2002 the andrean

8/8/2019 2002 the Andrean

1/44

The Andrean

Becoming


2/44


3/44

Becoming 1

The Andrean 2002Becoming

TABLE ofCONTENTS

Swerving Heavens Sarah Virginia Moser 02 p. 2

Home of the Blues Searcy Milam 02 p. 4

Salsa Kiss Ewurabena Hutchful 03 p. 11

Fallen Sarah Virginia Moser 02 p. 13

Empty White Maggie Bryan 04 p. 15

Becoming Anne Elizabeth Lea 02 p. 17

Wizard Sarah Virginia Moser 02 p. 27

Interstellar Recovery Act 2002 Joseph Kashap 03 p. 28

Icarus Hanzhe Wu 02 p. 30

Lost Elizabeth Lea 02 p. 32

Carbon Copy Julia Donaldson 04 p. 33

159 Danielle Morello 03 p. 34

X and Y: A Love Story Crystal Solange Elie 02 p. 36

Prayer Searcy Milam 02 p. 37


4/44

2 The Andrean

Swerving Heavens

I must have mumbled gracious wordswhile cutting through

the hum ofanxious, uneasy voices.Then discovered anunnoticed open windowwheresharp, frigid windwas suffocated by the stale warmth.Black coats,black stockings,black shoesall clambered overthe oriental rug,on an eveninglike any othernovember eveningwhen we wouldlie togetherbefore a whisperingfire.Now,

No one has touched thefireplacefor fearIt sits empty, cloaked in blacksoot crying,while the ancient doctorwho I knew years and years before

rests, brittle and silentin your favorite chair.I turn my face to the knifing wind.The room is no longer ours,blackness has seized it;I guess


5/44

Becoming 3

when death came for youit had to have allSo I clamberfor the unnoticed, open window

eyes gazing toward a waking sky,searching for traces of youin the swerving heavens.

Sarah Virginia Moser

Zoe Baer


6/44

4 The Andrean

Home of the Blues

Bougaloo Whatley sat in that park on the corner of Az a l e aand Richardson for three hours and fifteen minutes. Hi s

glasses nearly fogged with the heat and the sun seemed tosizzle his bald head. It nearly singed his tender finger tips to touchthe pawn. Sitting across the heavy hickory table, Hub knew it wasnot the right move .

B o u g a l o os eager opponent tapped his fingers lightly onthe thick wooden table as always, when a profitless move was onthe rise. Reaching down he adjusted his belt, and then turned hisgold wedding band round and round like a ferris wheel balancingon his fat finger. Hub always knew how to get Bougaloo re s t l e s sand sweating. With the corners of his mouth turned slightlyu pw a rd, he threw a nonchalant comment about the we a t h e r.

Damn these Missippi summers! I always-- I ll be damned if you dont give it away eve r time Hu b !

Just f o re I go and make another damn mistake I see you grinninlike hell and babblin bout da weather! You aint neer gonna winif you caint let me make a bad move. But Ill be damned if Is ec o m p l a i n i n

Cu zn, you always complainin but yo use still always win-n i n so shet yo mouth. Be happy I done told you when yo us egone mess up, chile! I jes cares for ya, and it dont be mattrin

who wins. You member de first time I let you win? Sho as hell do. First time we ever played. Id be damned ifI se ever yo friend had you beat me that aftanoon. What was it?About 45 years back in da day? Damn, you do da math. Im get-t i n too old, and you knows Ise not gone think bout it. Pa s t .Da m n .

* * *

It was the precious gift of the earth, that even when a side-walk ended the land did not, so feet always had a choice: turna round or keep going. Bougaloo was strolling the street inOctober of 1927, twenty-one years old and playing his harmonica.That harmonica is all he saved from the flood, all he could save .The infamous flood of the Mississippi Delta struck Bougaloo


7/44

Becoming 5

h a rd. His mama Evdy passed away during childbirth, and hisfather died working the farm when Bougaloo was fourt e e n .Neighbors said the bollwe a vels drove old Mr. Whatley straightinto the ground, always pestering his cotton and eating his beans.

Bougaloo found his old daddy face-down in the dirt, the dirt thatg a ve him life and took it back. When his house in Beulah washeda w a y, Bougaloo just picked up his harmonica and started walking.He held that harmonica with the tightest grip he knew, andwalked with it like the world was ready for him to make somemusic.

Hub was sitting on the street corner fifty paces down the

s i d ewalk from Bougaloo. Even with two broken strings, Hu bs gui-tar made the most beautiful music that had ever washed ove rB o u g a l o os ears. He nearly floated those fifty paces tow a rd Hub onthe music. He had walked straight through Beulah, through Et h e l ,and into Pocahontas Creek, Mississippi, that afternoon, and Hu bwas the first hed stopped to talk to.

Missippi sho do breed em good in Blues, dont dey.

Bes the only place that breeds em, suh. Hu bs the name. B o u g a l o o. I aint seen you round here before. Sl ow afternoon today

and it sho is hot. Sitcha down and play a while unless this side-walk be takin you somew h e re p o rt a n t .

I aint got now h e res to go to. That friendship began playing the Blues, and then chess

after the sun went down on the front porch of Je t h ro Ta y l o rsshack. The roof tilted much to the right, almost devoid of allshingles. The white wood was painted probably twenty years ago.Each plank cracked, and paint chips cove red what was left of aleaning porch. Just a swinging screen door on the house. No needfor a lock or a heavy door. Nothing to steal, never got cold. Wi t h

n ow h e re to go, Bougaloo had no reason to get up. No reason tostop the music or the chess they played. No reason to stop thel i f e .

The moment they walked in the joint, it was success.Bougaloo and Hub could make the Blues, and make it right. T h e yd i d nt talk much because the music did it for them. They figure d


8/44

6 The Andrean

each other out in a matter of days. The first joint they lit up wason the riverbank in Pocahontas Creek. Ju Jus Place run by theillustrious Ju Ju Robinson. Hub and Bougaloo never named theirsongs, just played the night through without stopping. Hub and

Bu g struck gold free whiskey, free cigs, and free women in thejoints. And the music they love d .

Your move Bug. Do nt you be makin me wait. I a i ntw a i t i n on you all day. A helpful word of advice from an older,m o re experienced man move the knight.

You never was patient, Hu b. Let me make my ow ndamn

Shet yo mouth Bug. Aint no nevermind in argenwhitchoo dis aftanoon, chile. Yo use and Ise only gotcha one lifetah live, aint that fuh sho. And damnit if that one aint ru n n i nout real quick-like. We jes be sittin here playin chess all the dayslong Bug. But aint no life passin us by, no suh. We just watchinit and joinin in when wese wanna. I aint bese complainin cuz n ,but you think yoself back to the days. You knows what days Is e

be talkin bout, Hu b. Why you aint never gonna talk bout dempeoples, dem lovely ladies of the good and fer-tile South? We jesgonna set here an you aint never gonna let me remember mypast, yo past, da past we done shared. Bug I aint real smart - l i k e ,but Ise know what it is: dee-nie-uhl. Aint gon get you now h e remistah. Bug youse just be makin yo move right about now, suh. Ijes talkin to fill that hot Missipi air between you and me. Da m n .I dont even know. Jes dont know.

* * *In 1933, Hub and Bougaloo we re tired. Ti red of the same

old gigs, same old joints, same old people. In fact, they we realmost tired of each other. They we re partners, brothers, musi-cians, smokers, drinkers. But they needed new blood in their duo.

A sweet voice, a womans voice. Madame Lou Ellen was Ju JuRo b i n s o ns wife and she sure could sing. She would hum a fewtunes around the bar in Ju Jus at night when Hub and Bougaloowould play, and eve rybody knew she had talent. Ju Ju practicallyn e ver let her out of the house, let alone to sing with some Bl u e s yb rothers. Hub decided he would take the challenge of persuading


9/44

Becoming 7

Ju Ju to let the Madame come round with them at night to sing atune or two.

Now Mistah Hub you knows I aint gon let my Lou El l e nout da house with two boys like you at night to bes singin in

dem joints. Nummer one, that aint fittin for a lady. Nu m m e rtwo, that done mean yo use bringin bidness in otha joints onaccount of my woman! Uh-uh, no suh. You two boys just finewiddout some lady anyhow s .

Mistah Robinson we bes bringin you money if she does it.Real money from ever show we plays. You got my word on it, suh.

This aint to be futher discussed, Mistah Hu b.

Madame Lou Ellen did not like that one bit, and the defi-ant, big-busted lady decided to run right over Mr. Ro b i n s o ns dec-laration. She summoned Hub and Bougaloo into the corner ofJu Jus late that afternoon when the sun was setting and the dustwas flying.

I sho as hell aint gonna listen to dat Ju Ju my wholedamn life! Lets go boys! You just tell the Madame when and

w h e re. Ise meet you there. No nevermind Mistah Ju Ju . The three of them played and played and played, until the

whole river bank hummed their tunes. Hu b, Bug, and theMadame. They we re so young, the two men. And she was fairlyold. Yet another reason Ju Ju disagreed with the situation in thebeginning. No one told him about his wife. Eve ry night when sheleft the house she told Ju Ju there was bridge club over at Ma wd ys .He never did believe her, and one night crept out following hiswife down the dusty roads and to Rippers Joint she sure we n t .M r. Ju Ju Robinson stumbled drunkenly into Rippers, a couple ofmiles from the rive r, that Sa t u rday night. Ju Ju saw the Ma d a m eand in a drunken tantrum threw a chair tow a rd her black curlyh a i r. He missed his wife, but hell broke loose as it often did when

one drunk harassed another in a joint. Ripper tried to re g u l a t e ,but Ju Ju angered him. He grabbed a whiskey handle and busted itover Ju Jus spinning head. The blood flew, and Ju Ju never spokeanother word .

The Madame ran out, and her two music men never sawher again. A woman without husband, without money, without


10/44

8 The Andrean

much left at all. She was already old, and had no more than fiveyears remaining on her own. Bug never was the crying type but hewept the loss of that lady. He wept for her lost voice, her lostp resence, her lost face. And Hub just kept on playing, kept on liv-

ing just like before because he knew the Blues. He knew the bestmusic, the only music true to their South, came from pain ands o r row and loss.



11/44

Becoming 9

He named that guitar Madame and played it eve ryday toraise her spirit, her music, back from that day at Rippers. Bu tBug just couldnt do it. He could no longer play, and that said, hen e ver really knew the Blues at all. He never played that harmonica

for his dead mother or dead father or washed-away house. Hep l a yed for himself, for his own ears and heart .

* * *Bug puckered his lips and told Hub to stop babbling and

s t a rt playing chess. But afterall, Hub was winning. The day grewt i red, and the setting sun pulled the two old black men dow nwith it. They sunk in their chairs as the sun sunk onto the hori-

zon, and the tree branches seemed to sag into a night stance onlya few feet above their heads. Another day passed in the Mi s s i s s i p p iDelta playing chess and disputing lifes truths and lifes disillu-sions. Well it was no illusion that day, as eve ry day, that Bug wonthe game.

Check mate, Hu b. Lets go home. Ise gonna fix somesupper in bout in five minutes and yo use jes come on and eat

with me.But Bug went to his own house that night, and Hub to

his. They agreed to meet again, same table new game, at thre eoclock tomorrow afternoon. They would each spend their morn-ings sleeping, cleaning, eating, and watching T V. They we re theonly real constant in each others lives. They we re the only any-thing in each others lives. And then old age came to battle theirf r i e n d s h i p. The elusive and friendless force peacefully took Hu baway from his dreams, in the middle of the night as an owl calledand the porch creaked and the world kept moving.

Bug spent his day poking around the house and pokingt h rough old newspapers that lay strewn across the hickory floor ofhis shack. He asked himself why they always met up for chess so

late in the day, because what else did either of them have to dob e f o re they got to that table? As Bug waited at that table in thep a rk, Hub never came, and never came. Bug ambled over to hisf ront door, rapped lightly on the screen door, and gently let him-self in. The room smelled of old, hot fish mixed with a spilledbottle of cologne. As Bug called his name and re c e i ved no answe r,


12/44

10 The Andrean

fear crept through his body and he re a l i zed. He re a l i zed that todayhe had lost it all. His parents we re gone, the Madame was gone,and now Hu b. He sat on the green ve l vet recliner in the corner,e n veloped by the sweltering afternoon heat and that stench which

his mind now took to be death. He sat for the entire afternoon,n e ver moving a muscle and never calling an ambulance. He wasnot sure where or how Hub died, but he sat there with clenchedfists and teary eyes and a countenance that seemed ready andeager to fight death back, to fight the hours back to ye s t e rday andback to the chess game or the supper he passed up on. But deathhad already escaped, snuck stealthily away with Hu b, and a part

of Bu g .And so began Bougaloos life. He mourned the death of his

closest friend for weeks, rarely eating and never facing the sun-light. But one day he rolled over in his ru s t y, creaking bed andcaught a shining glimpse of a harmonica as the mid-morning sunf l i t t e red off one of its corners. T h e re it quietly sat, among laye r sof old and fading newspapers. T h e re it sat, among re c o rded histo-

ry of that South Bougaloo called home. T h e re it sat, waiting forthe perfect hello. He reached with feeble fingers for what seemedhis last companion on earth. He played first for himself, to easehis own heart. But then he played for the Madame, and eve n t u a l-l y, for Hu b. Death slapped him in the face, and he found theBlues. He was born and raised in its ve ry cradle, but it took hims e venty years to find that music within himself. He had a love ,and a companion that would never die. Once you discover it, theBlues will never leave yo u .

Se a rcy Mi l a m


13/44

Becoming 11

Salsa Kiss

Our eyes bow as they meet,We pull each other close and inhale the beat.

Soft-shoe smooth lips embraceThe glossy tap-shoe kind.Our tongues twirl about till they find a meeting placeAnd they rock and slide, glideTo the rhythm and my eyes dipThen we partExhaling.

Ewurabena Hutchful

Andy Wolfe


14/44

12 The Andrean

Andy Wolfe


15/44

Becoming 13

Fallen

in Delanowhere oak leaves distill the dying light,

where shadows lose themselvesin orchard rows,Eva thought of life

No one blushes in aprilwhen trees burst forth in pink,like young women,awkward and uneasy with their new weight,with their heavy tenants,royalty of this (almost) ghost townwhere lines govern bistasand horizons devour dreamsand roads are silent

Disturbing these rows, tracks, horizonsare mountains, blue giantsof ragged lines and scarred facestelling different stories

Veiled in purple against a deepening sky,

those giantsfollowed Eva to the chevronwith its neon sign glowing like magma and the fadingcola woman with now pink lips, winking as she skirted by,saying, lips like these, girl, take you far,her beauty a stampseeping back into the concrete wall

lines throbbed their warnings into the breeze

Eva drank the cool green neon,wind blowing a curl in her eye,silenced sun illuminating a different horizon


16/44

14 The Andrean

revealing a boy,glowing white against the night,sweat in his hair, her in his eye.

the invention of body

Her mother had thrown her a hard glancea life beforelovell be like that damn freight train, putting purple veinsunder my eyes every night,and youre just gonna grab hold of it.

Youll find trouble all right,Eva Marie

they littered the boxcars with their creed,spilled it out sideways with cans,hearts and names and promisessticking to the splinters of a resting car,

aerosol heaving its last breath.

then it sang:through the graveyards of eden,wounded Visaliapast the water tower of Tulare,around almonds of Tipton,slowing at the crossroads of Tagis,their creed smiling crude,

chipping like his word.

In a valley in june

Eva did sit,alone beneath her trees,young women who knew too much,holding a fevered bellyand grinning



17/44

Becoming 15

Empty White

the world looks at youand sees sepia the yellow clay cheeksand black coffee pupilsand the dusted chocolate on your upper lip

or maybe they are shockedby your hair Like flaxsaturated with India Inkstrong and bold and stunning

Daniel Troutman


18/44

16 The Andrean

but I am like a child I dont see you as the world mustinstead you are nothingthe way you enclose me completely

in sepia soup

its late almost tenwhen we go walking to my dormover the lawn teeming with muted green

I mention my attraction to that sky

dark as your hairbut speckled with shards of icelight as my scalp

a little closer to my roompast the holly tree and limestone fortressfrigid air sprints towards my egg yolk stucco walls

its like were wading in an oceana wave hitsand you shiver

after our feet become accustomed to even concreteand I release your bronze hands

I see it only ten steps in front of methere is a tall, straight strand of very white lightsandwiched between two cold metal black doorsfacing it, I am ashamed the world looks at me

and sees with pupils still expecting nightnothing buta flash of bland and empty white.

Maggie Bryan


19/44

Becoming 17

Becoming Anne

Igrew up wanting to live in New York City. To walk around inthose splendid apartments with high ceilings and crystal chande-liers and to go to Bloomingdales on Saturdays and try on all the

latest fashions. I wanted to see the freighters sailing in past theStatue of Liberty and to watch the men with their briefcases and tieswhirl by. I wanted to hear people yelling out their windows and cabshonking and screeching and I wanted to smell hot dogs on the sideof the road and I wanted the Broadway musicals and the florescent

lights and everything to be big, big, so big you knew you were partof something huge and important. I wanted be a part oflife.But I didnt live in New York City. I didnt live anywhere exciting

just a little town called Wilson, North Carolina, home of tobaccoand sausage and sticky summers. Wilson didnt pay much attentionto the Depression, as the newspapers called it, or the war across theocean or at least if they did, nobody bothered to tell me much about

it. I grew up between the waving tobacco fields and the musty riversitting behind our house, between climbing magnolia trees and thewild, defiant freedom of stubborn independence. I didnt need myparents, I didnt reallyneedanyone.

I was born there, in the same house where I grew up, in October1925. Daddy hadnt bought his Ford yet, so he couldnt get to thehospital in the next town over. Dr. Pitt sprinted across the lawn

from next door as soon as he heard Mamas screams. When he hadwashed me and wrapped me up in a blanket, he handed me gentlyto Daddy.

Winston looks like you have a lil sweetheart on your hands.Daddy stared dumfounded at the bundle. He had wanted a boy.

I always secretly thought of myself as an Anne. My christeningname was Anne Katherine Winston.

Well call er Jack, Daddy said gruffly.

* * *You ever heard of Chicago? I was chomping a ham biscuit and

watching John Henry rag down Daddys Ford.I nodded and chewed. John Henry was our house man.


20/44

18 The Andrean

You remember how I taught you to spell it?Chickin in da cah but da cah wont go dats how you spell

Chicahgo.He grinned big stacks of black wrinkles and bright white eyes

that twinkled. Dats right, he looked up from the front fender andlaughed. Mistah Winston drove right straight outa he-ah dat night,says he jes bout drove all de way up to Chicahgo, but den he fig-gered he wadnt as mad as he thought, figgered hed come on home.

It was the summer of 1941, I was sixteen years old, just beforemy last year at Wilson Senior High. Why did he comehome?

He said to me, Chicahgo jes aint New Yolk City. He cluckedand wiped all around, jes aint de same, John Henry. Nawsuh, yodaddy likes da real thing, he likes New Yolk.

I laughed and looked away. I didnt care. I didnt care that he hadleft me and John Henry alone for three whole days and Mama lyingup in her bed sick with a cold compress on her forehead. It didntmatter I would be out of here in a year anyways.

John Henry put down his rag and came to me. You know dareal reason he came back, dont you?

I stared at the gravel, What?Its cuz he missed you. You and yo mama. He searched my face

but I didnt look up.Howd you know?Why, he tole me hissef. You know he tells me everthing.I know. I turned away and brushed my feet through the dirt

beside the driveway, Im going down to the river.I wandered down past the wispy grass field behind the Pitts

house, through the pine needles and tired tall trees. There sat thebrown silt they call the Tar River with its echoing afternoon voices.Home for touch football and cane-pole fishing and my first fist fight

and the boys off playing and me hanging from tree branches.They pointed to the boy on the rope swing. His names Bruce hell be a senior too, oldern you, but were all oldern you. Mycousin, just moved.

The August sun had toned his skin perfectly and he flung him-self into the river with rippling freedom. He stumbled onto the


21/44

Becoming 19

bank, shagging his crew-cut, then stopped to glance at me perchedon a rock.

Hows that for a ride, hunh?Youre pretty good at it I guess.

Yeah, but not as good as you could do? I know what yourethinkin - I looked up into his tanned grin.

Do you?You dont have to say nothin Im psychic you know?I laughed at the cocky newcomer.Are you scared or somethin?

I shrugged, Id never been scared a day in my life, and climbedup the cliff to the rope. I gripped it firmly and heaved off the rock,swooping the rope over the water high and fast, my chest scrapingthe cable, until I was almost at the far bank, then dropping my

hands, I soared recklessly into the water with a combination of girl-ish agility and proud toughness.Well damnit. I heard him say softly.How was that? I laughed with triumph.It was all right, for a girl anyways.

* * *

Margaret Hoffecker


22/44

20 The Andrean

John Henry had promised he would teach me how to drive.Daddy said no, absolutely not, but John Henry snuck me out whileDaddy napped. Saturday afternoons in the tobacco fields, he taughtme on Daddys Ford.

Now, you listen he-ah Miz Jack, you gots to go slow, His bour-bon lips turned scoldingly towards me, you got dat?

Yep. I grabbed the wheel eagerly and jerked the stick back. Thecar roared backwards then sprung into speed. I shrieked with thethrill of the powerful machine.

Stop! Lohd, stop! Out of control, wheels spinning violentlyunderneath me, trampling tobacco plants.

I cant! A big red barn loomed closer as the car picked upspeed.

John Henry jerked the stick back into place and pushed me asideto grab the steering wheel. We skidded into a halt, the front lights afew yards away from the red chipped paint of the barn. We satbreathing deeply, staring out the windows in shock.

Miz Jack, you jes about got us killed. The whites of his eyesgrew big and he glowered across the front seat at me. What wouldMistah Winston say den? I would be outta a job for one, and dataint nothin too good with dis-here Depression.

I shrunk in my seat stared down at my knee socks.

And hed whup you lord hed have yo hide! You may be agrown girl but you aint never too old for a good whuppin, datswhat I say anyways.

Sorry, John Henry, Ill try not to ever do it again.

Sure you wont never do it again, you aint never gwine be dri-vin again.

No, no, please! Ill do anything! Ill give you twice myallowance you can go to the picture show this week and next week

too! Please John Henry. I attempted a sweet, pleading smile.He rolled his eyes. Fine, fine, Miz Jack. But youd better be

careful drivin us home. Throwing his arms against his seat, hebraced himself for the coming drive. I raised the stick slowly and theengine purred. We chugged little by little out of the tobacco fieldstowards the colored movie theater. I dropped him off with twice my


23/44

Becoming 21

allowance and hugged him gratefully.

Thank you John Henry!

Yeah, yeah, he muttered and grinned shyly as he stepped outof the car. Now you leave the car right he-ah so I can git it when I

come out.I grinned at him peeking worriedly through the window.

Now, dont you run off with it, you hear? You git out and walkhome.

I wont, I promise. Im getting out right now.

Mm-hmmm. He stalked away.

Hey! I wheeled my head towards the knocking window andcame face to face with him. Bruce. This isnt your car is it?

No, I smiled, its my Daddys.

Awww, man, its the cats, you know that?

Yeah. I looked away and jiggled the keys.

Hey, I was wondering..well me and some guys are goin down

to Smiths tonight and I just thought maybe youd..well I think itsgonna be pretty neat and I was wondering if youd like to go withme? He squinted down at me.

Sure.

Smiths Luncheonette looked more like a rundown shack than arestaurant. A few shingles were dangling off the tin roof, the win-dows filmed with dust, and the doorknob of the door was missing,

just a keyhole was left. It didnt matter, though, because the doorwas always swung open anyway, revealing the smooth, worn-downplanks of the dance floor. Behind the building was a parking lot,dozens of long boyish legs lounging in backseats or leaning lazilyagainst hoods. Girls with plaid skirts slurping milkshakes and gig-gling. Out on the porch, a new juke-box reigned, a shiny black,always surrounded by curious, pointing fingers. Through the trees,

the green leaves cast light shadows on the Tar River and the breezecame up from there, whispering to the porch.

I wandered through the little circles of girls, giggling and gossiping.

Jack, are you here with Bruce? Their pigtails bobbing.

Yeah, I smiled, Yeah, he asked me to come.


24/44

22 The Andrean

An unexpected hand pulled me away from the girls onto thedance floor, my back was safe and firm in his grip and we movedaround and around the creaking floorboards. And around andaround and his eyes blue, blue against brown skin, filled with hope

and innocence and blue. We spun dizzy and drunken around andaround and he leaned down to kiss me, drunk and dizzy and theworld was pure and hazy and we were alone in the innocence of itall.

Until I pulled back, pulled out. I need to get back. Had to getout, get back, back home. I need to get home my my well,somebody will wonder -

* * *

By early December, Bruce had taken me everywhere. He and hisfriends hung around the porch, they hung around the riverbank,Bruce was persistent. He walked me home from school, he tried to

Matthew Johns


25/44

Becoming 23

make me let him carry my books, he took me to Smiths. His blueeyes were always there - I wouldnt look. I still couldnt look in them.Bruce knew me; he at least wanted to know me anyways.

Bruce knew they were making a war, that we would be making a

war soon. He gave his predictions to the other boys leaning againstthe hood of his car during lunch. He gave them sitting by the river.

You know what kind of war theyre fighting dont you Jack?

Of course I do. But I didnt.

A war to end all wars on all fronts. Japan attacked us today well attack Japan and well attack the Germans.

The wind gusted but we sat on the porch, listening to the radio.He rocked steadily in the white rocker, my limber frame leaninggently on the porch rail.

Wait, listen, hes coming on! He jumped up and ran to theradio to turn it up.

What? Is Roosevelt on?

He stared at me sharp and anxious from across the porch. Hold

on - its breaking up.

I watched him press his ear against the little black box andhunch forward, his fresh white shirt dangling from the back of hiskhakis, trying to interpret the words. I looked out to the sunsetbehind the dry Magnolia tree.

He skidded back across the porch, breathing hard. Grabbing my

waist, he searched my eyes. Were going to war.I could not look at that distant blue, I stared down at my knee

socks, at the tired, painted floorboards. He dropped his hands andstarted to move away.

Im going home for tonight, he mumbled, then sprinted out ofthe drive, tucking in his shirt as he headed down the road.

I wandered out to the back porch. John Henry was emptying ice

buckets humming Battle Hymn of the Republic.Dyou know where the ice goes when it melts? He pointed to

the pile of white crushed bits in the dark yard. It goes down to dariver jes like wartuh. And da river, it goes all de way down into daLantic Ocean.


26/44

24 The Andrean

And across the Lantic Ocean is a war.

He sat next to me on the edge of the porch. I know you MizJack, you wish you could hop into a uniform too fight em likeyou fight dem boys.

I grinned and thought of all the little pieces of ice, floating inthe big blue sea, by themselves. All that water, everywhere, and theocean going on forever and ever and one little piece of ice. Still hard,not melted, all alone.

Everyone was enlisting. And if they werent enlisting, they wereeither sick or going to be drafted anyway. Bruce took me down tothe river to tell me the news, but I already knew. We sat on theperching rock and watched the dry leaves float slowly downstream.

Jack?

Look, I dont care what you do. I really dont. I smiled up athim.

Jack Im not doing this because I want to. Im doing itbecause I have to.

I wouldnt miss him. It didnt matter.Well, not because I have to, but because I need to. You can

come visit me while Im training in New York. We wont be leavingfor a while.

* * *

We graduated from Wilson Senior High that May. The parties

and presents and people everywhere, suffocating humid all around.He left the day after graduation for New York. I could not wait tojoin him in two weeks a few girls from Wilson got jobs as secre-taries in an office for the summer. They were not my friends, I wasjust there. I did not cry when he left. I never cry. He kissed megoodbye and walked down the porch steps and into his car.

I waved my hand mechanically and smiled. I would see him

soon, soon. Only he would be in uniform. I slammed the screendoor close and ran straight into John Henrys bulky chest. He heldme and patted my head.

My dream was coming true - the city would be big, bigger than Icould imagine. Dirty and grimy and alive with people. I was gettingout of Wilson away from Mama and Daddy not caring and every-


27/44

Becoming 25

one knowing everybody. I would have my life. Away from and beingcut off from the real world and those flat tobacco fields -and therope-swing and Smiths and John Henry.

The soldiers were allowed off the island of their camp at 4:30

every afternoon. We met under the clock, on the corner of 5thAvenue and 22nd Street every day at 5:00. We loved being in NewYork, we loved being in New York together.

My neck strained to the tip-tops of buildings as we walked alongthe narrow streets. We went to plays and to bars and to fine restau-rants and dirty restaurants and we ate hot dogs off the side vendorsand laughed together. The city was bursting with people and smellsand things to see and those bright American flags, dreamlike anddirty.

But when I breathed in deeply, the smog and grime filled mythroat and I coughed uncontrollably, my shoulders collapsing andleaning against Bruces chest for strength.

Hey, Jack? He brushed my hair from my face.

When do you think yall leave? I gasped and clung to his arm.I dont know, and I wont know until the day it happens. He

stopped and clung to me.

I looked past his eyes, to the flags outside of Rockefeller Center.

Listen, you go to the clock every day and so will I. The day Imnot there is the day they sent me to Europe. I was strong, I wasproud, Bruce would not see me cry. I glared at the whipping flagsand choking, nodded my head.

* * *

It would not be today. It could not be today when he goes. Myloafers smacked the sidewalk with certainty and I walked swiftly, tallshoulders and cocked head, to our corner. I leaned against a nearby

window sill to catch my breath and look up at the huge white face 5:02. He would come and I knew it. It would not be today. I stud-ied the clock the ancient looking hands ticking so slowly anddeliberately, the big black Roman numerals against the graying whiteface, all flat against the firm stone of the building. An hour later Icollapsed and banged my back against the grimy wall of the build-


28/44

26 The Andrean

ing. He wouldcome and I knewit. The numbersaround the face

were blurringtogether, black andwhite and gray alltogether. Alone andstrong, like always.I am alone andstrong. The big

round hour handstruck deathlyloud, its shadowagainst the whiteconcrete face mak-ing it thicker. Idropped my head

into my chest andsighed deeply thegas fumes, themurderous fumesof this damned city.The taxis thatwhisked life away too fast and the flo-rescent street lights- too bright andthe world - too big,

too big. The dark midnight chill conquered me and I gave up. Ishuffled away from the street corner, staring through filmy eyes at

the antique hands of the clock, ticking time away from me. And Iknew I could cry.

Elizabeth Lea

Andy Wolfe


29/44

Becoming 27

Wizard

A wrinkled wizard in a fishing store,tying flies of red fur and black beads,

whispered something low,my child eyes in a tranceas they scannedthe roads of his palms and skin.He did not look up when he spokebut tied immaculate knots into gossamer string,securing hooks that hid themselves in waitfor a throat.Weathered floorboards cradled my stepas I leaned in to catch his chantin rock sleeps the coldness yet to fall,loss, deep and sound,and it will rise like venom

He spoke in secrets,ones he was not meant to tell,But I stole away with pieces, turning the words over in my head,smoothing them down like stones


David Wehrs


30/44

28 The Andrean

Interstellar Recovery Act 2002

my reason for getting uptold me that her reason for getting up was the sunny sun

sonof anotherpair of parental planets and that I shouldhavewouldhavetofindanotherstarto orbitman.

So I folded myself upinto a paper airplane,which looked like a napkin that you would wipe tables withand I cried on a windmilland sent myself flying offinto the vast interstellar infinityof confused convalescencewithout compass bearings,but bearing as alwaysmy official u.s. department of internal affairs

stamp.

Joseph Kashap


31/44

Becoming 29

Hollis Callaway


32/44

30 The Andrean

Icarus

Je suis un ange. Mes bras sont mes ailes, et je vole quand eto je plais. Les fers de la terre sont seulement des contrarits, et jeles chappe avec une pense. Le ciel est sans limites. Tout le mondetouche mes mains, et mes pieds donnent des bisous la mer. Jeregarde la tourne de la terre.

Les chandelle mintressent. Elles donnent la lumire quandelles se tuent. Si elles donnent rapidement de la lumire, elles sontbientt mortes. Pour une chandelle, son raison dtre est de donnerla lumire malgr sa mort inluctable.

Un petit garon joue avec sa mre. Elle est trs malade, maiselle aimer son fils, et elle se sent vivante quand elle joue avec le petitgaron. Elle va mourir demain parce quelle ne se repose point.

Greg Montgomery


33/44

Becoming 31

Est-ce quil y a un paradis? Notre vie se termine de heure enheure, et quand nous faisons plus de choses, nous avons moinsdheures. Est-ce que notre vie puisante est un billet au paradis, ou lefeu dune chandelle?

Je vole la grande lumire. Il ny a rien qui peut marrter.Mes ailes sont mes penses. Les fers de la terre sont seulement descontrarits de ma vie. Je laisse tomber mes apprhensions, et jem-brasse le soleil.

Dans la campagne en Grce, un fermier a vu un jeunehomme qui est tomb dans la mer.

Translation:

I am an angel. My arms are my wings, and I fly when andwhere I please. The chains of earth are only annoyances, and I escapethem with a thought. The sky is without limitations. The entireworld touches my hands, and my feet give kisses to the sea. I am see-ing the turning of the world.

Candles interest me. They give light as they kill themselves.The more quickly they give light, the better they die. For a candle,its reason for being is to give light as it heads towards inevitabledeath.

A little boy plays with his mother. She is very sick, but sheloves her son, and she feels vibrant when she plays with the littleboy. She is going to die tomorrow because she never rests.

Is there a heaven? Our lives end hour by hour, and the morewe do, the fewer the hours we have. Is our painful life a tickettowards paradise, or the fire of a candle?

I fly towards the great light. There is nothing that can haltme. My wings are my thoughts. The chains of the earth are onlyannoyances of my life. I let fall my apprehensions, and I embrace the

sun. In the countryside of Greece, a farmer saw a young man whofell into the sea.

Hanzhe Wu


34/44

32 The Andrean

Lost

Black tuxedos blur into flowing gowns.I swerve stagger bump

lost in elbowsknock champagneglasses but I am here -the pink fluffy bathroom.I gaze long at thathollow reflectionwaitingmascara-sweatthe mask

throat shakingstomach screamingknees scorchinghair plastering onrunning eyeshadowslippery handsgripping whiteporcelain tighterwrench untilI collapse. The marble floor

cools my cheek. They wontfind me - they cantfind me - they wontlook anyway.

Elizabeth Lea


35/44

Becoming 33

Carbon Copy

You told me you were colorblind.All I wanted to know was what color you did see.

I never stopped to think about those you didnt.I wanted to color myself so that you would see me.But you knew me in black and white.Suddenly, Im not so different.

Julia Donaldson

Lana Matsuyama


36/44

34 The Andrean

159

Ar a i n b ow of wooden beads rains down the metal rod whichkeeps them from rolling away. They let out a machine gun fireof hollow pings as they hit the wooden base. I am kneeling on

the dingy industrial strength carpet playing with this worn childre ns toy,launching the colorful beads up and down their tracks.

You sit on the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair behindme, a tattered travel magazine resting on your thighs. You are glancingat the pictures, flipping through the pages nonch a l a n t l y, not stopping

long enough to read the stories. I know this even though I am not fac-ing you. Sitting here, with my knees pressed down, grating against thef l o o r, I can not face you. I am too afraid of your eyes; emotionles s ,absent. You place your hand on my shoulder and I force myself not tow rench away. I can remember a time you said you would always sup-p o rt my decisions. You are here out of your own free will. I am here toe xe rcise my own free will.

The sound of rustling papers. I look over at the desk across theroom. A woman in light blue scrubs yawns as she picks a form fro mher stack and glances it ove r. 159, she drones. Sh es speaking to me.For a moment, I had forgotten that I am a nameless number in theirindex of disease. I rise and give an unconvincing, awkward smile as Iwalk tow a rds her. I dont know why I feel the need to be polite. I cantdecide if the smile is for her sake or my failed attempt at making a

connection within a world of anonymity. She pushes easily through awhite swinging door and walks briskly down the corridor. I have tro u-ble holding its weight when it swings back. The noisy sterile scent onthe other side forces me momentarily off balance. Re g ret and uncer-tainty tumble in my stomach. The woman stops and points to the lastdoor on the right.

He is already waiting. 159? he asks. I begin to tell him my

name, tell him it wasnt my fault, tell him I was careful, but all I canmanage is a nod. He closes the door behind me. He tells me what hewill do next. He turns his wedding band as he speaks. I think of you -skiing in the alps or tanning on the shores of Tuscany while I am leftalone on this white, bloody battlefield.


37/44

Becoming 35

A lifetime after I left you sitting there in the waiting room,you see me hunched over, wobbling. You carry me to your car. Youtake me past the picket lines and screaming cardboard posters. Youshout at them to go home, to mind their own business, to get out of

your way. Murderer! One woman bellows. You move to screamback at her but I press a finger to your lips. At least now I have aname.

Danielle Morello

Amanda Johnson


38/44

36 The Andrean

X and Y: A Love Story

i.In the field

he rips meand watchesred run.My redsexing with earth:birthing burgundy.

ii.Excuse me,he once said,Adam came first.

Xmarks the spothe says now,A manfound this land.

Crystal Solange Elie


39/44

Becoming 37

Prayer

Was it for this I cried prayers?Salty and burning my white eyes

Each falling tear pulling me downLower on my begging, tired knees.

That my mother may lie, and yet not liveShe stares without fleshy word or charming eyeMy clouded heart would rather her peaceI pray, unanswer my prayer.

Searcy Milam

Grace N. Awantang


40/44

38 The Andrean

Emily Zazulia


41/44

Artists

Jane Parshall 02 Cover

Zoe Baer 04 p. 3

Sarah Virginia Moser 02 p. 8

Andy Wolfe 03 p. 11, 12

Daniel Troutman 02 p. 15

Margaret Hoffecker 03 p. 19

Matthew Johns 02 p. 22

Andy Wolfe 03 p. 26

David Wehrs 03 p. 27

Hollis Callaway 02 p. 29

Greg Montgomery 03 p. 30

Lana Matsuyama 03 p. 33

Amanda Johnson 02 p. 35

Grace N. Awantang 02 p. 37

Emily Zazulia 02 p. 38

Benjamin Yu 03 Back Cover


42/44

Andrean Staff

Maggie Bryan 04Ashley Gosnell 02Ashby Hardesty 04

Amanda Johnson 02Elisabeth Lingo 03

Lana Matsuyama 03

Searcy Milam 02Danielle Morello 03

Sarah Noe 03Dodie Press 03

Dawn Robinson 04Daniel Troutman 02

David Wehrs 03

Jennifer Wilson 03Kara Zarchin 02

Peter Zimmerman 05

Assistant Editors:James Dolan 02

Margaret Macdonald 03Sarah Moser 02

Editors-in-chief:Elizabeth Lea 02Frances Symes 02Emily Zazulia 02

Faculty Advisor:Hardy Gieske


43/44

Editors Note

As young adults, we are constantly undergoing aprocess of becoming that we will continue for therest of our lives. Becoming presents no boundariesbecause it is a perpetual act, an act that embodiesself-reflection and a growing sensibility. Writingserves as a way to scribble onto paper all that iswrapped up within a moment, an experience, anemotion.

The Andreanprovides a place for students toexperiment and discover new ways to define theworld around them. Over the past few years, The

Andrean has begun its own process of becoming.The student body and the staff have presentedworks that seem particularly reflective, as if scrapsof attempted poetry litter the front lawn and hall-

ways These attempts are not just words on paper,however, but instances of free, independent, andcreative expression.


44/44

St. Andrews School

350 N nt n R d

2002 the andrean

Documents