletics, more than many, knows
the importance of working as a team to confront the
challenges our students face, so they are wonderful
partners,” said Guilbeault, who has worked at Augsburg
for 36 years. “Coaches and athletic training staff are
often the first to notice when a student-athlete might
need to talk with us, and they stick with them throughout
the process—often walking them over to the Center or
attending a session with them.”
Guilbeault says mental health is often tied with
injuries, as student-athletes feel stress associated with
“letting the team down” or experience mental health
issues because of certain physical traumas. Her team
of counselors and the Center’s collaboration with a
psychiatrist and community resources ensure students
receive optimum care.
“Our students receive up to 10 counseling sessions
each academic year, and if they need additional support
beyond that, we refer them to one of our community
partners and keep up with their care,” Guilbeault said.
“Mindfulness meditation techniques are particularly
important for student-athletes because the approach
encourages student-athletes to be aware of their bodies
and present moments, becoming more resilient to stress.”
13
12
Building on a strong foundation
Like any strong foundation, the sports medicine team’s
roster of professionals and holistic, collaborative
approach took years to build; but behind the staff hires,
the new technology, and personal bonds is Strauch—
driving herself and her staff to become more than just
“trainers who wrap ankles.” They are a passionate team
of professionals who will do whatever it takes—from
stirring the Crock-Pot at potlucks to calling professors—
to ensure student-athletes have the tools and support
they need to succeed and achieve their life goals.
“Our profession has changed dramatically in the past
decade. Many of my mentors were focused solely on the
injury, and we now take a much broader view, a much
more involved role,” Strauch said. “And the best part
about it is that we will continue to grow and continue to
adapt to the demands of the future.
“Augsburg is a community dedicated to finding new
and better ways to support our students in every aspect of
their lives. And Athletics is a family of student-athletes,
parents, coaches, and trainers—all striving to do better,
work harder, and represent the best of Augsburg. I love
this school. Go Auggies!”
16
Augsburg Now
TRAINING CENTER
BUSTLES WITH ENERGY
In this photo illustration, the Augsburg College training center is a
hive of activity. Student-athletes buzz in and out to get care before
and after practices and games while athletic training staff assess
injuries. After professional staff determine the appropriate care for
a student-athlete, the College’s student sports medicine assistants
implement treatment and get hands-on practice in their field of
study. The training center always is humming with action and
support meant to help Auggies do their best in competition and in
the classroom.
2
1
4
6
5
3
7
8
14
11
10
9
Assistant Athletic Director and
Assistant Softball Coach Melissa
Lee ’04 and Assistant Athletic Trainer
Mitchell Deets work at the electronic
record check-in station.
1
Assistant Athletic Trainer Kassi
Nordmeyer administers a
pre-practice ultrasound on Jessica
Lillquist ’16, a member of the volleyball
and basketball teams.
2
Courtney Lemke ’17, volleyball,
is treated with hot packs and
electric stimulation.
3
Head Athletic Trainer Missy Strauch
completes a knee evaluation on
soccer player Mohamed Sankoh ’16.
4
Jerrome Martin ’17 is treated
5 with a cold compress before
football practice.
Carter Denison ’17, Marta Anderson ’17,
and Ashley Waalen ’17.
8
Jorden Gannon ’18 gets postfootball practice hydrotherapy.
9
R.J. Cervenka ’16, a football player,
ices his shoulder after practice.
Kayla Fuechtmann ’16, a sports
medicine assistant and hockey
player, hauls a hydration cooler back
from practice.
Sports Medicine Assistant Beth
Zook ’17 tapes the ankle of
soccer player Ngochinyan Ollor ’15.
Soccer players receive
hydrotherapy. The players are,
from left, sports medicine assistant
Student Medicine Assistant Aden
Lehman ’17 tapes the ankle of
football player Mac Kittelson ’16.
6
7
10
Logan Hortop ’17, a sports
medicine assistant, tapes the
ankle of Sean Adams ’17, a member of
the cross country and track teams.
12
Sports Medicine Assistant
Kristopher Woods ’17 delivers
wound care to football player Tyler Sis ’16.
13
Silvia Cha ’19, member of the
cross country team, does ankle
rehabilitation.
14
11
Fall 2015
17
Caitlin Crowley ’16, left, and Associate Professor Phil Adamo
peruse documents in the archive area of Lindell Library.
Professors team with
students to research and
share College history
BY STEPHEN JENDRASZAK
I
f you’re interested in the history of
Augsburg College, you’re probably
familiar with “From Fjord to Freeway,”
a book published by long-time professor
of history Carl Chrislock ’37 in 1969.
The publication, which tells the story
of the first 100 years of the College, is
receiving renewed interest and attention
as we approach the institution’s
sesquicentennial in 2019.
But no history is complete.
Phil Adamo, associate professor of
history and director of the honors program,
is authoring a new book with students to
bring further aspects of the impact and
personality of the College to life.
18
Augsburg Now
The new book, to be published
during 2019, will include previously
untold stories from the early years of
the College. For example, the story
of Augsburg’s first president, August
Weenaas, and the sacrifices he made to
found Augsburg is told in “From Fjord
to Freeway.” But largely unremarked
upon is the story of Valborg Weenaas,
his wife, who followed him from Norway
to Marshall, Wisconsin. She eventually
housed 10-20 students in their home,
moved to Minneapolis when Augsburg
did the same, and passed away in the
Twin Cities at only 37.
Of course, the book also will
address the events of the 50 years
that have elapsed since the earlier
work’s publication, such as Augsburg’s
response to the 2007 collapse of the
Interstate 35W bridge in Minneapolis
and its aftermath. The College offered
its campus facilities to and worked
closely with the Red Cross, Minneapolis’
Emergency Preparedness Team, and the
Minneapolis Police Department to set
up the Family Assistance Center, a place
where family members of missing victims
gathered to receive news updates, talk
with grief counselors, and more.
Perhaps most importantly, this
new look at Augsburg’s past will strive
to address the history of ideas that
have shaped and been shaped by the
community.
“What I’m interested in, which
is not done very often, is a history of
ideas,” Adamo said. “Those ideas are
wide-ranging—from theological issues
early on to evolution, which was a
controversial subject in religious circles.
This was new stuff when the College was
founded.”
The book is a deeply collaborative
effort, giving students opportunities to
hone their skills in research and writing
while producing a work for publication
and being credited as contributors.
Students this past summer worked
in the College archives with Adamo
every weekday morning, and donated
a portion of their hours to cataloging
documents for the College archives.
Caitlin Crowley ’16, a transfer student
and history major, documented letters
from Augsburg’s fifth president,
Bernhard Christensen ’22, to Auggies
serving in World War II.
“He was the president of the
College; he must’ve had a million things
to do,” Crowley said. “And yet, there
are just folders and folders of personal
letters he wrote. [Soldiers] would
respond; he would write back. He would
tell them what was happening at the
College. It made me really like the guy.”
Crowley’s own family history, in
fact, is entwined with Augsburg’s.
Her mother, Deborah (Frederickson)
Crowley ’76, married her father on
campus in the building that bears
Christensen’s name. And her maternal
grandfather, Jerrol Frederickson ’43,
attended the College for two years
before joining the air force just before
Pearl Harbor. However, Crowley has yet
to find a letter from Christensen to her
grandfather.
This is the third summer Adamo
has worked with a group of student
researchers on the project. Students
in the first two summers each wrote
a single, extensive chapter, but this
summer’s group focused on a series of
shorter vignettes. Students explored
leaders including former College
presidents George Sverdrup, class of
1898, and Oscar Anderson ’38; Dean of
Women Gerda Mortensen; coaches and
athletes like Edor Nelson ’38 and Devean
George ’99; and events such as the
admission of women in the 1920s.
“It almost felt like being a
journalist,” Crowley said. “We were given
two topics a week. We also had to write
about what was happening outside the
College during the same time. It was
a great way to learn about this variety
of topics that I previously didn’t know
anything about.”
Each Friday, the students and
Adamo met to read their sections aloud
and critique one another’s work. “Phil
could be kind of brutal, which was
good,” Crowley said. “Even after just a
few weeks, all of us were getting to be
much better writers.”
In addition to Adamo and the
students working on the book, another
group of historians is making use
of tools Chrislock could only have
imagined in 1969—smartphone apps
and the Internet—to share the broader
history of Augsburg’s Cedar-Riverside
neighborhood. Jacqui deVries, professor
of history and director of general
education, and Kirsten Delegard, scholar
in residence in the history department
and creator of the Historyapolis Project
(historyapolis.com)—an endeavor
to share the first narrative history of
Minneapolis in more than 40 years—are
working with Anduin Wilhide, a doctoral
student at the University of Minnesota,
to develop a digital history tour of the
area. The project will provide both
a website and apps for iPhones and
Android devices.
The team is now seeking funding
to complete the digital upload
process and to engage students in the
researching and writing of additional
tours. The project initially was intended
to introduce new students to the
neighborhood and its rich history,
though, as it grew, it became clear that
it will now serve a broader audience.
The goal is to have the app available
as the incoming class arrives in fall
2016, offering a window into the past
just as new students join the Augsburg
community, ready to shape its future.
President Christensen writes to WWII soldiers
BY CAITLIN CROWLEY ’16
During World War II, Augsburg College
President Bernhard Christensen ’22
diligently wrote to students and
faculty stationed around the world to
keep them up-to-date on happenings
at home and on campus. Today in the
College library’s basement, hundreds
of letters between Christensen
and these Auggies are archived in
boxes. The correspondence tells
the story of the school during the
war. There are Christmas cards from
Army bases and training camps,
tales of life during war and life back
home, well wishes and letters of
recommendation for military positions
and promotions, and sympathy notes
to families grieving the loss of their
loved ones. Christensen was deeply
invested in corresponding with all
the men involved in the war, a job
that must have taken countless
hours of dictation and typing. He
included his personal thoughts in
most all of these letters. In a letter
to Arthur Molvik ’40, a student who
later died in the war, Christensen
wrote, “We can only hope that the
clouds of war will not hang over us
too long and that when peace does
return it will be built upon a more
secure basis than formerly. Only in
a faith of this kind, I believe, can
we have courage to carry on.”
Fall 2015
19
AUGSBURG COLLEGE SOCIOLOGIST
EXAMINES NORTH DAKOTA’S
NEW OIL LANDSCAPE
20
Augsburg Now
BY LAURA SWANSON ’15 MBA
I
n the summer of 2012, Tim Pippert
lifted a couple of duffel bags into the
back of his car and headed northwest
on Interstate 94, beginning an almost
700-mile journey that drew him out of
Minneapolis—beyond the steel and glass
towers, the hectic grid of side streets
and signs, and the flurry of Fortune 500
companies and all those who inhabit their
cubicles and corner offices.
Soon, the fields of western Minnesota
and eastern North Dakota lined Pippert’s
roadside. He rolled past patches of flax
and sunflowers, wheat, alfalfa, and canola
to a place where tilled acreage melted
into an even more expansive landscape
of ranches and natural prairie grasses.
For decades—make that centuries—any
description of western North Dakota
seemed amiss without mentioning this
place’s sheer vastness of space, the way
gently rolling hills and rugged badlands
disappear into broad horizons hugging big,
bluish-gray skies.
BUT NOW THE STORY WAS DIFFERENT.
THIS AREA WAS IN THE MIDST OF A
TRANSFORMATION.
Fall 2015
21
Pippert was headed to Williston—
the North Dakota city viewed as the
epicenter of the latest North American
oil boom. This isolated community was
among a handful of towns and small
cities dotting the map in four counties
that together emitted a nearly magnetic
pull for job seekers of all kinds.
It’s likely that the route Pippert
followed to Williston began in a
similar fashion as the path truck
drivers, frack hands, pipe fitters,
hair stylists, and people working
within numerous other industries
took to North Dakota. That’s because
Pippert’s curiosity with Williston was
piqued by news stories describing
the remarkable growth happening
in this once stagnant community.
What was unique about Pippert’s
desire to work in the Roughrider State,
though, was that he didn’t plan to
fill a position in the oil industry or to
hold a job supporting its employees
at all. Instead, he sought to study the
societal change underway in Williston
and its surrounding areas along with
individuals’ perceptions of it. Thus,
he became one of the first scholars to
explore what local residents perceive to
be the costs and benefits of the boom.
A NEW RESEARCH PHASE
As an associate professor in the
Augsburg College Department of
Sociology, Pippert blends teaching,
scholarship, and mentorship into his
work each year, with an emphasis on
each aspect varying in accordance
with the academic calendar cycle.
His interest in North Dakota’s
changing cultural and physical
22
Augsburg Now
landscape stemmed from in-class
discussions with his students. Pippert
asked his Introduction to Sociology
class to bring in newspaper clippings
related to current events as an
assignment so that, together, the
students could practice analyzing
information using a sociological
perspective. One article on North
Dakota oil came in, then another.
“That’s when things were in the
very early stages of the boom, and
there were sensational stories about
folks making money hand over fist
and people moving out there with
nowhere to live,” Pippert said. “I’m
from Nebraska, and there was only
one stoplight in my entire county. I’m
used to seeing all of these tiny towns
decline in population or be relatively
stable, certainly not growing. As a
sociologist, I was just fascinated by
what happens when a small town
explodes in population overnight.”
For years, North Dakotans
were concerned about their state’s
population decline, but the oil boom
in the late 2000s dramatically
changed the socioeconomic
landscape in the region.
In 2013, journalist Chip Brown
wrote a New York Times Magazine
article that said, “It’s hard to think
of what oil hasn’t done to life in
small communities of western North
Dakota, good and bad. It has minted
millionaires, paid off mortgages, created
businesses; it has raised rents, stressed
roads, vexed planners and overwhelmed
schools; it has polluted streams,
spoiled fields and boosted crime.”
This article is among thousands
penned since the start of the boom,
but Pippert’s research takes an
approach that’s different than the one
most popular news media follow.
Using a combination of quantitative
and qualitative research methods
over the course of his career, Pippert
has examined subject areas such
as the family ties of homelessness,
the transition to parenthood, and
the accuracy of photographic
representation of diversity within
university recruitment materials. As
the next phase of his research, Pippert
recognized that there’s certainly a story
related to the development in North
Dakota, but it’s not one that can—or
necessarily should—be summarized
in a 500-word, front-page exposé or
in a 2-minute piece on the 6 o’clock
news. Pippert is working to construct
a longer narrative that is grounded in
a sociological understanding of rapid
population growth, allowing for an
analysis of how the perceptions of local
residents change over time. Of course
history shows that people’s opinions
shift as the state of the oil industry
fluctuates, which it typically does.
NORTH DAKOTA HAS
BOOMED BEFORE
“North Dakota has had oil booms
before but never one so big, never one
that rivaled the land rush precipitated
more than a century ago by the
transcontinental railroads, never one
that so radically changed the subtext of
the Dakota frontier from the Bitter Past
That Was to the Better Future That May
Yet Be,” Brown wrote.
Since the beginning, the American
oil industry’s history in north central
states has followed a cyclical narrative
of starts and stops, booms and busts.
The subterranean shale that contains
the much talked-about oil covers
western North Dakota and northeastern
Montana, and stretches into two
Canadian provinces: Saskatchewan
and Manitoba. The Bakken shale was
discovered in the early 1950s and
named after Henry Bakken, a farmer
who leased his land in North Dakota
for an early well. At 14,700 square
miles, it is the largest continuous crude
oil accumulation in the United States.
The shale has been in development
since 1953 with periods of significant
growth punctuating its more than 50year timeline. For instance, in the late
1970s and early 1980s, activity picked
up in the upper Bakken when improved
extraction technology married political
and economic conditions that left the
U.S. thirsty for domestic production.
THE LATEST BOOM
In the late 2000s, innovative
engineering and technological
refinements also played key roles
in bringing about a new boom. The
key to unlocking more of the oftensegregated oil deposits in the Bakken
shale is horizontal drilling and hydraulic
fracturing, often called “fracking.”
North Dakota has been described as a
laboratory for coaxing oil from stingy
rocks. While petroleum geologists
have known for decades that layers of
the Bakken contain light, sulfur-free
oil, it has been much more puzzling
how to extract it economically.
Today, the Bakken contains some
of the longest horizontal wells in the
world. Drillers bore vertical shafts and
then lateral shafts that extend out as
far as three miles in order to harvest
otherwise unreachable oil. However,
horizontal drilling alone is often not
enough to lure Bakken oil from the
tightly clenched grasp that holds it
roughly two miles below the earth’s
surface. The majority of the shale
won’t yield its oil unless pressurized
water containing sand and various
chemicals is pumped down the well
to crack open hairline channels
within thin layers of oil-and gasbearing rock. This procedure has been
environmentally controversial given
that the chemicals used in fracking
have been known to be or suspected
of being carcinogenic or otherwise
poisonous. Geologists and engineers
continually fine-tune the assortment
of frack fluid recipes required in
varying geological conditions, and they
fracture wells in stages, sometimes
repeating the process dozens of
times at a single location. Waste
from this process must be carefully
handled and monitored to avoid
contaminating groundwater, polluting
surface areas, or injuring workers.
Since petroleum engineers began
combining fracking with directional
drilling, thousands of new wells have
been constructed—primarily in four
North Dakota counties bordering the
Missouri River: Dunn, McKenzie,
Mountrail, and Williams. And, from
2006 to 2013, production from the
Bakken formation increased roughly
150-fold, moving North Dakota
into second place among domestic
suppliers of oil, behind Texas and
ahead of Alaska. This substantial
growth in industry spurred a need for
more of nearly everything—laborers,
housing units, highways, railroads,
power lines, and even patience.
“I’ve never seen a more
hardworking place,” Pippert said.
“There are always things going on. I’m
not sure how exactly to articulate it,
but it’s like there’s always construction;
there’s always truck traffic;
there’s always activity on Sunday
afternoons. It just doesn’t stop.”
The change in Williston and
other boomtowns may not stop, but
it does slow. This year, slumping
crude oil prices have led to a decline
among communities affected by the
oil industry. Williston was the fastestgrowing small city in the U.S. from
2011 to 2013, according to the U.S.
Census Bureau. Yet, news outlets
recently have described harder times.
Bakken oil has always been expensive
to produce and ship to refineries. So,
when oil prices started to decrease
in autumn 2014, oil producers
tamped down their spending. This
meant fewer rigs actively drilling for
crude and less work for those who
service new wells. In extreme cases,
layoffs, reduced hours, and smaller
paychecks have led workers into
hard times and even out of town.
“Lots of things have changed since
2012,” admits Pippert. “Now I have
to write a potentially different story.”
It’s said that North Dakota’s last oil
boom, which occurred roughly 30 years
ago, collapsed so quickly when oil prices
crashed that people declared, “If you’re
the last person in Williston, make sure
you turn off the lights.” But what did this
flight mean for the people who continued
Fall 2015
23
ANALYZING AND WRITING
Pippert mets with Deanette Piesik, CEO of TrainND
living in that community? For Pippert, it’s
important for sociologists to analyze how
population shifts and the industrialization
of rural areas strain community ties
and impact the daily lives of long-term
residents. This summer, he took his fifth
and likely final trip to North Dakota to see
how the recent slowdown has influenced
life in Williston, to conduct follow-up
interviews, and to hear from additional
residents for the first time.
Pippert met with Deanette
Piesik, CEO of workforce development
organization TrainND, to discuss whether
she had witnessed any signs of an oil
industry downturn. TrainND serves as
a link between private industry and
Williston State College by facilitating
safety trainings and offering worker
certification programs. After the
conversation, Piesik said she appreciated
the way Pippert used open-ended
questions such as, “How’d that impact
you?” and “What do you see?” rather
than asking questions that would induce
a negative response.
“I guess I worry about how some of
the things I say will get cut short or be
portrayed the wrong way,” said Piesik,
whose concern applies to news coverage
ranging from national broadcasts to the
local press. “Now, I could have been the
type of person who was totally negative
and that’s what you would have gotten …
but I have faith that [Pippert is] writing a
good piece about this oil boom and how
it has changed this community. I think
that’s a positive piece to do.”
24
Augsburg Now
Over the course of three years, Pippert
conducted 87 interviews to gather data,
and he is entering the writing phase of his
research—a time when he will synthesize
all of this information. Naturally, analyzing
more than seven-dozen conversations will
be a challenging endeavor.
“There comes a point, probably
before that 87 number, where you
don’t learn anything new,” he said with
a laugh, “but it’s so interesting I just
wanted to keep going.”
Augsburg College sociology
students helped to spur Pippert’s
interest in the North Dakota oil boom,
and they continue to play a role as
this project develops. Students serve
as research assistants by transcribing
interviews and coding the information
they contain so that Pippert can
examine themes from year to year
and from discussion to discussion. He
plans to work with a research assistant
supported by the 2015 Torstenson
Community Scholars program, and he
has supervised Ashley Johnson ’16 as
she worked on an independent project
on sex trafficking in North Dakota as
part of her participation in the McNair
Scholars Program.
Overall, Pippert is positioned to
assess the dramatic and immediate
strain on infrastructure that North
Dakota communities endured during the
period of rapid growth occurring during
the boom’s first few years. He also will
look at longtime residents’ perceptions
of oil workers and of crime.
“There are certainly more crimes
taking place, but whether they are
proportional to the population increase
is difficult to tell,” Pippert said.
It is also complex to articulate how
residents felt about an influx of new
people in their communities.
“As a sociologist, I’m interested
in ‘insider’ versus ‘outsider’ framing,”
Pippert added. “There seems to be a
pretty strong sentiment among locals
that they were frustrated with oil field
workers. The saying was, ‘Go back
home—unless you plan on staying.’”
This phrase, Pippert noticed,
articulates that longtime residents
grew tired of people simply entering
their communities for work and then
leaving or sending their income to
families and homes in other areas of the
country. The locals would have preferred
for the newcomers to contribute to and
make a life in their communities well
into the future.
THE YEARS AHEAD
As time unfolds, the challenges and
opportunities presented in Williston may
begin to surface in other communities
that are in the midst of their own
dramatic population growth, and
Pippert’s research could serve as a study
for navigating complex situations.
The oil extraction technology
pioneered in North Dakota is expected
to have implications around the world,
but it’s not only communities near
oil deposits that may benefit from
this scholar’s perspective. Ultimately,
Pippert said, his story is about how
the identity of a small town changes
when significant industrial development
causes a population shift. It’s about
massive industry suddenly entering an
area—any area—to utilize its resources.
And when other communities follow
down a similar path as Williston, it’s
important for them to learn from the
road that North Dakota already has
traveled.
“It really is about a boom,” Pippert
said. “But the source of its spark doesn’t
really matter.”
A DARK
SIDE TO
A BOOM
scholarship
in action
A
s one of the first sociologists to
study the effects of the most
recent oil boom in North Dakota,
Tim Pippert has been sought out by
organizations looking to add context
to their coverage of the changes
occurring in the city of Williston and
its surrounding communities. Pippert
contributed to the Forum News
Service’s reporting series on human
trafficking and female exploitation,
and he appeared in the documentary
“BOOM,” which depicted human and sex
trafficking issues haunting communities.
The film tells the story of a recent
college graduate who moves to North
Dakota to get a job in the oil fields as
a trucker and who becomes aware of
criminal activity present in his new
surroundings. The nonprofit iEmpathize
created the documentary to raise
awareness about child exploitation
and to help industries ranging from
oil and gas to trucking and hospitality
better train employees to recognize and
respond to trafficking.
The film was screened in November
2014 at North Dakota’s first statewide
summit on human trafficking, which
Pippert attended as a featured panelist.
He discussed his research in front of
the U.S. attorney for North Dakota,
the state’s attorney general, local and
federal law enforcement agencies,
victims’ advocates, social service
providers, tribal officials, and others
who—he said—came together to ask,
“How big of a problem is this?” and
“What are we going to do about it?”
For Pippert, seeing his scholarship
have a life outside of an academic
setting has been personally rewarding
and publically valuable.
Brad Riley, founder and president
of iEmpathize, visited Augsburg College
in March with Anthony Baldassari, the
film’s protagonist and an engagement
ambassador for the organization’s Boom
Campaign, which assists communities
across the United States. The two men
joined Pippert in screening the film and
leading an on-campus discussion on the
issues it portrayed. Baldassari, Pippert,
and Riley also served as presenters at
Visit iEmpathize.org to learn
how this organization works to
educate boom communities
to recognize and respond to
human trafficking issues.
the 2015 Nobel Peace Prize Forum,
of which Augsburg College is a host
sponsor.
Pippert’s role in the film helped
to “give a real, authentic, and clear
unpacking of what’s happening, why it’s
happening, and where it’s happening,”
Riley said.
The film was designed to be a
catalyst for conversation in communities
where human trafficking already had a
foothold or within groups that have an
ability to help curtail the offense. In
addition, “BOOM” is a teaching tool for
the curricula iEmpathize distributes to
law enforcement, schools, health care
institutions, and other organizations
located in areas that are at risk of
encountering their own human trafficking
issues.
“If we can predict where boom
towns might be in the future, we can
come in and help set up a little bit
of infrastructure on the front end,”
Baldassari said, which helps to give
people the opportunity to intervene in a
safe and practical way.
Fall 2015
25
26
Augsburg Now
BURSTING
WITH AUGGIE PRIDE
A fireworks display over Murphy Square lights up the night during
Homecoming weekend.
Nearly 600 Auggies representing more than six decades and from as far away as Norway attended
the 2015 Augsburg College Homecoming celebration. The class with the most attendees? Alumni
from 1965, marking their 50th reunion! If you’ve never had the chance to see the campus canopied in
fireworks, you should plan to attend Homecoming in 2016.
The 2015 Homecoming Alumni Award recipients and Athletic Hall of
Fame inductees are featured in Class Notes: pages 32-39. To view
videos recognizing the award recipients, go to augsburg.edu/now.
Fall 2015
27
FROM THE ALUMNI BOARD PRESIDENT
Dear alumni and friends,
W
elcome to the 2015-16
academic year! Thank you to
Chris Hallin ’88 for serving as
alumni board president last year. I’m
excited to become board president at
a time when our group continues to
evolve and increase its engagement
with alumni in the life of the College.
As the campus community looks forward to the
sesquicentennial of Augsburg in 2019, we all have the
opportunity to participate in the strategic vision set forth
by the Augsburg Board of Regents, which states: “In 2019,
Augsburg College will be a new kind of student-centered,
urban university, small to our students and big for the world.”
There is much work that we as alumni have done and can do
to support this vision.
Mark your calendars for the next Student and Alumni
Networking Event on February 9, which gives students
access to one-on-one discussions with alumni professionals
on campus. Alumni can also partner with the Clair and
Gladys Strommen Center for Meaningful Work, as we did this
September for the first-ever Fall Career and Internship Fair, to
provide alumni and students with meaningful connections.
We also work to make annual traditions, such as
Homecoming and Advent Vespers, special for alumni of all
generations.
Throughout the coming year, your alumni board will hear
from Augsburg guest speakers about internships, research,
study abroad, and service work and learning that shape an
Augsburg education. As we listen, we will consider how alumni
can support the important work of the College. There are three
dimensions in the Augsburg2019 strategic plan (found at
augsburg.edu/augsburg2019) that are relevant to our work:
•
Dimension 1: Educating for lives of purpose—across the
disciplines, beyond the classroom, and around the world.
As alumni, we can help students outside the classroom
and in a manner that equips them to succeed through
mentoring, internships, and more.
•
Dimension 2: At the table with our neighbors and institutional
partners, shaping education to address the world’s needs. As
alumni, our workplaces and Auggie-owned businesses can
work with Augsburg to expand internship opportunities
that allow students to build their skills, discern their
vocations, and open doors to careers.
•
Dimension 3: Built for the future—a vital and sustainable
institution. Alumni can strengthen collaboration and
financial sustainability through our consistent financial
support and by sharing the good news about the College
among our professional and faith communities, and with
our friends and families.
As alumni, we have a direct impact on our College in small
and large ways. Our participation is key to the future viability
and sustainability of our college and of Auggies. I hope you
will join us.
JILL WATSON ’10 MBA
ALUMNI BOARD PRESIDENT
UNIQUELY AUGSBURG TRAVEL
Augsburg College alumni, parents, families, and friends are invited to
join international tours led by faculty members whose distinction and
expertise add to one-of-a-kind
travel experiences. If you are
UPCOMING TOURS:
interested in participating in
Germany and the Czech Republic
travel opportunities or attending
Thailand and Cambodia
an information session, contact
Sally Daniels Herron ’79 at
To learn more, go to
augsburg.edu/alumni/travel.
herron@augsburg.edu or
612-330-1525.
28
Augsburg Now
NOVEMBER 12, 2015
Thanks for Giving to the Max!
Thank you to all those who supported
Augsburg College on Give to the Max Day.
Your gifts enable great opportunities for
students in academics, athletics, and
campus programs. See the wide variety of
projects supported by this annual day of
philanthropy at augsburg.edu/now.
AUGGIES CONNECT
FROM RIVERSIDE AVE.
TO RIVERSIDE, CA
A demand for Auggies
Augsburg is closing the distance between Riverside Avenue in
Minneapolis and Riverside, California, through the successful
partnership of Augsburg faculty, alumni, college programs—and,
of course—talented students.
The collaboration is proving so effective that faculty
mentors at the University of California-Riverside are calling for
more Auggies. When Dixie Shafer, director of Undergraduate
Research and Graduate Opportunity (URGO), visited
doctoral candidate Tom Lopez ’11, she heard in no uncertain
terms from Lopez’s mentor and department of mechanical
engineering faculty member Lorenzo Mangolini:
“I want more of your students. I want more Augsburg
students. Your students know what they’re doing in the lab
from day one.”
Over the past six years, several Augsburg graduates have
landed at UC-Riverside with full funding to attend doctoral
programs. The students have a team of Auggie advocates
supporting them all the way. The team includes staff from
TRIO/McNair Scholars; URGO; STEM (science, technology,
engineering, and mathematics) Programs; and alumni who
have walked a similar path.
The Riverside pipeline
Augsburg sociology alumni Matthew Dunn ’08, Jenna Mead ’09,
and Zach Sommer ’10 were among the first Auggies to blaze a trail
to UC-Riverside. They were later joined by Lopez and doctoral
candidate Justin Gyllen ’11, a computer scientist and physicist
working on an educational technology project to help first-year
engineering students improve their note-taking.
Now those Auggies have been joined by two more alumni
from the physics and math departments: Gottlieb Uahengo ’13
and Amir Rose ’14.
Rose, one of five Augsburg McNair Scholars to attend
UC-Riverside, credits that program’s role in his success. The
McNair program is a two-year opportunity that helps prepare
low-income, first-generation, and underrepresented students
for graduate school. Rose, whose current research is focused
on breeding sterile mosquitoes to eradicate populations of
disease-spreading mosquitoes, also credits Augsburg physics
professor David Murr ’92 for teaching him research skills and
independent thinking.
Even current Augsburg students gain research experience at
UC-Riverside. Last summer, chemistry student Oscar Martinez ’16
worked with Lopez and also traveled to Scripps Research
Institute in Florida.
Circle of Support
Now that these Auggies are studying and
researching in Riverside, Dr. Steve Larson ’72
says it’s his turn to help. Larson, a member of
the Augsburg Board of Regents, has been in
California since 1980.
Three years ago, Larson, chief executive officer
and board chair for Riverside Medical Clinic
and a generous supporter of the Norman
and Evangeline Hagfors Center for Science,
Business, and Religion, found out that there
was not just one, but a group of Auggies in
Riverside, and he invited them to dinner at his
home. He has had them back every year, and
has been joined by Augsburg College President
Paul Pribbenow and Shafer.
“We all have something in common,”
Larson said of his dinners with the Augsburg
alumni and students. “Everyone appreciates
what happens at Augsburg College.”
There’s a circle of involvement with the
College, Larson explained, that begins as a
student, continues as alumni go out into the
world, and finally turns back to support student
success and the future of the College. “This is
my turn,” he said.
He is excited for how the Hagfors Center
will continue to inspire high-caliber students
and faculty to take their work to the next level.
“Keep those Auggies coming,” Larson said.
[Top to bottom]:
Augsburg College
Regent Steve Larson ’72
supports students like
Gottlieb Uahengo ’13 and
Oscar Martinez ’16—two
of the Auggies whose
academic pursuits have
led to the University of
California-Riverside.
Fall 2015
29
AUGGIES CONNECT
THOUGHTFUL GIVING
Less effort. More impact.
“Mr. Augsburg” has spent 44 years of his
life—so far—inspiring Auggies to invest
in the life of the College. Whether in his
role as a student, parent, grandparent,
or as alumni director and fundraiser for
Augsburg, Jeroy Carlson ’48 has inspired
Auggies through the decades to remain
connected to their alma mater.
The work, connections, and
inspiration fostered and forged by
Carlson led an anonymous donor to make
a generous $165,000 lead gift to name
a gathering space in the Norman and
Evangeline Hagfors Center for Science,
Business, and Religion in honor of
Carlson and his wife, Lorraine. Augsburg
College Regent Dennis Meyer ’78 and
Beverly (Ranum) Meyer ’78 also were
inspired by Carlson’s leadership and
dedication to the College and decided to
make a second gift. The couple’s most
recent contribution of $25,000 will go
to support the space named in honor of
the Carlsons.
During his long tenure with
Augsburg, Carlson helped countless
students get their careers off the ground.
“He never hesitated to pick up the phone
to make a connection,” said Dennis.
One of Carlson’s introductions
helped Bev make an important
professional connection to launch her
teaching career. “There were many
30
Augsburg Now
faculty and staff members at Augsburg
who provided career guidance and
direction, but Jeroy stands out for us,”
she said.
“I admire the connections Jeroy
developed with alumni and his ability
to make things happen,” Dennis said,
noting that Carlson raised millions for
the College. “When he called and asked
for something, people gave because
they had great respect for Jeroy, his
love of Augsburg, and the people who
contributed to its success.”
Donors are invited to make a gift
to the Jeroy and Lorraine Carlson
Atrium Lounge—a designated space
in the Hagfors Center where the
Augsburg community will gather, foster
relationships, and build community.
Great progress already has been
made for this $250,000 initiative, which
will end on December 31. There is just
$60,000 left to raise to name the space.
Please join fellow Auggies touched by
the Carlsons’ spirit of generosity and
belief in Augsburg. Send your gift,
marked “Jeroy Carlson Initiative,” to:
Augsburg College, 2211 Riverside
Avenue, CB 142, Minneapolis, MN
55454. For more information, contact
Kim Stone at stonek@augsburg.edu or
612-330-1173.
Courtesy Photo
Courtesy Photo
Jeroy and
Lorraine Carlson
Atrium Lounge
Make a difference at Augsburg—this and
every month—with Thoughtful Giving.
A Thoughtful Gift is a monthly
sustaining contribution, paid automatically
with a deduction from your checking
account, credit card, or debit card.
Your monthly gifts help provide a
steady, reliable income stream, allowing
Augsburg to focus more resources on
financial aid and student services.
Think about it—monthly donations
make it easy to budget—and it feels great
to know you are making a difference every
month of the year.
Visit augsburg.edu/giving to start your
monthly giving today.
If you have questions or want to
become a Thoughtful Giver through the
mail or by telephone, contact Margo
Abramson at abramson@augsburg.edu or
612-330-1557.
Thank you for keeping Augsburg strong
and thriving with your financial support.
I believe in Thoughtful Giving.
Sue and Larry Turner ’69 have made an
automatic monthly gift since 2013.
AUGGIES CONNECT
Buy a brick. Honor a legacy.
What started out as a group of first-year Auggies from
Washburn High School in Minneapolis commuting
to campus for classes led to friendships that have
transcended job relocations, marriages, losses of parents,
and births of grandchildren. Now those Auggies—dear
friends for nearly a half-century—are celebrating their
life-long relationships and Augsburg’s role in bringing
them together by buying a brick to support the College’s
new Norman and Evangeline Hagfors Center for Science,
Business, and Religion.
In the late 1960s, after spending a year commuting
to college, the friends decided to live on campus.
Although they put their names in the housing lottery,
they came up empty. The group learned from facilities
staff that there was a house on campus that needed
some fixing up and that, if the group was willing to do
the work, they could move in.
The group cleaned, painted, and got the house ready
to live in. John Hjelmeland ’70 and Paul Mikelson ’70
moved into the house in the fall of 1967.
By winter break, more Auggies moved into the house:
John Harden ’69 and Phil Walen ’70 from Washburn High
and Terry Nygaard ’70 from Columbia Heights.
The five roommates spent the remainder of their
time at Augsburg in the house located where the Charles
S. Anderson Music Hall now stands. While the friends
all pursued different fields of study, their friendship
remained as strong then as it does now.
After graduation, Mikelson married and left for a
U.S. Army position in Germany, and Hjelmeland and
Walen moved out of state. During that time, the group
started to circulate a handwritten chain letter as a way to
stay in touch. Each of the friends lived in a different city,
and the group kept the letter in circulation for 10 years.
Eventually, all five Auggies returned to the Twin
Cities and began to meet for monthly lunches. This past
September, Walen passed away, but the remaining four
friends continue to meet regularly.
“Augsburg was the place where we cemented our
friendship and kept it going all these years,” Mikelson said.
While Walen was still alive, the five former
roommates together bought a brick to commemorate
their camaraderie and Augsburg’s place in it. The brick,
which will be displayed as part of the new Hagfors
Center, will be inscribed, simply, “2207 S. 7th St.”
Courtesy Photo
45 YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP INSPIRES A BRICK
Top: Augsburg College alumni on their graduation day [L to R]: Phil Walen ’70, Paul
Mikelson ’70, John Hjelmeland ’70, John Harden ’69, and Terry Nygaard ’70.
Bottom: Four of the men continue to meet monthly for lunch.
THERE IS STILL TIME TO PARTICIPATE IN THE
CAMPAIGN FOR THE HAGFORS CENTER!
Buy a brick to honor a family member,
a teacher, a friendship, or a relationship
that defines Augsburg for you. Augsburg
will inscribe a brick with your name or the
name of someone you’d like to honor. Each
brick will be incorporated into the building of the Hagfors
Center, creating a lasting legacy for the future of Augsburg.
Foundation Brick (40 characters, 3 lines) = $250
Legacy Brick (80 characters, 6 lines) = $500
augsburg.edu/csbr | 612-330-1085
Fall 2015
31
ALUMNI CLASS NOTES
1951
Einar Unseth ’51 marked his
90th birthday on June 29. After
farming with his father, Unseth served in the
occupation army in Japan. He then attended
Augsburg College and Luther Seminary. He
served as a missionary to Japan with the
American Lutheran Church (now ELCA), and
later pastored Lutheran churches in Iowa,
Michigan, Minnesota, North Dakota, and South
Dakota. Unseth and his wife, Luella, recently
moved to Lester Prairie, Minnesota. They
have six sons, 22 grandchildren, and seven
great-grandchildren.
1952
Dave Christensen ’52 and his
brother Duane Christensen ’53 meet
every morning to grab some coffee, buy copies
of the Bemidji Pioneer and the Minneapolis
Star Tribune, and catch up on the latest news.
This tradition began in 1990 when Dave moved
to Bemidji to retire. Dave taught school in
Atwater, Minnesota, for four years and served
in the U.S. Army before enrolling in Luther
Seminary in St. Paul. Before retirement, he was
a Lutheran minister at Adams, North Dakota;
Warren, Minnesota; and Pelican Rapids,
Minnesota.
After Duane graduated from Augsburg,
he served in the U.S. Army and then began
a career in education as a band and choir
teacher in Danube, Minnesota. He earned
his master’s and specialist degrees at the
University of Minnesota, and then worked as a
school principal in several Minnesota districts.
Duane moved to Bemidji, Minnesota, in 1969
and started the Bemidji Regional Interdistrict
Council, an agency that provided special
education services to 18 area school districts.
He headed the council for 18 years before
retiring. In 1990, the brothers built Maple
Ridge Golf Course south of Bemidji.
Harvey Peterson ’52,
a former member of
the Augsburg College
Board of Regents and a
member of the Athletics
Hall of Fame, received
a Distinguished Alumni
Award at Homecoming
2015. He was recognized
for his distinct level of dedication, leadership,
and achievement over the span of his career.
He and his wife, Joanne (Varner) Peterson ’52,
are longtime, faithful supporters of the College.
He was the CEO of CATCO, a truck parts
supply company founded in 1949 by his father,
Art Peterson. He has given unselfishly to his
business and industry peers and associates,
mentoring and advising many along the way.
1957
Grace (Forss)
Herr ’57
was recognized with a
Distinguished Alumni
Award at Augsburg’s
Homecoming in October,
which also hosted a
reunion for majors
in home economics.
Her award cited her entrepreneurial spirit,
great generosity in establishing numerous
scholarships, and longstanding commitment to
Habitat for Humanity and the Guadalupe Center
in Florida, where she lives with her husband,
Doug. This past spring, the couple received the
Spirit of Marco Island Award from a Rotary Club,
which honored them for embodying the spirit of
community through service.
1961
Karen (Erickson) McCullough ’61
walked Hadrian’s Wall Path, a nearly
80-mile trek, across northern England from
Wallsend to Bowness-on-Solway.
1964
Mike Walgren
’64 was
recognized with a Spirit
of Augsburg Award at
Homecoming in October.
He has been manager of
the Augsburg Centennial
Singers since 2001. With
his wife, Carla (Quanbeck)
Walgren ’64, he lives out his vocation of being
called to service. In his work with the Centennial
Singers, professionally, and with his church,
he puts his gifts and talents in service of the
greater good—doing the difficult work with
full engagement and without hesitation. He
was recognized in 2001 with an Outstanding
Professional Fundraiser of the Year award
by the Minnesota chapter of the Association
of Fundraising Professionals. He is an active
member of Westwood Lutheran Church in
St. Louis Park, Minnesota, where he sings
in the choir.
REUNION
1965
Augsburg
College
Regent Emeritus Dan
Anderson ’65 was
recognized with a
Distinguished Alumni
Award at Augsburg’s
Homecoming in October,
which also honored the
1965 men’s basketball championship team
on which he played. Anderson in 1977 was
inducted into the Augsburg Athletic Hall of
Fame for his accomplishments on the court,
including leading the basketball team to three
conference championships, setting records for
career points (2,052 points), and being named
conference player of the year three times.
Anderson is chairman of AdvisorNet Financial
in Minneapolis. He has served on the board
AUGGIE SNAPSHOTS
1952
Glenn Thorpe ’60 hosted a celebration for his brother Gordon Thorpe ’52, ’55
to honor the 60th anniversary of Gordon’s graduation from Augsburg
Seminary and ordination at Trinity Lutheran Church, which was on June 12, 1955.
Gordon served in parishes for 41 years. At the celebration, Gordon was joined by his
classmates David Rokke ’52, Carl Vaagenes ’50, ’55, and Bill Halverson ’51. Also joining
them to celebrate were Augsburg seminarians Philip Quanbeck ’50, Allan Sortland ’53,
Morris Vaagenes ’54, Jim Almquist ’61, Paul Almquist ’62, and Thomas Moen ’62.
32
Augsburg Now
ALUMNI CLASS NOTES
of directors for charitable organizations, has
worked locally for Habitat for Humanity, and is
active in his church community.
Marilyn (Nielsen) Anderson ’65 treasures her
memories of Augsburg band trips to the West
Coast and the Augsburg Cantorians’ trips. She
taught K-12 choir, band, music, and orchestra
for 17 years and has written and published 25
children’s books. She taught writing courses
for the Institute of Children’s Literature for 20
years. Anderson also has trained and showed
dressage horses at international levels. If she
could thank anyone at Augsburg, it would be
James Johnson, her piano teacher, and Anne
Pederson, who taught English.
MaryAnn (Holland) Berg ’65 has had a life
filled with music. She taught elementary
music and piano for 20 years, and directed a
championship barbershop chorus in Fargo,
North Dakota, that took her to international
competitions in London, Minneapolis,
Philadelphia, Seattle, and St. Louis. She
currently sings with the Fargo Moorhead Choral
Artists, a group she’s been with for 28 years.
Her fondest memories of Augsburg include
choir tours (especially the Norway tour in 1965)
and serving as a student secretary for Leland
Sateren ’35. She and husband, Arvid Berg ’65,
cherish the memory of the Augsburg Choir
singing at their wedding on November 21, 1964.
Arvid has no doubt that Sateren inspired
him to become a choral director and to strive
for the highest performance standards he could
achieve. Arvid’s fondest Augsburg memories
are of Augsburg band and choir tours, including
a five-week tour with the choir to Norway,
Denmark, and Germany. Arvid spent 30 years
as head of the music department at Oak Grove
Lutheran High School in Fargo. He also had a
25-year military career, the last 19 years with the
188th Army Band of Fargo. His current interests
include fishing, hunting, traveling, music, and
his church.
If she could, Adrienne (Strand) Buboltz ’65
would thank the Rev. Waldemar Anderson ’37 for
encouraging her and three of her classmates
from North Dakota’s Portland High School
to attend Augsburg. She fondly remembers
serving on the freshman social committee,
decorating Christmas trees, watching high
school classmate Dan Anderson ’65 play
basketball, and meeting her future husband,
Larry Buboltz ’65, at Augsburg. She especially
enjoyed being instructed by Chemistry
Professor Courtland Agre and Leif Hansen,
her German teacher. Adrienne graduated
from Moorhead State University in 1974 and
became a Certified Public Accountant. She
worked in public accounting, was a corporate
controller, and taught at a vocational school.
She opened an insurance brokerage in 1991
after receiving her insurance and brokerage
licenses, and she retired in 2005. Larry keeps
busy as chair of Detroit Lakes Community
and Cultural Center in Minnesota. He serves
on a committee to bring a bike trail to the
community. He became a city councilman
in 1976, and served until he was elected
mayor from 1988 to 2008. He likes to
Sharon (Kunze) Erickson ’65 says she took an
interest in a certain physics lab assistant and
eventually married him—Ken Erickson ’62, now
retired from the Augsburg physics department.
The couple lives in Cambridge, Minnesota,
where Sharon taught first grade for 29 years.
Sharon volunteers at their church and at the
Cambridge Hospital when she isn’t spending
time with family and friends.
Helen (Friederichs) Griller ’65 has lived in
and enjoyed Arizona for the past 28 years,
but she has so many special memories of
George Johnson ’65 spent more than three
years in Pakistan teaching science students
who ranged from the undergraduate to the
doctoral levels. He and his wife, Leslye, both
hold doctorate degrees in biochemistry,
and, with support from the Bradley Hills
Presbyterian congregation in Bethesda,
Maryland, worked with Forman Christian
College University in Lahore, Pakistan. The
Johnsons view this school as an oasis of
tolerance, and they served people who are
Muslim and Christian, rich and poor, male and female. The Johnsons’ time in Pakistan
convinced them how valuable it is for students and alumni to visit other countries to
experience life and cultures. Before this teaching opportunity, George had a robust career
in research science, often working in drug discovery and development.
From the NOW@Augsburg blog.
Visit augsburg.edu/alumni/blog to read more.
exercise, travel, play bridge, attend school
sporting activities, and is active in Kiwanis.
At Augsburg, Larry participated in the debate
team and later coached debate at Detroit
Lakes High School. He also taught history
there until 1968. He joined Rural Minnesota
Concentrated Employment Program, Inc. and
became chairman in 2005. His high school
band instructor, David Skaar ’55, initially
encouraged him to attend Augsburg.
One of the fondest memories Keith Dyrud ’65,
holds from his time at Augsburg is his work
publishing the campus newspaper, The Voice.
Faculty who most influenced Keith were Carl
Chrislock ’37 and Khin Khin Jensen, faculty in
the history and political science department,
and William Halverson ’51 and Paul Sonnack ’42,
faculty in the religion department. Today, Keith
enjoys writing history, construction, Norwegian
studies, and outdoor activities. He lives with
wife, Grace, in Lauderdale, Minnesota. They
have six children and nine grandchildren.
growing up in Minnesota that she still thinks
of it as home. Treasured memories from her
Augsburg experience include good friends,
the International Associated Women Students
trip to Oklahoma, sporting activities, Sno Days,
and Freshman Days. Her current interests
and activities include four grandchildren, book
clubs, reading, traveling, the Scottsdale Garden
Club, and activities at her church.
Carmen Herrick ’65 passed the Certified Public
Accountant exam in 1989 and then worked
in public accounting. In addition to obtaining
a bachelor’s from Western State College of
Colorado, she attended the University of
Oslo and Elverum Folkehøgskule in Norway,
which afforded her the opportunity to travel
throughout Scandinavia. Among her favorite
Augsburg memories are living with 11 other
girls in Kappa House, and her wonderful
business education teacher. Current interests
include learning Norwegian, playing bridge,
lap swimming, and Silver Sneakers exercise
classes. She has six grandchildren.
Fall 2015
33
ALUMNI CLASS NOTES
REUNION
1965
Don Hoseth ’65 returned to
Augsburg in 1971 to earn his
elementary teaching degree and taught for
32 years in the Robbinsdale, Minnesota,
School District. He has been retired for the
past 12 years and keeps busy with his 12
grandchildren. He is grateful for the influence
of numerous professors as well as longtime
coaches Edor Nelson ’38 and Ed Saugestad ’59.
Jan (Mattson) Johnson ’65 and husband,
Tom, live in Alexandria, Minnesota, and enjoy
seeing their five grandchildren when they
visit the Twin Cities. The Johnsons lived in
the Philippines for one year and in Maine for
another while Tom was in the U.S. Air Force.
As a student, Jan worked in Augsburg’s
Admissions office for Donovan Lundeen, who
had visited her home prior to her decision to
attend Augsburg. She relishes memories of
singing under the direction of Leland Sateren ’35
in the Augsburg Choir, and feels privileged
to have traveled to Norway, Denmark, and
Germany with the choir for five weeks after
graduating. Jan’s current interests include
choir, golfing, quilting, reading, and travel.
For Charles McCaughan ’65, Professor
Emeritus of History Donald Gustafson was the
faculty member who most influenced him
as a student. McCaughan lives in Bagley,
Minnesota.
Dennis Morreim ’65 transferred to Augsburg
after three years at the University of Minnesota.
He remembers his advisor working to have all
of his credits accepted, and he went from being
a sophomore to a junior in one day. Morreim
met his wife, Jeanne (Wanner) Morreim ’66,
during orientation week. She was working in
The Grill. The couple has been married 50
years. Dennis earned his master’s degree in
divinity and a doctorate of ministry degree. He
served churches in Manitoba and Minnesota
for 38 years. During his time serving in Cloquet,
Minnesota, he went to Honduras 17 times and
helped to build eight schools in the Central
American country. He spends his time now
as a part-time chaplain at a local hospital and
nursing home in Cloquet. He also is chaplain of
the Minnesota State Senate.
Dwight Olson ’65 can still make a mean grilled
Spam sandwich and great Swedish pancakes,
but can’t lower his golf handicap. Olson lives
in San Diego with his wife of 50 years, Lois
(Monson) Olson ’68. He founded Data Securities
International and is listed in Wikipedia as the
“father of technology escrow.” He started
Gamma Phi Omega at Augsburg and says
that Phil Quanbeck, Sr. ’50, professor emeritus
of religion, was his most influential faculty
member. Dwight and Lois have two sons and
four grandchildren. He says that Lois agreed to
marry him the day before graduation so that his
family could afford to attend both events.
The Rev. Gary Olson ’65 and wife, Jean (Pfeifer)
Olson ’64, reside in Maplewood, Minnesota.
Gary spends his time in creative writing. He and
Jean attend many school events for their three
grandchildren. On occasion, he still preaches.
Gary’s memories from his time at Augsburg
include the day when he was walking to class
and walked past a sleeping male student
whose dorm mates put his bed, dresser, lamp,
and chair on the Quad lawn. Gary says that
Esther Olson, a theater and speech professor,
influenced him most as a student.
Pat (Steenson) Roback ’65 and her husband,
Jim Roback ’62, feel blessed to have chosen
Augsburg to get their teaching degrees and to
have been surrounded by students and staff
who got to know them and helped shape them
as they chose their future paths. The faculty
member who most influenced Pat was Martha
Mattson, an elementary education faculty
member. Pat recalls that, “She was an icon!
What a wealth of information she was, and
[she] knew so much about the world because
she traveled and lived in many faraway
places. She even had a few of us over to her
apartment once to teach us tatting. She was
very good at it, and we were not.” Pat thanks
all of the 1965 reunion committee members
for their dedication, ideas, time, and hard work
to make plans for Homecoming.
Larry Scholla ’65 and Muriel (Berg) Scholla ’67
live in Willmar, Minnesota, and winter in Naples,
Florida, where they enjoy the beaches of Marco
and Naples, as Show less
The Class of 2014 reflects
Grants gain ground
Spotlight on research
Faithful and relevant
AN
EDUCATION
ACTIVE
SUMMER 2014 | VOL. 76, NO. 3
INSIDE
AUGSBURG NOW
Vice President of Marketing
and Communication
Rebecca John ’13 MBA
rjohn@augsburg.edu
Director of Marketing
Communication
Kat... Show more
The Class of 2014 reflects
Grants gain ground
Spotlight on research
Faithful and relevant
AN
EDUCATION
ACTIVE
SUMMER 2014 | VOL. 76, NO. 3
INSIDE
AUGSBURG NOW
Vice President of Marketing
and Communication
Rebecca John ’13 MBA
rjohn@augsburg.edu
Director of Marketing
Communication
Kathy Rumpza ’05 MAL
rumpza@augsburg.edu
Director of News and
Media Services
Stephanie Weiss
weisss@augsburg.edu
NOTES FROM PRESIDENT PRIBBENOW
An alternative narrative of higher education
Our colleague, Harry Boyte, who heads Augsburg’s
Center for Democracy and Citizenship, recently
argued in The Huffington Post that America
needs an alternative narrative of higher education, one that focuses not on meritocratic
excellence, but on “cooperative excellence...[the]
principle that a mix of people from highly varied
backgrounds can achieve remarkable intellectual,
social, political, and spiritual growth if they have
the right encouragements, resources, challenges,
and calls to public purpose.” And, as Harry
further points out, we have the makings of this
alternative story of higher education in institutions like Augsburg, with its rich heritage of faith,
learning, and service.
And so we do, as this issue of Augsburg Now
so compellingly illustrates. You hear it in the
stories our recent graduates tell about what they
love about Augsburg—its people, its location, its
diversity, its commitment to service and justice, its
educational experience like no other. You hear it in
the tributes to retiring faculty members like Donald
“Gus” Gustafson and athletic legends like Edor
Nelson ’38 and Ed Saugestad ’59—even as you
read the accomplishments of this year’s distinguished teachers and scholars, future legends. You
hear it in accounts of innovative theater programming, bringing together students from Augsburg
and the University of Minnesota to perform a
groundbreaking production of Peer Gynt at the
university’s arboretum. You hear it in the voices
of students and alumni sharing their vocational
journeys, shaped in this remarkable community.
The power of the Augsburg story is that it is
not new—it is what I call “the saga of Augsburg”
(see my recent essay, “Lessons on Vocation and
Location: The Saga of Augsburg College as Urban
Settlement” at augsburg.edu/president/presentations), a story that is grounded in our rich history
as a college dedicated to the Lutheran Christian
faith, to the power of a liberal arts education, to
vocational discernment, and to our urban setting.
And it is a story more relevant than ever, as it
counters the ways in which higher education is
viewed as a commodity to be purchased, a ticket
simply to a successful career, a stepping stone
instead of a firm foundation.
Our society needs an alternative story about
higher education in order to recover its soul.
Augsburg offers such a story in both its history and
its aspirations as a 21st century “student-centered
urban university, small to our students and big for
the world.” And now we need to recruit a corps of
storytellers—good folks like you—who know this
story well and are willing to stand with us to share
it with the world. In our tradition, that is called
evangelism. Will you join us?
Integrated Communication
Specialist/Augsburg Now
Project Manager
Laura Swanson
swansonl@augsburg.edu
Creative Associate
Denielle Johnson ’11
johnsod@augsburg.edu
Marketing Copywriter
Christina Haller
haller@augsburg.edu
Photographer
Stephen Geffre
geffre@augsburg.edu
Production Manager/Now Online
Mark Chamberlain
chamberm@augsburg.edu
Assistant Vice President
for Advancement
Kim Stone
stonek@augsburg.edu
augsburg.edu
Augsburg Now is published by
Augsburg College
2211 Riverside Ave.
Minneapolis, MN 55454
Opinions expressed in Augsburg Now
do not necessarily reflect official
College policy.
ISSN 1058-1545
Faithfully yours,
PAUL C. PRIBBENOW, PRESIDENT
Send address corrections to:
Advancement Services
CB 142
Augsburg College
2211 Riverside Ave.
Minneapolis, MN 55454
langemo@augsburg.edu
Email: now@augsburg.edu
summer 2014
AUGSBURG NOW
Features
12
9
16
23
12
16
24
29
Faithful and relevant
BY REBECCA JOHN ’13 MBA
We love Augsburg
EDITED BY LAURA SWANSON
What is it?
BY LAURA SWANSON
Grants gain ground
COMPILED BY STEPHANIE WEISS
Departments
inside
front
cover
Notes from President Pribbenow
02 Around the Quad
09 My Auggie experience
15 Auggie athletics
23 Auggie voices
30 Alumni news
35 Alumni class notes
15
24
38 In memoriam
40 It takes an Auggie
On the cover
Each summer, Augsburg College students complete on-campus research activities across a
wide range of academic disciplines. Learn about Auggies’ recent projects on page 24.
Correction: The Spring 2014 issue of Augsburg Now included an archival photo of Science Hall as part of the My Auggie
experience story. The caption accompanying the image should have noted that the building, in its early years, housed the
home economics department in addition to the offices, laboratories, and rooms named.
All photos and archival photo compilations by Stephen Geffre unless otherwise indicated.
AROUND THE QUAD
Excellence in
teaching and learning
Choir performs
throughout Ireland
The 2014 Distinguished Contributions recipients [L to R]:
Shana Watters, Phil Adamo, and Stacy Freiheit.
Each year, the Augsburg College faculty recognizes select colleagues with
the Distinguished Contributions to Teaching and Learning awards—acknowledging those who have demonstrated outstanding support for students through
teaching, advising, and mentoring.
The 2014 recipients include:
The Augsburg Choir delivered their annual
Bon Voyage Performance May 2, then traveled to Ireland for an international tour. The
group performed in Cork, Dublin, Limerick,
and Newbridge; they also took time to visit
the Rock of Cashel, Blarney Castle, and the
Cliffs of Moher on Ireland’s rugged western
coast. To read more about their trip, visit
the students’ blog at engage.augsburg.edu/
augsburgchoir.
EXCELLENCE IN TEACHING: Stacy Freiheit, associate professor of psychology
“As a professor, [Stacy] ensures that she engages students in the material
that she is teaching and makes it personal…She is very creative and open,
and implements a multitude of methods to help students learn—from videos,
to interviews, to live demonstrations.” —Amineh Safi ’14, psychology and
political science major
Day at the Capitol
EXCELLENCE IN SCHOLARSHIP: Phil Adamo, associate professor of history and
director of the Medieval Studies Program
“[Phil] has an ability to fold students into his scholarship, providing them
with rich and meaningful experiences that develop them as young scholars.”
—Dixie Shafer, director of Augsburg’s Office of Undergraduate Research and
Graduate Opportunity
EXCELLENCE IN ADVISING AND MENTORING: Shana Watters, associate professor
of computer science
“[Shana] really shines. She is interesting; she is supportive; she has high
expectations; she is fun. She takes her responsibility to her students very
seriously, but never takes herself too seriously. As a result, she has been a
remarkable mentor to many students, even those who have not chosen to
pursue computer science.” —Carrie Shidla, Augsburg program manager and
assistant director of academic advising
2
Augsburg Now
Brid Henry ’16 meets Minnesota State Sen. Charles Wiger
during the Day at the Capitol event.
This spring, Augsburg Day at the Capitol gave
students a voice in the important debate surrounding the Minnesota State Grant program.
Augsburg students met with lawmakers and
wrote letters advocating continued support for
this important financial aid.
City and state officials judge
‘The Great Economic Debate’
Courtesy of University of Minnesota Children’s Hospital
at
[L to R]: Saint Paul Mayor Chris Coleman, Minnesota Department of
Commerce Commissioner Michael Rothman, and Minneapolis Mayor
Betsy Hodges.
MASTER OF MUSIC THERAPY
Augsburg’s music therapy program has provided students with a
holistic approach to health care through music medicine since
1974. To build on that tradition, Augsburg is launching a music
therapy graduate program in the Twin Cities beginning this fall.
The Master of Music Therapy (MMT) program will engage students in
life-changing experiences and experiential learning, and foster a
holistic view of the use of music in health, healing, and well-being.
For more information about the MMT, visit augsburg.edu/mmt.
The Minnesota Urban Debate League (MNUDL)—a program
of Augsburg College—in May hosted its second Mayor’s
Challenge. Saint Paul Mayor Chris Coleman, Minnesota
Department of Commerce Commissioner Michael Rothman,
and Minneapolis Mayor Betsy Hodges served as judges
for a student debate resolving that the North American
Free Trade Agreement has been beneficial for the
economy of Mexico and the United States, specifically
Minnesota. This spring, MNUDL also hosted its first
Spanish Debate Invitational, a Spanish tournament for
Twin Cities middle and high school students, as a way
to make forensics available to more students and to
help extend the reach of the positive work of MNUDL.
Courtesy photo
STROMMEN SPEAKERS SERIES
This April, the Strommen Executive Speakers Series, which
brings local business leaders to campus to share insight and
expertise, featured Jon Campbell, executive vice president of
Wells Fargo. With 36 years of banking experience at Wells
Fargo, Campbell presented “Finding Vocation in Corporate
Philanthropy,” touching on his career path, which has been
characterized by a strong emphasis on community service.
CONNECT. NETWORK. LEAD.
Summer 2014
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AROUND THE QUAD
Honoring our retired faculty
WILLIAM ARDEN
DONALD “GUS” GUSTAFSON
Assistant Professor, Business
Administration
Professor, History
Joined the College – 2005
Education – bachelor’s, Gustavus
Adolphus College; master’s and
PhD, University of Wisconsin
Education – bachelor’s, New
York University; master’s,
Northeastern University (Boston);
MBA, Boston University
“One of my most memorable
experiences as a teacher was my first time in a classroom.
I taught a graduate marketing course (at another institution)
and walked out of class the first night saying, ‘I haven’t had
this much fun in a job in a long time!’”
Joined the College – 1961
Gustafson thrives most on
the sheer delight of teaching—
students from his classes usually
remember Rasputin, Alsace-Lorraine, and Che Guevara.
GRETCHEN IRVINE
Assistant Professor, Education
RUTH ENESTVEDT
Joined the College – 1993
Assistant Professor, Nursing
Education – bachelor’s, College
of St. Teresa; master’s, University
of Wisconsin-River Falls; PhD,
University of Minnesota
Joined the College – 1999
Education – bachelor’s, St.
Olaf College; master’s and PhD,
University of Minnesota
“We assume that people are
experts in their own lives. We
provide useful, relevant service
that respects what the person brings to the situation.”
MARK ENGEBRETSON
Professor, Physics
Joined the College – 1976
Education – bachelor’s, Luther
College; Master of Divinity,
Luther Theological Seminary;
master’s and PhD, University of
Minnesota
One of the most important
features of Engebretson’s work is sharing it with his
students. His research grants from NASA and the
National Science Foundation have supported dozens of
undergraduate student research opportunities that educate
and motivate science students.
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Augsburg Now
“I believe in using the
community as a research tool
and bringing the community into the classroom through
resource speakers. Respect for the unique characteristic of
each student is essential.”
JEFFREY JOHNSON
Associate Professor, Physics
Joined the College – 1985
Education – bachelor’s, master’s,
MBA, and PhD, University of
Minnesota
Johnson likes to teach
quantum physics and astronomy,
which, he says, “allows me
to give my students an appreciation of the wonder and
weirdness of our universe.”
ASHOK KAPOOR
Associate Professor, Business
Administration
Joined the College – 1998
Education – bachelor’s and master’s,
University of Delhi; master’s and
MBA, University of Minnesota; PhD,
Temple University
“Augsburg is different from
other institutions in that we have a vocational aspect to our
education, which fits in with my thinking. I tell my students
that they can do whatever they want, as long as they excel.
They will then be happy in life.”
DAWN LUDWIG
Director and Assistant Professor,
Physician Assistant Studies Program
Joined the College – 1995
Education – bachelor’s, University
of Colorado-Denver; master’s
and PA Certificate, University of
Colorado Health Science Center;
PhD, Capella University
One of the guiding principles in Ludwig’s approach to
teaching is to help students maintain a focus on service to
others, and to always be aware of how one good deed can
bless another person’s life.
ROBERT STACKE ’71
Associate Professor and
Department Chair, Music
Joined the College – 1990
Education – bachelor’s, Augsburg
College; master’s, University of
St. Thomas; PhD, University of
Minnesota
“I am very proud of the
number of students who have a chance to be involved in
Augsburg’s music program. One of the benefits of attending a
liberal arts college is having the opportunity to perform even
if you are not a music major.”
Faculty Recognition Luncheon
This spring, Augsburg celebrated
the careers and contributions of
retiring faculty members at the
Faculty Recognition Luncheon. The
event included a program and a
display of recent scholarship and
teaching materials.
CELEBRATING STUDENT SUCCESS
Scholarships and fellowships
Augsburg students earned a range of prestigious accolades
during spring semester, including the following:
BARRY GOLDWATER SCHOLARSHIP
Eric Bowman ’15, a biology and
chemistry major and McNair
Scholar, received an honorable
mention in the Barry Goldwater
Scholarship competition.
The Goldwater Foundation
provides $7,500 undergraduate
scholarships to students who
plan to pursue a research career
in a STEM (science, technology,
engineering, and mathmatics)
field, and the scholarship is the
premier undergraduate award
of its type in these fields. Bowman was one of only eight
Minnesotans to receive an honorable mention this year.
BENJAMIN A. GILMAN INTERNATIONAL SCHOLARSHIP
Sponsored by the U.S. Department of State, the Benjamin
A. Gilman International Scholarship Program offers grants
for U.S. citizen undergraduate students of limited financial
means to pursue academic studies or credit-bearing, careeroriented internships abroad. Since 2008, 36 Auggies
have been awarded a total of $150,000 from the Gilman
International Scholarship.
This spring, sociology and psychology major Pa-Loo Lor ’14
studied at Augsburg’s exchange partner, Hong Kong Baptist
University. This summer, GaoSheng Yang ’14 studied and
interned in Shanghai. She is an international relations major
with a minor in management information systems. And this
fall, biology major Fowsia Elmi ’15, international business and
finance major Smeret Hailom ’15, and sociology major Ayan
Khayro ’15 will study in Turkey; and music major Elizabeth
Fontaine ’16 will study in Indonesia.
HAWKINSON AWARD
The Hawkinson Foundation for Peace & Justice has awarded
Ibrahim Al-Hajiby ’14 the Vincent L. Hawkinson Foundation
Scholarship. This scholarship was created by the Foundation
to encourage students who have already demonstrated a
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Augsburg Now
commitment to peace and justice to strive for peace and
justice both in their educational pursuits and in their personal
and professional lives.
KEMPER SCHOLARS PROGRAM
Najma Warsame ’17, a communication studies student, was
named the College’s fourth Kemper Scholar. Students in this
prestigious program, which is funded by the James S. Kemper
Foundation, receive academic scholarships and stipends to
cover the costs of two summer internships in major nonprofit
and for-profit organizations. Augsburg is one of only 16
U.S. liberal arts colleges with the Kemper Scholars Program
distinction.
NEWMAN CIVIC FELLOWS AWARD
Vincent Henry ’15 was named a Newman Civic Fellow for
2014. The Newman Civic Fellow Award is a Campus Compact
distinction recognizing students who—through service,
research, and advocacy—work to identify the root causes of
social issues and effective mechanisms for creating lasting
change.
PHILLIPS SCHOLARSHIP
Each year, the Minnesota Private
College Council awards six
scholarships from the Jay and
Rose Phillips Family Foundation
of Minnesota to students
who attend its 17 member
institutions. This year, two of the
six were awarded to Augsburg
students Sagal Ali ’16 and Muna
Mohamed ’15. Ali will work on a
project that addresses the high
risk of obesity and the rise of
diabetes among Somali women,
while Mohamed’s project will focus on engaging Muslim
women in sports while honoring their religious and cultural
beliefs.
2014 PRESIDENTS’ CIVIC ENGAGEMENT STEWARD AWARD
The Augsburg student group Students for Racial Justice
won the Presidents’ Civic Engagement Steward Award at
the Minnesota Campus Compact Summit that took place
this spring. This award recognizes those who have advanced
their campus’s distinctive civic mission by forming strong
partnerships, supporting civic engagement, and working to
institutionalize a culture and practice of engagement.
Student research awards and
achievements
ROSSING PHYSICS SCHOLARS
STUDENTS PARTICIPATE IN
ZYZZOGETON 2014
Two Augsburg College students have been named Rossing
Physics Scholars for 2014-15. Juan Tigre ’16 and Fikre
Beyene ’16 will receive $10,000 and $7,000, respectively.
The Rossing Fund for Physics Education Endowment in
the ELCA Foundation was established in 2005 for physics
majors at the 27 ELCA colleges.
TRAVELERS EDGE SCHOLARS AND TRAVELERS INTERNSHIPS
Stella Richardson Hohn ’15 and Lee Thao ’15 are interning
in St. Paul and Hartford, Conn., respectively, as part of the
Travelers Insurance Empowering Dreams for Graduation
and Employment (EDGE) program. This program focuses on
college recruitment and retention of low-income and firstgeneration students, and enhances awareness of careers in the
insurance and financial industries. In Minnesota, the focus
specifically is on students graduating from both the St. Paul
and Minneapolis public school districts.
Five additional Auggies—Lorreal Edwards ’16, Liban
Elmi ’16, Lyton Guallpa-Naula ’16, Angela Hernandez ’16, and
Seng Vue ’16—also will complete internships at Travelers
Insurance in St. Paul. This group will participate in professional
and leadership development workshops supported by the
Kemper Foundation to prepare for their internship opportunity.
VANN FELLOWSHIP
Michelle Grafelman ’15, an
Augsburg Presidential Scholar,
was awarded the $5,000 Vann
Fellowship in Biomedical Ethics at
Mayo Clinic. As a summer fellow,
she is working with physician and
research mentors within Mayo’s
Program in Professionalism and
Ethics to examine issues such as
end-of-life care, genetic therapies,
and patient consent, among others.
Zyzzogeton is an opportunity to
hear about the exciting scholarship
happening on campus. This year,
more than 80 students presented
their research and creative activity
to the Augsburg community in
the annual spring poster session,
which is sponsored by the Office
of Undergraduate Research and
Graduate Opportunity (URGO),
the McNair Scholars program, and
the Louis Stokes Alliance for Minority Participation (LSAMP)
program.
SUMMER 2014 OFF-CAMPUS RESEARCH APPOINTMENTS
This summer, several Auggie researchers will be building their
skills to support graduate school admissions and careers in
the sciences.
• Elly Bier ’14—physics; National Institute of Standards and
Technology
• Weih Borh ’16—chemistry; Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute
(LSAMP Summer Research Program)
• Chris DeVet ’15—chemistry; CIMA Labs pharmaceuticals
• Becca Freese ’16—biology and mathematics; University of
Minnesota (Summer Institute in Biostatistics)
• Kirubel Frew ’14—chemistry; working with Armon Sharei and
Katarina Blagovic at Harvard University and Massachusetts
Institute of Technology, respectively
• Cedith Giddings ’15—biology; University of Minnesota
(CHE-CTSI Advanced Research Program and Undergraduate
Research Program)
• Michelle Grafelman ’15—biology; Mayo Clinic (Vann
Fellowship in Bioethics)
Summer 2014
7
CELEBRATING STUDENT SUCCESS
• Daniel Hildebrandt ’15—biology and chemistry; Mayo Clinic
(Summer Undergraduate Research Fellowship)
• Taylor Kuramoto ’15—mathematics; University of Tennessee,
Knoxville (National Institute for Mathematical and
Biological Synthesis)
•
Oscar Martinez ’16—
chemistry; Scripps Research
Institute in Jupiter, Fla.
(Summer Undergraduate
Research Fellows Program)
• Bethany Marlette ’14—biology;
Mayo Clinic
•
Yemi Melka ’15—chemistry and
international relations; Friends
Committee on National
Legislation in Washington, D.C.
• Lily Moloney ’15—chemistry;
Scripps Research Institute in La Jolla, Calif. (Summer
Undergraduate Research Fellows Program)
• Promise Okeke ’15—biology; Harvard Stem Cell Institute of
the Harvard Medical School
• Andrew Roehl ’15—chemistry; Colorado State University
(Summer Research Experience for Undergraduates)
• Ben Swanson ’15—chemistry; Northwestern University
(Materials Research Science & Engineering Center)
• Sadie Tetrick ’16—physics; Dartmouth College Physics
Department
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Augsburg Now
POSTERS ON THE HILL
Each spring,
the Council on
Undergraduate
Research hosts its
annual undergraduate
poster session,
Posters on the Hill, in
Washington, D.C. At
the event, students
meet members of
Congress, funding agencies, and foundations, and have the
opportunity to advocate for undergraduate research programs.
Summa cum laude English graduate Margo Ensz ’13
was among the top 10 percent of applicants selected to
present and received an honorable mention for her URGO
summer research project, “Analyzing the Persistence of a
Sense of Place Among Young Adults in the Technology-Rich,
A-Contextual 21st Century,” advised by Colin Irvine, Augsburg
College associate professor of English.
SCHOLARS AT THE CAPITOL
During spring semester, Augsburg
TRIO McNair Scholars Amineh
Safi ’14 and David Fowler ’14
participated in the 11th annual
Private College Scholars at the
Capitol event. Each private
college in Minnesota annually
selects two students to attend the
event and present their research.
Safi’s research topic, “Racializing
Islam: Newspaper Portrayal of
Crime Involving Muslims and
Islam,” is a descriptive content
analysis examining how crimes
involving Muslims are portrayed
in the Star Tribune and the St. Paul Pioneer Press. Fowler’s
research focused on methods for studying heart development
and function in the model organism Daphnia magna.
MY AUGGIE EXPERIENCE
PEASANTS
AND TROLLS,
COLLABORATIONS
AND CHALLENGES
BY STEPHANIE WEISS
▲ Nearly 1,000 theatergoers visited the
Minnesota Landscape Arboretum for
Peer Gynt’s three-day run. The character
of Peer Gynt was played by University of
Minnesota student Joe Kellen.
I
▲ Peer Gynt visits the troll kingdom in an attempt to marry the troll princess.
Imagine it’s spring and you are at a site
USA Today named as among the nation’s
10 greatest places in America to smell
the flowers. You start to meander along
a footpath that will lead you through a
natural habitat of trees and ferns to rolling
prairie and lowlands, all while birds sing
after a long winter.
As you round the corner from the
Minnesota Landscape Arboretum’s
visitor center, you come across a small
homesteader’s cabin. It’s nestled among
the trees. A group of people, dressed as
peasants from the 1800s, bicker with one
another. You’ve just walked smack into the
middle of the set of Peer Gynt, a play by
Henrik Ibsen, being performed by students
from Augsburg College and the University
of Minnesota-Twin Cities.
The site-specific performance—a
production shaped by the unique place in
which it is performed and that relies upon
existing landscapes and features to serve
as the stage and sets—was the first time
the two schools collaborated and probably
the first site-specific production of this
▲ [Top of page] An audience watches an opening scene from Peer Gynt, a production by Augsburg College and the
University of Minnesota-Twin Cities. The Minnesota Landscape Arboretum’s historic Berens Cabin serves as the
backdrop for dialogue between the Peer Gynt character and his mother, seated on the wheelbarrow.
Summer 2014
9
said. “We thought the universe might
like them to meet. We wanted to see
new alliances formed and to create more
opportunities for artistic intersections
because theater and artists are best
served when more and more connections
can be made.”
The staging of this classic
Norwegian tale at a Minnesota landmark
also was a testament to the academic
excellence driven by Augsburg faculty
and alumni who create multifaceted
student-learning experiences.
“Faculty know that in order to
develop students’ abilities to think
critically and to solve problems—
essential 21st-century skills—we
need to expose them to hands-on
opportunities to work together,
to interact with people who think
differently from themselves, and to
provide time to reflect upon and voice
what they learn,” Engen said.
STUDENTS CO-CREATE SCRIPT
That multi-layered complexity drew
students to the story. Boo Segersin ’15,
an Augsburg theater major pursuing
A children’s playground serves as the set for a scene in Peer Gynt.
Existing landscape features are used to stage site-specific theater.
▲
scale for Twin Cities’ theatergoers.
“This adaptation demanded new
partnerships between schools and with
many theater artists—puppeteers,
movement specialists, musicians, [and]
fight choreographers. We pummeled
students with new experiences and
gave the audience a spectacular
performance,” said Darcey Engen
’88, associate professor and chair of
Augsburg’s Theater Arts program.
Collaborating with the University
of Minnesota allowed Engen and her
counterpart, Luverne Seifert ’83, to
assemble the large cast required by
the play: about 40 student actors in
all. And the complexity of the script
meant students would build new skills
in collaboration, forge friendships,
and nurture the beginnings of new
professional networking relationships
in the tightly connected world of Twin
Cities theater.
“It seemed odd to Darcey and me
that each night there were groups of
students creating all of this amazing
artistic energy, and they were only three
blocks away from one another,” Seifert
minors in musical theater and
Norwegian, said she was drawn in by the
density of Peer Gynt.
“I read the play over winter break
and wondered how we could do it. It’s
on mountains. It’s in mountains. There
are trolls. Just the landscapes were a
challenge in themselves,” Segersin said.
The students worked with Sarah
Myers, Augsburg College assistant
professor of theater arts, to adapt the
script and halve the length of the play.
“I was nervous to work on the script,
but one of the best parts was working—
as a full cast—with Sarah to cut things
down,” Segersin said. “We found the
‘red thread,’ the core storyline that runs
through the script, and, with that, found
our way.”
That thread allowed the students
to take the play from the three-hour
adaptation by famed Minnesota poet
Robert Bly to a compact 90 minutes
that was accessible to newcomers of all
ages but that remained engaging and
challenging for seasoned theatergoers.
It’s quite a feat when one considers that
Ibsen’s original was a hefty seven hours.
Boo Segersin ’15 (top) played the role of Solveig, a young woman who leaves her
family and insists upon living with Peer Gynt in his hand-hewn cabin. The role of
Peer Gynt’s mother, Åse, was played by Nikki Whittaker ’17 (bottom).
▲
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Augsburg Now
▲ Nearly 40 performers were involved in the Peer Gynt wedding scene.
▲
Students worked with professional master puppeteers to build and coordinate
the movement of a giant raven puppet with a nearly 20-foot wingspan.
NAVIGATING CULTURE, CAST,
WEATHER, AND LANDSCAPE
Wrestling with the script of the play—a
story of loss due to procrastination and
avoidance followed by redemption late in
life—was just one of the challenges faced
by students. They also had to identify
features in the arboretum’s landscape that
could serve as sets, deliver their lines in
open-air scenes with acoustics affected
by the landscape and ambient noises not
usually present in a theater, and learn
original music, all while getting to know
the culture and student performers from
another school.
Then there were the logistics for
which no planning can be done.
“Because of the variables involved,
site-specific theater provides attendees
the chance to see what is a once-in-alifetime performance and to leave having
been an active traveler in the play,” Engen
said. “For performers, there’s a textured
chaos that you can’t plan for and that
forces you to think fast and improvise
within boundaries. It leaves you exhausted
and exhilarated at the end.”
Being faced with those challenges
was just what Engen and Seifert wanted
for students. The two worked closely
to co-direct students in this first-ever
collaboration between the schools.
“Students learned to perform to
the moment at hand,” Engen said.
“Sometimes that meant changing the
energy and volume of lines to overcome
wind or a noisy attendee. Other times
it meant staying in character but
improvising when a young child persisted
in trying to break into the scene.”
Segersin said that it was a rewarding
experience to work with peers from the
University of Minnesota and to perform for
the nearly 1,000 attendees who visited
the arboretum for the production.
“This beautiful thing happened: We
became a team,” Segersin said. “And
now, sometimes, when I sleep, I dream
about them.”
BUILDING PROFESSIONAL
NETWORKS
The relationships and networks, though,
extend beyond just the student peers
at the two institutions. Engen used the
production to help students connect with
other theater professionals.
“Students built experience in creative
problem-solving with some of the Twin
Cities’ foremost theater professionals,
including master puppeteers, musicians,
and movement professionals,” Engen
said. “It was a chance for students to
explore the many ways to work in theater
and to challenge themselves to meld
these disciplines.”
Seifert added that making
connections with artists across disciplines
and fields is critical for the future of
theater and the artists.
“These students now can reach out
to one another to collaborate on future
projects,” he said. “This model allowed
us to give students an understanding of
how major companies in regional theater
increasingly are combining resources to
produce shows.”
That goal wasn’t lost on Segersin, who
was invited to work as a summer intern
with Sod House Theater, a production
company founded by Engen and Seifert.
“We’re still working out what it
means. But I will have the chance to work
with the performance of Peer Gynt at sites
around the state, to meet professional
Twin Cities’ actors and local actors, and to
network,” Segersin said.
Summer 2014
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skill
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callAugsburg Now
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faithful
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BY REBECCA JOHN ’13 MBA
experience
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Pictured [top to bottom]: Whitney Pratt ’11, Cody Tresselt-Warren ’09, and Jessica Spanswick ’10
Photo by Thomas Kosa
ith careers in accounting, education,
Grappling with vocation
military service, and pastoral ministry,
One of the aspects that Auggies in the Christensen Scholars
and Interfaith Scholars programs valued most about the
experience was the dedicated time to learn and to grapple
together with difficult topics and questions.
“Having that regular, dedicated time for discussion
helped us to better articulate our gifts, strengths, and
passions,” said Emily Wiles ’10, a youth and family ministry
major who this spring earned a Master of Divinity from Luther
Seminary. “We pushed each other to articulate our positions,
which helped me really connect with what I think and who
I am,” she said. As a result, “things that I might have
otherwise taken for granted, I came to ‘own’ as my gifts.” In
having to express and explain your perspectives, Wiles said,
“you really get to know yourself better.”
Also beneficial, according to several alumni, was the
opportunity to reflect on the full meaning of vocation. “My
generation is going to have 15 different jobs or careers in
our lifetimes,” said Cody Tresselt-Warren ’09, who majored
in accounting and religion at Augsburg and today is a tax
accountant at Wells Fargo & Company.
“You think, when you’re in college, that once you
graduate and get a job, you’re set,” he said. But there are
so many other important layers—from family obligations to
the needs of the wider world—that, “you have to interpret
your calling from a number of perspectives. It’s a dynamic,
evolving journey.”
Sylvia Bull ’10 agreed, noting that, especially in the
U.S.—a generally career-oriented culture—it is important
to expand the view of vocation beyond just a job or career.
Bull, an international relations and religion double major who
this spring completed her third year at Princeton Theological
Seminary in Princeton, N.J., sees faith as serving an
important role in considerations about vocation. We need to
“open our eyes of faith to see all of the things that we do in
our lives as part of God’s call,” she said.
six recent Augsburg alumni are finding
that their undergraduate experiences studying vocation and
interfaith leadership are paying off well beyond their
college years.
These Auggies participated in the Christensen Scholars
and Interfaith Scholars programs at Augsburg—programs that
provide scholarships for students to take upper-level religion
courses that thrust them deep into topics of faith, religious
diversity, service, theology, and vocation.
Meeting on weeknight evenings throughout the academic
year, students engaged with these topics—and each other—
through focused discussion, inquiry, service-learning, and
reflection. The number of scholarships available each year is
limited, so getting into the program is a competitive process,
involving writing an essay and obtaining a recommendation
from an Augsburg College faculty or staff member. Students
accepted to the programs earn four religion credits and a
$2,000 scholarship for the year. But, according to some of the
early alumni from the programs, the value of the experience
extends well beyond course credit and financial support.
Pictured [left to right]: Peter Weston Miller ’10, Emily Wiles ’10, and Sylvia Bull ’10
Summer 2014
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And “even if faith is not explicitly part of the
conversation,” said Jessica Spanswick ’10, who today works
as director of career services at Globe University, “it is a
profound, shared human desire to seek and find meaning in
our lives.”
fully effective.” To function as a citizen in today’s world,
“you have to understand how people think and the beliefs on
which they base their social and moral codes.”
Welcoming difficult conversations
In the end, these Auggies agreed that the programs’ greatest
value was that they equipped participants to ask challenging
life questions—seemingly simple (but, actually, not-sosimple) questions like, “Where have you come from—and
where are you going?” and “How do you know you’re on the
right path?”
Consistently, all of these alumni said it was the
questions—not the answers—that were most meaningful
to them. In fact, they have each continued the practice of
asking and reflecting on difficult questions and they shared
some of the questions they regularly encounter in their lives
today:
Asking tough questions
Alumni from these programs also shared an appreciation
for how their experiences helped them develop the listening
and interpersonal skills to learn from and understand others.
“We learned to step boldly and respectfully into difficult
conversations,” said Peter Weston Miller ’10, “meeting
people where they were at, where God had uniquely called
them to be.”
Weston Miller, an English major who also completed his
Master’s of Divinity at Luther Seminary this past spring, said
these conversations taught the participants how to “build
relationships based on human integrity and dignity, not just
[based on] topics” that they agreed upon.
“We learned to know ourselves better through the eyes of
others, despite different backgrounds, political leanings, and
socio-economic statuses,” he said.
In particular, alumni from the programs valued the
opportunity to interact and work with people who bring
different faith perspectives. “Speaking with people from
many different faith backgrounds helped me learn to listen to
and understand others’ views and beliefs,” said Spanswick,
who majored in international relations at Augsburg and
recently completed her MBA at Globe University. In her
current work, Spanswick meets people from many different
cultures, and she noted that their cultural practices often
differ because of faith traditions.
Whitney Pratt ’11, who majored in economics at
Augsburg and serves as a first lieutenant in the U.S. Air
Force, agreed that interfaith competency is an important life
skill. “Religion is such an important facet of our lives,” she
said. “Most of our political struggles center around topics
that stem from the moral foundations” that different groups
of people use to guide their behaviors and interactions in
society.
“You can try to build intercultural competence, but
without understanding religion,” Pratt said, “you won’t be
• “Am I questioning my current path because I don’t like it
[today] or because it’s really not my calling?”
• “How do I remain true to my Lutheran beliefs and still
operate in an ecumenically diverse organization?”
• “How will what I want to say affect this other person?”
• “If this current path is not my calling, what’s the best step
to take to explore what is right?”
“As our lives and our world change,” Weston Miller said,
“we need to keep asking these questions in order to keep
ourselves expanding, growing, nurturing, and propelled
forward in God’s calling for all of us.”
Continually asking these questions and searching for
meaning helps us to see the world not just as it is, Wiles
added, but as it could be.
reflection
• And, the question that Martin Luther is famous for: “What
does this mean?”
learn
care
journey
leadership
life welcoming
pathdiverse
call
world appreciation
respectfully discussion citizen
moral calling competence
14
Augsburg Now
skill passions opportunity
work answers
FROM GAME TIME TO LIFETIME
Influence of Auggie icons shapes alumni and today’s campus
August 18 marks the 100th birthday of legendary Augsburg
College coach Edor Nelson ’38.
Nelson is one of the elite Augsburg coaches who profoundly
impacted the College’s athletic programs and whose influence
echoed in the lives of student-athletes beyond their competitions
on athletic fields, rinks, and courts.
At Augsburg, the legacies of renowned coaching staff
and faculty live on in the facilities that carry their names, are
exhibited in their own philanthropy, and can be seen in the
generosity they inspire in others.
Bruce Nelson ’71, son of Edor Nelson, said coaches such
as his father grew up in an era in which sacrifice for the greater
good was common, and coaches played larger roles in the lives of
student-athletes than simply running drills.
“These coaches taught student-athletes about commitment
and that a team is bigger than the individuals,” said Bruce, who
lives out what he learned—in part—by serving as president of the
Augsburg A-Club, a service organization of former and current
Auggie student-athletes and friends of the College.
Bruce knows from first-hand experience that student-athletes
see, understand, and appreciate the ways their mentors continue
to influence their lives as they move on to new opportunities.
“Very few athletes, when they’re older, talk about wins and
losses. They talk about camaraderie, support, and struggles,”
Bruce said. “They remember that my dad helped them get jobs
out of college—that the support didn’t stop after graduation.”
Nelson is one of a group of long-tenured coaches who are
pillars in the Auggie community. Others include:
•
Ernie Anderson ’37–Coach of Augsburg’s men’s basketball
team from 1947-1970, Anderson also was athletic director
for 33 years from 1947-1980. His tenure inspired the Ernie
Anderson Court in Si Melby Hall.
•
Marilyn Pearson Florian ’76–Coach of Augsburg’s women’s
volleyball team from 1981-1998, she also was the women’s
athletic director from 1988-2007. She increased the number
of women’s sports and of female student-athletes.
AUGGIE ATHLETICS
•
Edor Nelson ’38–An Augsburg Athletic Hall of Fame member,
Nelson coached football from 1947-1969 and baseball from
1946-1979. Augburg’s outdoor athletic field bears his name.
•
Lavonne Johnson Peterson ’50–“Mrs. Pete” led the ‘Auggiettes’
basketball team in 13 unbeaten seasons from the 1950s to
the 1970s and was an instructor until 1980. Augsburg named
the health and physical education center in her honor.
•
Joyce Anderson Pfaff ’65–A pioneer in women’s athletics and
in the establishment of varsity women’s sports, Pfaff was
Augsburg’s first women’s athletic director, serving from 19721998. She also taught for 43 years.
•
Ed Saugestad ’59–Coach of the men’s hockey team from
1958-1996, Saugestad’s championship teams claimed three
NAIA national and six MIAC state titles. One of Augsburg’s
hockey rinks is named in honor of Saugestad, who passed
away in March.
•
Jeff Swenson ’79–Wrestling team coach for 25 years,
Swenson has served the past 10 years as athletic director.
Auggies brought home 10 national wrestling titles under his
leadership, and the wrestling wall of fame bears his name.
Today the commitment of these coaches continues to be honored
through philanthropic initiatives by alumni whom they inspired.
Corky Hall ’71, Augsburg’s first men’s hockey All-American,
is challenging fellow student-athletes-turned-Augsburg-alumni
to raise funds for a named space in the Center for Science,
Business, and Religion (CSBR) to honor Saugestad. (Read more
about Saugestad’s legacy on page 33.)
Mark Rabbe ’53, one of Edor Nelson’s baseball players, is
funding a faculty office in the CSBR to honor the coach. And
additional challenges are underway to honor the centennial of
Edor Nelson’s birth.
These Augsburg alumni—and many others who have stepped
up to join a philanthropic challenge—demonstrate that alumni
athletes recognize the role coaches played in positively shaping
their lives and are willing to seize the opportunity to make a
positive impact on the Auggies of tomorrow.
Summer 2014
15
WE
LOVE
AUGSBURG
THE CLASS OF 2014 SHARES MEMORIES, STORIES,
AND TAKEAWAYS FROM THEIR TIME AS STUDENTS
EDITED BY LAURA SWANSON
This spring, hundreds of new alumni celebrated their graduation at Augsburg College
Commencement ceremonies. While these events often are treated as a conclusion—the
grand finale at the end of years of study and hard work—it’s important to remember that
commencement, in its very definition, marks a beginning or start.
As Augsburg’s newest graduates prepared to launch into new challenges and opportunities with an Augsburg degree in hand, we began to wonder, “What was it about this
campus…this curriculum…this College that they came to appreciate during their time
as students?”
So, we asked.
And the Class of 2014 answered.
This list, in no particular order, includes a brief sample of the things Auggies love about
Augsburg. While it cannot represent all of the College’s valued traits, it does help depict
just how unique the institution is. Our students, our alumni, our location, our heritage,
and our mission help influence this place, just as the College—in turn—shapes many of
these entities. Let’s take a look at why there’s so much to love about Augsburg College
and why it’s such a privilege that WE ARE CALLED AUGGIES.
16
Augsburg Now
2
1
The mission
AUGSBURG COLLEGE
EDUCATES STUDENTS TO BE
INFORMED CITIZENS,
THOUGHTFUL STEWARDS,
CRITICAL THINKERS, AND
RESPONSIBLE LEADERS.
Working to be
“Green by 2019”
“I love [Augsburg’s] effort to make
the world a better place through
means such as eliminating the
It says it all, doesn’t it?
“I love Augsburg’s commitment to being an institution that prepares
students for life beyond academics.” —KIMBERLY CLUB ’14
carbon footprint.”
—MITCHELL FUCHS ’14 MSW
Intentional diversity
“I appreciate Augsburg’s dedication
not only to being a diverse community but also to giving students the
opportunity to fully acknowledge this
through various assignments and
campus activities.”
—SIERRA BARGER ’14
That small-college feel
4
“Augsburg is big enough to
fit your needs, and small
enough that you’ll be noticed.”
Summer 2014
17
The faculty
Professors, teachers, faculty members, instructors, mentors, and
friends. The Class of 2014 used many names to describe the people
at the head of the classroom and the backbone of their education.
And, not surprisingly, these people were the most-cited aspect to
love about Augsburg.
“The faculty are top notch and some of the most caring and
conscientious people I have ever met.” —HOLLY HANSON ’14 MAN
“Professors are understanding and accommodating of nontraditional students’ individual circumstances.”
—MAYA SUTTON ’14 MAE
“I love the close-knit community between students and professors.”
—ANDREW DENT ’14
Life in the city
Augsburg is the only college of the ELCA located in
the heart of a large urban area, and students use
the Twin Cities as a metropolitan classroom where
they can engage with College neighbors, community
partners, and companies large and small.
6
7
“I love Augsburg because of its strong commitment
to its mission and its dedication to being a College
of the city. I have never been anywhere that has a
clearer sense of its identity or that has tried harder to
be a ‘good neighbor.’” —MARTHA TRUAX ’14 MAL,
DIRECTOR OF ANNUAL GIVING
Athletics
Augsburg teammates develop bonds akin to a “second family.” From
hockey to swimming and from basketball to lacrosse, approximately
450 students participate in varsity athletics at the College each year.
It’s a good thing maroon is always in style.
“The bond that was built over the years of workouts, practices, games,
wins, losses, and just hanging out was one of the biggest benefits to
me throughout my college career.” —GARY MARISCAL ’14
8
18
Augsburg Now
The dress code
Okay, okay. Wearing Norwegian sweaters to Velkommen Jul and
bowties with formalwear isn’t actually required. But, it’s fun!
Experiential education
Augsburg was the first Minnesota college or
university to receive the Presidential Award for
Community Service. Each fall, incoming first-year
and transfer students participate in City Service
Day—a day on which the students volunteer at
organizations matched to their degree programs
and learn in the neighborhoods that surround
Augsburg’s Minneapolis campus. Undergraduate
students begin their experiential education on
Day 1, and it’s a priority that extends throughout
each of Augsburg’s degree programs.
9
“I learned how to be a ‘citizen professional,’ and
work collaboratively with others to solve problems.”
—JUDY SCHLAEFER ’14 DNP
Global learning
opportunities
Cohorts
Augsburg undergraduate and
graduate students take courses
around the world. Whether studying business in Germany, nursing
in Namibia, or psychology in Slovenia, Auggies find that learning
and living in a foreign culture
catalyze academic, intercultural,
and personal leadership skills and
Some of Augsburg’s programs follow a cohort
model that allows students to travel together
from course to course, fostering strong relationships between classmates and outlining a clear
path toward a degree.
“The cohort model for the MBA program allows
for great camaraderie!” —AVA BEILKE ’14 MBA
responsible global citizenship.
12
Dining together in Rochester
“Meals for the Rochester students kept [our]
energy up for long evening classes.”
—HEIDI OCHTRUP-DEKEYREL ’14
Small class sizes
13
Augsburg’s undergraduate classes average 13
to 17 students, which allows Auggies to learn
from—and with—their professors and classmates.
Summer 2014
19
Nearby restaurants
When it comes to dining out, the CedarRiverside neighborhood has something for
everyone.
15
“I love that I can get a gyro, chicken curry,
or Chicago-style hot dog all within a couple
blocks of my dorm.”
—SAMANTHA CANTRALL ’14
Tracy’s (just across I-94 on Franklin
Avenue) serves up the “Augsburger,” which
features two beef patties, sharp cheddar
cheese, barbecue sauce, bacon, lettuce,
tomato, mayo, and a side of school spirit.
Yum, yum.
“Tracy’s is amazing and within walking
distance!” —EMMA WINEGAR ’14
Auggie Days
Leading up to the start of the fall semester, this on-campus orientation for
incoming first-year students is so memorable that people think of it as a
highlight of their Augsburg experience—even four years later. Part of the
fun includes a Neighborhood Challenge relay in Murphy Square.
The campus
Not every school is so lucky as to have a
7 ½ Street on campus.
“I love that you can walk anywhere on
campus in less than 10 minutes.”
16
—MOLLIE KING ’14
Peers (of course)
“The people—friendly, genuine, and approachable.”
—DENISE HERRERA ’14 MAL,
SENIOR ADMISSIONS COUNSELOR
“I love the ability to build life-long relationships
with people from many different backgrounds and
from many different places around the world.”
—MATTHEW SCHIRBER ’14
20
Augsburg Now
StepUP®
Augsburg’s StepUP Program helps students champion lives of recovery, achieve
academic success, and thrive in a community of accountability and support.
StepUP annually serves more than 100
students and is the largest residential
collegiate recovery program in the U.S.
18
The skyline
19
The Minneapolis campus has an
eagle-eye view of downtown that’s
perfectly fitting for the Auggie
mascot. (We’ll let you know how
things are coming on the new
Vikings stadium).
“There’s a stellar view of the
city from the top of Mortensen.”
—JOE VOKRACKA ’14
On-campus art galleries, pop-up exhibits…
The staff
20
21
…guest speakers, music ensemble performances, and research festivals.
It isn’t an exaggeration to say that there’s always something happening at Augsburg. Each spring, Zyzzogeton celebrates the creativity and
scholarship of undergraduate students. It’s fun to say—and to attend. The
College also hosts scholars and professionals at the leading edge in students’ academic disciplines and showcases artwork by visiting artists and
Auggies. The exhibition spaces around
campus transform multiple times each
year in order to present an array of
innovative and inspirational pieces.
Zyz·zo·ge·ton
“I love the changing art exhibits.” —WHITNEY WORLEY ’14 MPA
You name it; they do it. In many ways, Augsburg locations are like
small cities unto themselves where students eat, sleep, shop, socialize, learn, and live. Augsburg staff members foster an exceptional
student experience at locations in Minnesota and around the world.
“I love the super helpful and nice financial aid advisers, and the wellorganized Registrar’s Office staff.” —HOLLY REDDY ’14
The changing seasons
Winter sometimes can last a tad too long, but
Minnesota’s seasons certainly add variety to
Augsburg’s academic calendar. Each year the
Quad features fall colors, spring blooms, summer
picnics, and winter snow angels, which means
the weather outside helps to emphasize the timeliness of the College’s in-house traditions.
Summer 2014
21
Nearby sidewalks, trails, and bike lanes
Home of the Greenway and the Chain of Lakes, Minneapolis has
92 miles of on-street bikeways and 85 miles of off-street paths,
not to mention an abundance of pedestrian-only zones.
“I love running and walking on the River Road.”
—LAUREN RICE ’14
24
A snapshot of graduation
The graduating class of 2014 added more than
750 Auggies—from our undergraduate, graduate, and doctoral programs—to the College’s
alumni ranks.
Commencement ceremonies held May 3-4
featured the theme “Thoughtful Stewards,”
which was inspired by the College’s mission
statement and reflected the Augsburg communi-
Arts and culture
Minneapolis has world-class museums, a vibrant dance
scene, and more theater seats per capita than any U.S.
city outside New York. It’s no wonder Minneapolis was
named one of America’s most creative cities, and it’s no
surprise that Auggies take advantage of the visual and
performing arts in their midst.
“I love seeing new work at the Playwright Center just
down the road.” —HANNAH YOUNGQUIST ’14
22
Augsburg Now
ty’s passion for social justice and sustainability.
To see additional photos or watch Commencement
ceremony videos, go to augsburg.edu/now.
25
Its influence
“Augsburg changed how I think.”
—PETER MOORE ’14 MAL
Philosophy
The
AUGGIE VOICES
BEHIND A CAREER
She’s a lawyer, a seasoned business operations
executive, a mother of two, a biotech entrepreneur,
and a restaurant owner. She’s also a philosophy and
political science double major, and an Auggie.
In the years since she graduated from Augsburg
College, Naomi Williamson ’78 has charted a career
path that has taken her into multiple, disparate
industries and types of organizations.
“I like the challenge,” Williamson said. Each new
opportunity introduces “a new orbit of people and a
different knowledge area.”
Indeed: After completing her bachelor’s degree,
Williamson went on to earn a law degree at the
University of Minnesota Law School and worked as
a litigator at Larkin Hoffman, one of Minnesota’s
largest full-service law firms. From there, she joined
Honeywell, where she spent 15 years in contracts,
marketing, sales, process quality, and supply chain
management. After that, she helped a medical
pathologist with a successful biotech start-up, and,
then, in 2007, she started a restaurant with her
husband, Roger Kubicki, and veteran restaurant
owner Michael Kutscheid—while also working on
the side as an aircraft manufacturing contracts and
negotiations consultant.
Williamson’s appetite for digging into a challenge
and seeking new knowledge was evident even before
she launched her professional career, however. She
fell in love with philosophy, she said, after trying to
make sense of the writings of Immanuel Kant.
“It took me four hours to read 40 pages” she
said. “I didn’t fully understand it, but I thought that
if I did, I might be able to find the answers I was
looking for.”
This willingness to do the hard work to make
sense of things is so consistently woven into
Williamson’s educational and career choices that it
appears to be more of an internal drive, a calling,
than a choice.
“I just can’t get myself on easy street,” she
joked. “I’m always doing something to make sure that
my next step is just as hard as the last one.”
Naomi Williamson ’78 is co-owner of Sanctuary, a
restaurant in Minneapolis’ Mill City district. Of all her
career experiences, Williamson said that the restaurant
business is “far and away the most difficult.”
BY REBECCA JOHN ’13 MBA
Summer 2014
23
What is it
Scenes from undergraduate students’
ON-CAMPUS RESEARCH
BY LAURA SWANSON
Each summer, undergraduate students at Augsburg College work directly
with faculty mentors to complete individually designed research projects
and creative activities. Auggies seeking to enhance their education gain
rich, hands-on experience by participating in research opportunities
sponsored by the College, funded through grants and private gifts, or
offered through federal programs.
Students from all disciplines can participate in summer research.
This year, their topics included designing a tool to sample motor vehicle
pollution; examining immigrants’ influence in community organizations
and politics; cloning and characterization of Daphnia magna, a water flea;
and analyzing the effects of the No Child Left Behind Act on Minneapolis
youth, among many others.
During the research process, students often use specialized materials
and technologies, investigate complex and specific concepts, and explore
existing scholarship and literature.
Can you match each summer research image with its academic discipline?
History
2
Photo by Bill Capman
CAN YOU IDENTIFY
THESE ITEMS?
Exercise Science
English
5
24
Augsburg Now
Social Work
Leading
IN UNDERGRADUATE RESEARCH
ONE KEY WAY Augsburg College delivers on its commitment to experiential education is through
undergraduate research projects in which Auggies employ their talents and passions. On campus,
these projects are funded through several sources, including Augsburg’s Office of Undergraduate
Research and Graduate Opportunity (URGO), National Science Foundation and corporate grants,
private donations, and the McNair Scholars program—a federal TRIO program funded by the U.S.
Department of Education and designed to increase graduate degree attainment by students who are
first-generation, low-income, and/or members of groups underrepresented in graduate education.
3
Chemistry
Physics
Political Science
Women’s Studies
Courtesy image
1
Economics
4
Biopsychology
Computer Science
Biology
Mathematics
6
ANSWERS
Summer 2014
25
Q: What is it?
A: A column that contains a catalyst and through which a stream of reactants move.
Reactants are substances that undergo change during a chemical reaction, and “flow
chemistry” is a process that gets its name from the movement of these materials.
Chemistry
ALAN MEDINA-GONZALEZ ’16
Major: Chemistry, Minors: Biology and Mathematics
Research mentors: Z. Vivian Feng, associate professor of chemistry; and Michael
Wentzel, assistant professor of chemistry
Alan Medina-Gonzalez ’16 chose to participate in summer research because it granted
him the opportunity to spend more time in the lab optimizing a chemical reaction, which
is a fun—albeit time-consuming—puzzle he enjoys solving. “I wanted to see what it was
like to work on a project all day long versus only going into the lab four hours per week as
part of a class,” he said.
Medina-Gonzalez’s research involved setting up chemical reactions using flow
chemistry—a process that helps make reactions more “green” by allowing chemists to
lessen waste generation and to improve energy efficiency and safety. His research goal
included producing a variety of molecules, including acetaminophen—the primary active
ingredient in Tylenol and other medicines—to demonstrate the uses of flow chemistry in
the pharmaceutical industry.
Q: What is it?
A: A foam roller, a tool that breaks up fibrous
tissue in order to increase muscle elasticity
and circulation flow.
Exercise
Science
CAN YOU GUESS?
26
Augsburg Now
BRIANA FELTON ’14
Major: Exercise Science, Minor: Psychology
Research mentors: David Barrett, assistant
professor of health, physical education, and
exercise science; and Tony Clapp, associate
professor of health, physical education, and
exercise science
Briana Felton ’14 chose a summer research project that will help to prepare her for the dream
of attending graduate school to study physical therapy. Felton is a member of the Augsburg
women’s soccer team, and she loves sports and fitness. Athletes commonly use a foam roller
on their muscles for self-myofascial release—a process that applies pressure to trigger points
within muscle tissue and is thought to cause the tissue to relax and become more flexible.
Although the use of foam rollers has become a common practice in therapy and fitness
centers, few peer-reviewed studies have examined its effectiveness. For Felton’s research
project, she conducted a study in which middle-aged adult males participated in an exercise
program utilizing foam rollers. Felton then assessed the study participants’ balance and
functional movement patterns using industry-standard tests to see whether their scores
improved over the course of the study. Higher scores have been shown to correlate with a
person’s decreased risk of injury.
To read a brief overview of Felton’s research findings,
go to augsburg.edu/now.
Biopsychology
Q: What is it?
A: An electroencephalogram (EEG) recording cap, which is used to capture the brain’s
electrical activity while at rest or engaged in mental activity.
BRAD MARCY ’15
Major: Biopsychology, Minor: Chemistry
Research mentor: Henry Yoon, assistant professor
of psychology
Research conducted on substance use disorders often extends to either the biological or
the behavioral aspects of addiction. This summer, Brad Marcy ’15 took on the challenge of
combining both of these aspects into a single study incorporating behavioral information—
in this case, a person’s age of first alcoholic drink (AFD)—and biological data, which was
derived from brain patterns collected through EEG scans.
Marcy and other Augsburg psychology students gathered data by working with student
volunteers, including those in the College’s StepUP® program, which serves students who
are in recovery from addiction. Marcy’s research project involved processing and analyzing
participants’ EEG data in order to identify telltale signs of being at biological or genetic
risk for dependence in these brainwave patterns. He then examined whether an association
exists between this biological information and AFD. By evaluating these variables, Marcy
can later assess their usefulness in refining the diagnosis of substance misuse.
Q: What is it?
A: The examination of journal articles, images, and academic texts—illustrated here—
are key aspects of student researchers’ literature review process. A literature review
discusses published information in a particular subject area.
AWALE OSMAN ’15
Major: Communication Studies, Minor: Women’s Studies
Research mentor: Adriane Brown, assistant professor of women’s studies
“I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” said Awale Osman ’15, a McNair research scholar
whose project almost perfectly aligned with his desired career path. Osman began his
undergraduate education at a community college before transferring to Augsburg, and
his research project involved examining the establishment and evolution of women’s
studies, the emergence of gender and masculinity studies, and current dialogue
regarding the field. This work allowed him to combine his interests in communications
and women’s studies into a project that enhanced his academic skills.
Osman would like to return to a community college one day—this time as a
professor instead of as a student. Osman chose his research topic in order to establish
a foundation in the research he hopes will be incorporated in a future doctoral program
that will, eventually, lead to a teaching role in higher education. “I realize I have to be
grounded to be successful in my track,” he said. “So, I’m going for it.”
Women’s Studies
MORE ANSWERS
Summer 2014
27
Biology
Photo by Bill Capman
Q: What is it?
A: The parasitic plant dodder (Cuscuta
pentagona) attached to a host plant from which it
acquires all its water and nutrients.
LUCY BUKOWSKI ’16
Major: Biology, Minor: Environmental Studies
Research mentor: Bill Capman, associate
professor of biology
Courtesy image
Augsburg College students have studied the interactions between dodder and its host
plants since 2008, and this summer Lucy Bukowski ’16 worked on an experiment testing
the hypothesis that a decline in the health of the host plant triggers the dodder to flower.
Bukowski’s project benefitted from the help of a plant pathologist at the University of
Minnesota-Twin Cities who offered greenhouse space, thus providing a larger growing
area and better growing conditions for Bukowski’s research.
Go to augsburg.edu/now to learn more
about the dodder project.
Q: What is it?
A: The Bengali pronoun “Ētā,” which is similar to the English pronoun “it.”
PRITI BHOWMIK ’15 AND BRAM OOSTERLEE ’16
Majors: Computer Science
Research mentor: Shana Watters, associate professor of computer science
Computer
Science
As international students, Priti Bhowmik ’15 and Bram Oosterlee ’16 were attracted
to research linked with the official languages of their home countries. In 2011,
Bhowmik left Bangladesh to attend Augsburg, and she seized the opportunity to use
her background in the Bengali language in combination with her computer science
major. Her research project fell in the field of computational linguistics—a branch
of linguistics in which computer science techniques are applied to the analysis
of language and speech. She explored whether the pronoun “Ētā” has the same
cognitive status as the English pronoun “it.” That is, whether a Bengali speaker, in
determining what Ētā refers to in a sentence, uses his or her short-term memory in
the same manner that an English speaker does when determining what the word “it”
refers to.
Oosterlee, a student from the Netherlands, performed a similar study by
examining the cognitive status of the Dutch pronoun “het.” Bhowmik and Oosterlee’s
work ultimately will contribute to developing systems that enhance how computers
extract information, summarize text, and translate language. One example of the
usefulness of these processes is that they increase the likelihood of returning
accurate content descriptions when doctors use digital medical reference materials
to find information that pertains specifically to a disorder.
28
Augsburg Now
GRANTS GAIN GROUND
Funding enhances the Augsburg experience
How can you better predict the weather on Earth—or in space?
Why do elementary students learn the way they do? And what
makes one person attracted to another?
Augsburg faculty and students are committed to asking
difficult questions and seeking equally complex answers. Each
year, the College’s faculty, staff, and students apply for—and
receive—prestigious grant awards to fund research, continued
scholarship, and academic travel opportunities.
There’s tough competition among grant-seeking institutions,
but Augsburg continues to gain ground and to obtain funding
for new projects. That’s because when Auggies recognize
an opportunity to improve teaching, advance scholarship, or
enhance the student experience, they ask another great question:
WHY NOT?
Participation grows across campus. More and more departments
and groups are seeking grants as a way to enhance students’
educational experience, to build the hands-on problem-solving
skills employers and graduate schools demand, and to propel
Augsburg’s research scholarship to the next level. This past
year, 13 academic departments and groups—up from just seven
departments the previous year—submitted grant proposals,
including:
1. Biology
8. Nursing
2. Chemistry
9. Physics
3. Education
10. Psychology
4. History
11. Social Work
5. Interdisciplinary Collaboration
12. Sociology
6. Mathematics
13. STEM (Science, Technology,
Engineering, and Mathematics)
7. Management Information
Systems
Here’s a brief overview of Augsburg’s recent grant
achievements:
Augsburg ranks as top-tier NSF grant recipient. Augsburg College
was ranked the top private college in Minnesota for the total
dollar amount awarded by the National Science Foundation in
2012. With three grants totaling just more than $1 million, the
College ranked third among all Minnesota institutions—behind
only the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities and the University of
Minnesota-Duluth.
Faculty steer student involvement. Tremendous faculty dedication
is part of the mix, too. More than 50 faculty and staff members
are the driving force behind the College’s 38 active grants.
These teachers coach and guide 324 students in rigorous
research related to climate change, human health, understanding
addiction, and more.
COMPILED BY STEPHANIE WEISS
GRANTS BY THE NUMBERS
Augsburg received 18 new grant awards in
2013-14—up from just seven two years earlier
At the time this publication went to print, Augsburg had 14 grant
proposals still pending, representing a total of $3.2 million
NEW
GRANTS
2012-13
2013-14
17
GRANT
PROPOSALS
24
7
$1.6 MILLION
18 NEW
GRANTS
In 2013-14, Augsburg submitted 24 grant proposals—
up from 17 the prior year
1%
The BREAKDOWN of grants*
by sponsor type
PRIVATE
GRANTS
10%
STATE
GRANTS
89
%
FEDERAL
GRANTS
GRANT
PROPOSALS
*Does not include grants secured by Corporate and Foundation Relations
Summer 2014
29
ALUMNI NEWS
ways to get
involved
FROM THE ALUMNI BOARD PRESIDENT
A-Club
I
Dear alumni and friends,
have served as a member of the Augsburg College Alumni
Board for more than six years, and I am looking forward
to taking on the role of president. During my time on the
Alumni Board, I have seen an increase in the level of our
alumni engagement with the College, and I am inspired by the
alumni who were generous on Give to the Max Day; the alumni who volunteered by planning reunions or mentoring current
students; and the alumni who have invested in Augsburg’s top
priority—the campaign for the Center for Science, Business, and Religion.
Like many of you, I care deeply about this College. Augsburg is one of the most
diverse private colleges in Minnesota, serving more than 2,700 undergraduate students
and 838 graduate students participating in nine advanced degree programs. Augsburg is
committed to its Lutheran heritage with an eye on the 21st century.
At this year’s Commencement, we welcomed hundreds of new members to our
Alumni Association. As alumni, we are a product of Augsburg College and benefit from
its local and national reputation. Alumni play a vital role in the rich history, present success, and future vision of the College.
I invite you to join me and fellow Auggies who are making a difference in the life of
the College.
Sincerely,
CHRIS HALLIN ’88, ALUMNI BOARD PRESIDENT
Photo by Mark Chamberlain
ALUMNI BOARD
Front Row [L to R]: Chris Hallin ’88, Marie
Odenbrett ’01, Jill Watson ’10 MBA, Sharon
Engelland ’87, Melissa Hoepner ’92, Patricia
Jesperson ’94, Adriana Matzke ’13; Back Row
[L to R]: Brent Peroutka ’02, Adrienne Kuchler
Eldridge ’02, Meg Schmidt Sawyer ’00, Sarah
Grans ’01, Nick Rathmann ’02, Tracy Severson
’95, Rick Bonlender ’78; Not Pictured: Rachel
Engebretson ’98, Frank Grazzini ’96, Holly
Knutson ’03, ’07 MBA, Michael Loney ’03,
Sharon Mercill ’09, Jerry Polland ’92, Greg
Schnagl ’91, Nick Slack ’02, Nick Swanson ’09
The Augsburg College Alumni Board is pleased to welcome new members.
ADRIENNE KUCHLER ELDRIDGE ’02 graduated from Augsburg with a major
in youth and family ministry and a minor in sociology. As a student, she was
involved in Campus Ministry and Residence Life, served as an orientation leader,
and studied abroad. Today Eldridge works at River’s Edge Academy charter school.
This fall, she will begin a graduate program at St. Catherine University, where she
plans to study ethics and leadership.
“I chose Augsburg for my college education as an undergrad student because
of the Youth and Family Ministry program and [the College’s] solid Lutheran values.
My experiences at Augsburg were always hands-on, service-oriented, and growth-filled.”
30
Augsburg Now
All new Alumni Board member
photos by Mark Chamberlain.
The A-Club is an organization of
former and current Augsburg College
athletes—as well as friends of the
College—committed to providing
student-athletes with the opportunity
to have a quality athletic experience.
A-Club members participate in events,
service projects, and fundraising
initiatives that support Auggie athletic
teams, the athletic department, and
the mission of the College.
Alumni Board
The Alumni Board is the governing
body of the Alumni Association.
Together with the Office of Alumni
and Constituent Relations, the
Alumni Board provides resources and
opportunities to engage alumni with
the College and each other through
consistent communication, inclusive
programming, and intentional
relationship building.
Auggie in Residence
The Auggie in Residence program is
a way for alumni and friends of the
College to share their professional
expertise and vocation. This flexible
program allows the community to
connect with current students, faculty,
and staff members through a variety of
opportunities that range from speaking
to a class to having lunch with a
student organization.
Augsburg Builds Connections (ABC)
The ABC mentoring program is
designed to enable alumni and parent
professionals to provide information,
encouragement, and support to
students. This flexible volunteer
program allows mentors to connect
with students via email, phone, or
face-to-face meetings and assist them
in navigating their career paths and
achieving their professional goals.
Augsburg College Associates
MELISSA HOEPNER ’92 attended Augsburg from 1988 to 1990 before transferring
to California Lutheran University where, in 1992, she graduated with a major in
psychology and a minor in art. Today, Hoepner is a human resources consultant.
As an alumna, she has remained involved by serving as a mentor for current
students. She has also served as a member of the church council at Peace
Lutheran Church in Bloomington, Minn., and is a programming volunteer with the
Twin Cities Human Resources Association.
PATRICIA JESPERSON ’94 graduated from Augsburg’s Weekend College with a
major in business administration and minor in marketing. She serves as the
area vice president for Arthur J. Gallagher & Co. Jesperson’s career in business
has been distinguished by her extensive volunteer experiences in the areas of
program development and diversity.
“While I see Augsburg as innovative and inclusive in its approach to
education, I also see this as a time for significant change and opportunity in
private, four-year educational programs—a time that drives the need to think
beyond the box in light of competition from MOOCs [Massive Open Online Courses], for-profit colleges,
technical programs, the economy, etc. It’s an exciting time to be part of a team invested in Augsburg’s
long-term success.”
ADRIANA MATZKE ’13 graduated from Augsburg’s Weekend College with a degree
in business management. She serves as the director of financial assistance and
admissions coordinator for The Blake School. Matzke served a year on the parish
council at her church, and on Blake’s original diversity committee. She and her
husband served as presenters with World Wide Marriage Encounter.
“I am confident that serving on the Alumni Board will be a positive way
for me to give back to the community and to stay connected to a school that
I felt so a part of for the last few years. I am a strong advocate for the [adult
undergraduate] program and would love to help find ways to support other students.”
NICK RATHMANN ’02 graduated from Augsburg with a degree in education. As
a student, he played on the baseball and basketball teams and worked in the
athletics office. His experience as a student prepared him for his career serving
as the director of athletics and PK-12 physical education department chair for
The Blake School. Rathmann volunteers for his church, and serves on The Blake
Road Collaborative.
“Serving on the Alumni Board will give me an incredible opportunity to give
back to a school that has given me so much. Augsburg was a transformational
experience for me, and anything I can do to help others have that same type of experience is important
to me.”
MEG SCHMIDT SAWYER ’00 graduated from Augsburg with a major in business
administration and a minor in information systems. As a student, she played
hockey, softball, and golf. She was involved in Campus Ministry, a contributor for
The Echo, a Regents and Community Service Scholar, and part of the studentathlete mentor program. Today she is the chief communications officer for Youth
Encounter. She has served on the A-Club Board, and was inducted into the
Augsburg Athletic Hall of Fame for women’s hockey in 2012.
“I had a life-changing experience at Augsburg College and welcome the
opportunity to give back to the College that made me who I am today.”
GREG SCHNAGL ’91 graduated from Augsburg with a major in management and minors in economics
and management information systems. As a student, he played football and hockey. He is the founder
and editor of TeacherCentricity.com. Schnagl is pursuing an advanced degree in educational leadership
at Saint Mary’s University of Minnesota. He taught elementary and middle school for the past twenty
years, both nationally and internationally. His most recent position was in the Centennial School District
where he also served as a coach and board member for Centennial Youth Hockey Association.
“I am looking to deepen my commitment to Augsburg by engaging in a leadership role designed to
facilitate the financial and personal participation of alumni and promote the benefits of an Augsburg
education to future students.”
The Augsburg College Associates
is a service auxiliary of volunteers
whose mission includes fundraising
for special projects and scholarships.
The Associates’ commitment to the
College is evident in the group’s
ongoing support of fundraising events
including estate sales, Velkommen
Jul, and the Scandinavian boutique.
Funds raised each year support special
projects and scholarships.
Augsburg Women Engaged (AWE)
AWE is a catalyst for tapping the
potential for women to connect, learn,
and give. AWE members believe all
women have knowledge, experience,
and resources to share. Therefore,
Augsburg alumnae are invited to make
meaningful connections with and for
women by participating with an AWE
Action Team.
Campus Kitchen
The Campus Kitchen program at
Augsburg College makes healthy food
accessible to people in and around the
Cedar-Riverside neighborhood while
also providing opportunities for service
learning, leadership development, and
engagement between the College and
community. Campus Kitchen serves
2,000 meals a month at community
centers, provides about 80 community
garden spaces on campus, hosts two
farmers markets, and offers educational
programming to the community.
College Liaisons
Augsburg College Liaisons are alumni,
parents, and friends of the College
from across the U.S. and around
the world who serve as an extension
of the College by connecting with
prospective students at college fairs.
Dozens of fairs are held each year—in
high schools, churches, hotels, and
conference centers. College Liaisons
help to describe the Augsburg
experience to interested students and
their families.
Summer 2014
31
Augsburg Centennial Singers
honor Al Reesnes ’58
The Augsburg Centennial Singers, men of
faith sharing that faith through songs of
praise, honored Al Reesnes ’58 by performing a
special concert in mid-May at House of Prayer
Centennial Singers [L to R]: Paul Christensen ’59,
Mert Strommen ’42, and Al Reesnes ’58
Lutheran Church in Minneapolis.
Reesnes served as director of the group for 11 years and will move from his
leadership position to a vocalist role with the ensemble. Paul Christensen ’59 succeeded Reesnes as director of the Singers. Christensen is the third director for the
group, which was established in 1993 under the direction of Mert Strommen ’42.
The chorus originally was formed by former Augsburg quartet members who came
together to sing for the College’s Homecoming celebration. The group traveled to
Norway in 1994 to mark the centennial of the first Augsburg College gospel quartet,
and toured again in Norway in 2001.
Courtesy Photo
A 500-year anniversary
celebration in Germany, October 2016
On October 31, 2017 Lutherans
worldwide will mark the 500th
anniversary of when Martin Luther
posted the 95 Theses on the church
doors in Wittenberg, Germany. Augsburg
College is rooted in the faith and values
of the Lutheran church and is offering
alumni and friends of the College the
opportunity to learn about this heritage.
For travelers interested in discovering
more about the Germany of Luther
and the Reformation, October 2016
is a great opportunity to make the
pilgrimage! Join Hans Wiersma and
Mark Tranvik, Augsburg College religion
faculty members and Reformation
32
Augsburg Now
historians, for an enriching experience
in the Land of Luther.
The tour itinerary includes stops in
the German cities of Berlin, Dresden,
Eisenach, Erfurt, and Leipzig and in
Prague, Czech Republic. This is an
opportunity to explore the connections
among people, cultures, and historical
events while examining the Reformation
as an ongoing influence in the 21st
century.
To receive updates about this
alumni tour as plans are finalized, email
alumni@augsburg.edu, or call
612-330-1085 to be included on a
mailing list.
Photo by Ben Krouse-Gagne ’11
ALUMNI NEWS
ways to get
involved
Master of Arts in Leadership (MAL)
Alumni Board
The MAL Alumni Board engages MAL
students and alumni in advancing
the Center for Leadership Studies at
Augsburg College.
Parent and Family Council
The Parent and Family Council
includes parents and families of
current Augsburg students, and helps
Augsburg families stay up to date on
campus events and feel connected
with students and the College.
Scholastic Connections
Scholastic Connections is a
scholarship and mentorship program
for high-achieving undergraduate
students of color at Augsburg
College. The program is designed to
assist students in completing their
undergraduate degrees. Through
career planning and development
support, it prepares them to be
engaged, successful citizens of the
world upon graduation.
StepUP® Advisory Board
StepUP is a program for men and
women pursuing a college education
while in recovery from addiction. The
StepUP Advisory Board increases
philanthropic support for, and visibility
of, the program’s endowment.
Young Alumni Council
This volunteer group is comprised of
alumni who have graduated within
the previous 10 years. The Young
Alumni Council’s mission is to
provide dynamic and engaging social
and educational opportunities for
alumni. Members serve as an advisory
council to the Office of Alumni and
Constituent Relations.
To participate, email
alumni@augsburg.edu.
AUGSBURG ALUMNI HONOR
Archive p
hotos
ED SAUGESTAD ’59
THROUGH FUNDRAISING CHALLENGE
Ed Saugestad ’59 is “plain and simply, a legend,” according to
Jeff Swenson ’79, Augsburg College athletic director. Saugestad
led the Auggie men’s hockey team to 503 victories and three
national championships. He was football coach and athletic
director. The ice arena’s main rink carries his name.
But the legacy of “Big Man,” who died in March of
pancreatic cancer after serving Augsburg for 39 years and
retiring in 1996, goes far beyond athletics. As a soft-spoken
teacher, mentor, and source of courage and inspiration, he
made a difference. If Corky Hall ’71 is any indication, he also
instilled generosity and gratitude.
“He is the person who kindled the fire in me, and I think
he did that for many, many people,” Hall said. He and his wife,
Lori, led the charge to name Saugestad Hall in the Center for
Science, Business, and Religion (CSBR) with their $25,000
pledge—a first step toward the $150,000 naming goal and
a tribute to the CSBR as a visual symbol of strength and
connection.
When we build the CSBR, “[Augsburg’s] facilities will grow
to match the quality of our faculty,” said Hall. “Coach had a
huge effect on all of us.”
A gifted athlete who became both hockey and football
captain, Hall had few academic expectations when he entered
Augsburg. His parents hadn’t finished high school, no one in
his family had attended college, and homework was a foreign
concept. Yet, one day, he managed to ace a test in Saugestad’s
tough physiology class.
“Ed was the first person to tell me that I was smart,”
he recalled. “He set me on a path I wouldn’t have found
otherwise.” That path led him to a career that included starting,
with classmate Bill Urseth ’71, one of the nation’s leading
promotional marketing agencies, U.S. Communications, U.S.
Restaurants, and U.S. Studios; launching a brand consultancy,
Hall Batko; and founding Stellus Consulting, which helps
corporate leaders envision and brand their companies.
It also led him to realize that great mentoring builds strong
bridges—between athletics and academics, between teachers
and students, and between gratitude and giving back.
“Augsburg needs great facilities for athletes to develop
their academic side,” he said. “Ed made the bridge for me
between athletics and academics, and if I hadn’t gotten strong
academics at Augsburg, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.
I want to give a gift that says ‘thank you’ to Ed for making such a
difference in my life.”
Hall has found that his fellow
Augsburg alumni have similar gratitude for
Saugestad’s commitment and are willing to
echo his “thank you.”
“Corky is so respected by the Augsburg
community that, when he steps forward, he sets
a tone with his leadership. That’s the momentum
we need,” said Keith Stout, Augsburg College
director of principal gifts. “He wants everyone
involved, participating at any level. If they’re grateful for their
time with Ed, it’s their chance to honor his legacy.”
By May, the initiative had raised $105,000.
“He deserves it,” Hall said. “Ed did so much to make our
lives better. Now it’s our turn.”
Get Social
Find Augsburg Alumni across a variety of social media channels.
“Like” the Augsburg College Alumni Association on
Facebook for fun contests, trivia, photos, news, and more.
facebook.com/AugsburgAlumni
Tag @Augsburg_Alumni in your tweets, and the College
may help share your news. Or, simply follow
@Augsburg_Alumni on Twitter to learn about upcoming
events and read College updates.
twitter.com/augsburg_alumni
Make connections with fellow Auggies and join
discussions about careers and networking through the
Augsburg College Alumni group on LinkedIn.
goo.gl/UJ9BkO
Check out the “Auggies through the ages” board on
Pinterest for a slice of College history.
pinterest.com/augsburgcollege
Visit Augsburg’s YouTube channel for a video archive of
alumni lectures, events, and more.
youtube.com/augsburgcollege
No matter where you are in the world, you can join the Augsburg
College social media conversation!
Summer
Spring 2014
2014
17
33
ALUMNI NEWS
HOMECOMING 2014
SEPTEMBER 22-27
IS BACK!
Save the date for Give to the Max Day 2014.
On Thursday, November 13, Augsburg College
once again will participate in Give to the Max
Day, a one-day online giving event in which
donors around the world support their favorite
Minnesota nonprofits.
Give to the Max Day is also a competition,
and last year Augsburg raised more money
than any other Minnesota college or
university. A total of 837 donors gave more
than $313,000 to Augsburg in just 24
hours. Augsburg also placed fourth among all
nonprofits overall. Many alumni, parents, and
friends took to social media throughout the
day to share Augsburg’s rankings and to keep
tabs on the College’s progress.
Augsburg faculty, staff, and students
from across campus are preparing for
another successful Give to the Max Day by
setting up their own fundraising projects
and encouraging donors to support Augsburg
causes close to their hearts—such as
volleyball, student research funding, the
StepUP® program, and more. There is no limit
to the number of projects donors can give
to. In fact, many Augsburg donors gave to
multiple projects last year.
Watch for updates about Give to the Max Day in
the coming months.
For more information, contact Martha Truax at
612-330-1652 or truaxm@augsburg.edu.
34
Augsburg Now
Homecoming 2014 is a great time to come home to Augsburg. Alumni,
families, and friends—get ready for a fun-filled week of celebration. New
events along with old favorites make this one of the best times to visit
campus. Go to augsburg.edu/homecoming to find additional information
and to register.
PROGRAM HIGHLIGHTS INCLUDE:
Friday, September 26
Saturday, September 27
Homecoming Convocation with
Distinguished Alumni Awards
Taste of Augsburg
Hoversten Chapel, Foss Center,
10 to 11:30 a.m.
Recognizing the First Decade, Spirit
of Augsburg, and Distinguished
Alumni Award winners.
Faculty and Faculty Emeriti
Meet and Greet
Old Main, 4 p.m.
Reconnect with faculty from
your time at Augsburg College
and take the opportunity to meet
current faculty from a variety of
departments.
Auggie Hours
Old Main, 6 to 8:15 p.m.
Back by popular demand, this
homecoming social hour is being
brought to campus.
Homecoming Weekend Fireworks
Murphy Square, 8:15 p.m.
All are invited to kick-off
homecoming weekend with a full
fireworks display.
Murphy Square, 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.
This event includes carnival-style
booths operated by student groups,
alumni, and local restaurants, as
well as games, inflatable bounce
houses, and fun for the entire
family.
Homecoming Football Game vs.
Gustavus Adolphus College
Edor Nelson Field, 1 p.m.
Cheer on the Auggie football team
as they take on the Gustavus
Gusties.
Auggie Block Party
Parking Lot K, 3:30 to 6 p.m.
Immediately following the football
game, enjoy live music, s’mores,
and more.
ALUMNI CLASS NOTES
77
70
Ray Hanson is working
for TASC, Inc. Hanson
is a scientist working on
countermeasures for multi-drugresistant bacteria.
72
Kathleen Edmond joined the
law firm of Robins, Kaplan,
Miller & Ciresi LLP as counsel with
the business litigation group in
Minneapolis. She most recently
served as chief ethics officer at
Best Buy. Edmond serves as an
advisory board member for the
University of St. Thomas Law
School where she provides curriculum guidance for the master’s
degree in organizational ethics
and compliance. She is also an
executive fellow at the Center for
Ethical Business Cultures at the
University of St. Thomas.
Sonja (Daniels) Zapchenk has served Eaglecrest, a Presbyterian
Homes community in Roseville, Minn., for 20 years and is now
recreation and volunteer director. She is also the intergenerational
coordinator, which provides the special opportunity to lead
activities for senior residents and the toddlers and preschoolers
who attend a childcare center in the same facility.
74
William “Bill” Axness is the
2014 Minnesota Society
of Health-System Pharmacists
(MSHP) Hallie Bruce Memorial
Lecture Award recipient. The
award is presented to an individual of high moral character, good
citizenship, and high professional
ideals who has made significant
contributions to the profession of
pharmacy in Minnesota. Axness
is a pharmacy manager at Allina
Hospice and Palliative Care.
79
Rev. David Halaas was
installed as pastor of St.
Mark Lutheran Church in Sioux
City, Iowa.
87
Jenni Lilledahl co-founded
the new Twin Cities location
of Gilda’s Club after losing her
AUGGIE SNAPSHOTS
69
Janis “Matty” Mathison had a banner
year in 2013. She organized Walk to
School programs at several schools, served
on the Board of Shawano Pathways (a
Shawano, Wis., group promoting safer and
better pedestrian and cyclist opportunities),
raised $20,000 in matching grant funds for
sister, Teri Svare, to cancer. Gilda’s
Club serves cancer patients and
those who love them. Named after
Saturday Night Live comedian
Gilda Radner, who died of ovarian
cancer, this new clubhouse is
a place where cancer patients
and their families and friends
can de-stress in the mind-body
studio, take a nutrition class in the
kitchen, and meet with others for
emotional and social support. Not
only is Gilda’s Club an oasis for
those touched by cancer, it offers
all of its services free of charge.
62
Shawano Pathways, and led the effort to host
a supported bike tour of Shawano County
called Bike the Barn Quilts. Wisconsin Public
Television came to Shawano to interview her
about the bike tour, which in its first year drew
180 participants and 50 volunteers. Mathison
also organized a large fundraiser for a former
student who was battling brain cancer. These
and many other community contributions
earned Mathison the “Distinguished Citizen
of the Year” award for Shawano County. This
year, she is planning the second Bike the Barn
Quilts ride, organizing a Let’s Get Moving!
campaign, and finalizing maps for Park to
Park walking and biking routes in the city of
Shawano. She also was among the inaugural
inductees into the new Wisconsin Volleyball
Coaches Hall of Fame.
89
Sue Hakes has been
selected as a 2014 Bush
Fellow. The Bush Foundation
is committed to supporting and
developing leaders who are better
equipped and better networked to
effectively lead change. The work
of the fellowship is to blend opportunities for personal development
with efforts to effectively engage
with others.
In January, Luther Seminary honored Pastor Ron
Nelson with the 2014 Faithfulness in Ministry
Cross Award, which recognizes seminary alumni
who have demonstrated exemplary ministries
as a symbol of the multitudes of graduates who
serve faithfully wherever they are called.
90
Jennifer Carlson moved back to
Washington, D.C., in fall 2011. In
December 2013, she accepted a position
with Evolent Health as director of technical
project management for data warehouse client
implementations. She was in Italy for 10 days
this past October.
Summer 2014
35
ALUMNI CLASS NOTES
89
Brynn (Mundahl) Watson was honored by Lockheed Martin with a 2013 Full Spectrum
Leadership NOVA Award. The company grants the NOVA Award to select employees who
have made outstanding contributions to customers, business, and strategic goals. In a
workforce of more than 115,000, only 58 awards were granted in 2013.
in income. As part of his award,
Thrivent Financial will donate
$5,000 in his name to VEAP, and
he will be recognized at a national
conference in front of his peers.
89
Devoney Looser has taken
a position as professor of
English at Arizona State University.
She and her husband, George
Justice, are Jane Austen scholars
and were featured in a chapter of
Deborah Yaffe’s book, Among the
Janeites: A Journey Through the
World of Jane Austen Fandom.
90
Alex Gonzalez, a member of
the Augsburg College Board
of Regents, received the 2013
Thrivent Financial “Volunteer of
the Year” award for work in his
community. Gonzalez is one of three
financial representatives recognized
for community involvement and
generosity out of the more than
2,400 Thrivent Financial representatives nationwide.
Gonzalez works with Volunteers
Enlisted to Assist People (VEAP), an
organization with service programs
that help alleviate the financial
stress that low-income individuals
and families face as the result of
unexpected expenses or lapses
Beth (Josephson) Cronk
completed the master of
library and information science
degree through the University of
Wisconsin-Milwaukee in December.
She is the Meeker County librarian
for Pioneerland Library System.
01
Carrie (Lind) Cabe earned a
master of arts degree with a
community education administration emphasis from the University
of St. Thomas in 2013. She is
the community resources and
adult involvement coordinator for
Edina Public Schools Community
Education.
08
Sara Horishnyk is enrolled
in the arts and cultural
management graduate program at
St. Mary’s University of Minnesota.
06
Maureen Parker Marrandino
with her husband, Martin
Marrandino, and son, Cyrus,
welcomed daughter Penelope
Carol on January 11.
06
Sara Schlipp-Riedel and
Aaron Riedel ’07 welcomed
daughter Charlotte Elizabeth on
New Year’s Eve 2013.
10
In April, Roxanne (Johnson)
Nelson accepted a new job
as a rebate assistant at Donaldson
Company in the engine aftermarket
rebate program.
68
Augsburg Now
Maja Lisa FritzHuspen was
married May 25, 2013, to
Don Roupe. Auggies from the
Class of 2004 attending included
Adam Nugent, Carolina (Chiesa)
Nugent, and Jennifer (Holm)
Schmitt. FritzHuspen is selfemployed as an opera singer and
voice teacher.
93
In February, a Rotary Club in Loveland, Colo., honored Earl Sethre with
its Citizen of the Year Award. The award recognizes a non-Rotarian in the
community who lives out the four-way test, which asks the
questions: Is it the truth? Is it fair to all concerned? Will it
build good will and better friendships? Will it be beneficial to
all concerned? Sethre stood out to the selection committee
because of his charitable work and the number of groups
he serves.
36
04
09
Abby Ferjak married Becca
Seely on September 1
at Yale Divinity School in New
Haven, Conn. Attendants included
Bethany Hellerich, Stephanie
(Holman) Hubbard, and Kayla
Skarbakka, Augsburg College
alumnae from the Class of 2009.
12
Alison (Witt) Ellertson married Cory Ellertson ’11 in
June 2013. Four Auggies pictured
at the wedding are [L to R]: Ashley
Kappes ’11, Alison, Cory, and
Brittany Rueb ’11.
AUGGIE SNAPSHOTS
ALUMNI CLASS NOTES
Beth Franklin was featured in
a Star Tribune article in which
she described how her studies
led her to a “dream job” as a
Certified Public Accountant at
a firm serving writers, artists,
and musicians. At Augsburg,
Franklin had a double major in
music business and accounting.
The article quoted her as
saying, “I thought I’d work in
international business or for
Sony in New York. The first day
of class, the professor said,
‘Accounting is the most fun
you could have with a pencil.’ I
took my first test and aced it. I
decided, ‘I like this.’”
09
06
While at Augsburg, Kasey Yoder started
coaching youth hockey and has seen his
hard work pay off. During 2013-14, his first
year at Orono (Minn.) High School, he took
his team to the state hockey tournament. He also
was selected Section 2A Coach of the Year. Yoder
says one of the most exciting challenges in coaching
high school hockey is keeping the kids focused,
especially with everything else they have going on
in their lives. Yoder works to help young people find
balance while still being committed to success at
the arena.
WE ARE CALLED.
AUGGIES.
Andrew Kent served as goalie coach for the
Finland women’s hockey team during the
2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia. A
goalie for the Augsburg men’s hockey team
from 2005 to 2009, Kent turned his love of
hockey into a profession and serves as a
director of goaltender development for MEGA
Goaltending, a Twin Cities-based development
center for hockey goalies. He also has served
as a volunteer goalie coach for the University
of Minnesota’s women’s hockey
team for the past four seasons,
which led to his role on the
Finland coaching staff for the
Olympics.
09
14
GRADUATE PROGRAMS
While studying elementary education at Augsburg, Josh Thelemann
founded a nonprofit organization that
takes at-risk kids off the streets and
provides programs that give them a
fair shot. He named it SOS (Saving
Our Schools).
RESOURCE promoted Heidi
Kammer ’00 MSW from director
of its center for recovery services
to vice president of chemical and
mental health. She is regarded
highly by her peers and has
a passionate commitment to
RESOURCE’s mission of reducing
the disparities experienced by
the people they serve. Once
functioning as two separate
divisions, RESOURCE’s chemical
and mental health programs are in
the process of being integrated.
Susie Schatz ’09 MSW was
named director of advocacy
and volunteer services for St.
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