the looking glass | spring 2012

The Looking GlassSpring 2012: Volume 8, Issue 1

“The Palouse” - Wieteke Holthuijzen

A Publication of the Honors Student Advisory Board

2 THE LOOKING GLASS Spring 2012

CONTENTSSouthern Devilby Sara Hendricks

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Sixth Street in Septemberby Holly Adelle Clark

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Humanity Lostby Anonymous

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Aerial Silkby Philip Vukelich

p. 6

No If’s, And’s, or But’sby Mike Andrews

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Springtime Morning Art Showby George Harding

p. 8

A Door For Usby Wieteke Holthuijzen

p. 8

Forgetby Wieteke Holthuijzen

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Race and the University Honors Programby Megan “Micah” Kehrein

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Artful Airby Marco Mendoza

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Looking Glass Committee

EditorEmily Kay Brookhart

Committee MembersClare Haley

Ethan HansenMeaghan Jones

Connor Kennelly

Honors Student Advisory Board

Emily Kay BrookhartNoah BushClare Haley

Ethan HansenSam Hatfield

Meaghan JonesTory Kampfer

Connor KennellyWill Loucks

Amanda NiehenkeAvery WorrellDavid Youles

University Honors Program

DirectorStephan Flores

Associate DirectorAlton Campbell

Program AdvisorCheryl Wheaton

Management AssistantChris Price

The Honors Student Advisory Board is proud to present this, the Spring 2012 edition of The Looking Glass, a publication written and produced entirely by honors students. The Looking Glass provides students with the chance to show off their best work as well as the chance to learn the art of publication design. This year’s edition showcases the immense talent across the Honors Program in genres from poetry to short story to research to photography, and represents hours of work by both the authors and the publication staff. We, the Looking Glass Committee, are now excited to share this talent and work with you.

Emily Kay Brookharteditor

Spring 2012 THE LOOKING GLASS 3

SOUTHERN DEVILSara Hendricks

The flowers were rotting; a bouquet of white lilies had been placed meticulously on the surface of the lacquered coffin—perched there like a resting dove. But decay had already set in on the delicate petals, wilting and curling them in the heat of the Southern summer. Their fragrance had shifted from sweet to pungent, adding to the symphony of earthy smells wafting into the church from outside in the moss-filtered sunlight.

Several large windows had been thrown open to let in the day, and the light spilled in shafts from the high, vaulted panes of glass. An almost reverent, holy silence slowly flowed between the dust motes buoyed on the air. But even the faint, lingering traces of organ music that had soaked into the stone and still echoed in the sunshine could not banish the atmosphere of death.

Preparations for a funeral had been laid out that day. Yet only one grieving attendant had dared to cross the threshold in order to pay tribute to the passing of a life.

Claire sat for a time in the first row of pews, her black mourning gown tickling her heated flesh. One of the shafts of sunlight fell directly on her body, reminiscent of the other that illuminated the surface of her brother’s coffin. Sitting there since dawn had broken, Claire had watched the petals of the lilies—once white and pristine and cool with the night air—turn limp and begin to decay.

She could be considered a beauty, even in the bereaved black; her dark hair curled on its own, contrasting the paleness of her skin. She seemed a fairy tale, one of the Southern belles written about in antebellum letters. But they did not exist anymore, swept up and dissolved in the aftermath of the Civil War in the same way that so many lives had been crushed and destroyed. Like delicate flowers, they too had been scattered by the ravages of the conflict, the very land they sprang from suffering too much damage to sustain the quality of blood necessary for their breeding.

After a time Claire rose from her seat, the wood of the pew creaking as her slight weight left it. She

buried her nose in the bouquet of magnolias she carried, though they too had begun to wilt in the heat. Moving to the coffin, she pushed back the lid, careful to remove the lilies first so they would not go tumbling to the floor.

When the shiny wooden cover lay reclining on its hinges, Claire set the bouquets within the coffin itself and climbed inside.

The undertaker had built it for two. Claire’s brother lay inside, death making his skin all the paler, like alabaster. He possessed her same dark hair, and his arms were folded over his chest, their father’s pocket-watch placed under the arch of his remaining palm.

His left arm ended below the wrist, robbed of its hand by a wartime injury. Though the potential for infection had not stolen his life as well, the loss left him incomplete. Strange. Nothing that his sister could recognize had remained in the hollow pits behind his eyes.

Curling against her brother, Claire pillowed her head on his shoulder. The shape of his body seemed formed to accommodate her, and she could not help a faint rush of heated tears at remembering just how thoroughly he had fit her in life. Yet their bond, like many others, had died with the Confederacy.

And now he was gone: the handsomest, kindest man she had ever known was gone because of her.

Claire did not even startle when another hand came to rest on the edge of the coffin. Her eyes traced over the long, thin fingers; the nails were oddly black, almost as though they had been painted. Letting her gaze continue up the figure’s arm, she found herself face to face with the yellow-eyed Devil she had made her deal with.

His hair shimmered golden-blond, and he dressed like a gentleman. No Northern devil, like the slick-haired, quick-eyed ones that her grandmother had warned her about. No, everything about him stretched languid and slow. This Devil could afford to take his time, for the desperate would always be eager to ruin themselves on the shores of his temptation. His sin slithered into an inconstant heart


as cool and lazy as a river, but it could still drown an unwary soul.

“I’d not meant for you to take him,” Claire said at last, eyes flicking back to her brother’s face as her hand smoothed over the fabric of his suit, playing over his chest.

“Then you should have been more specific in what you asked of me,” the Devil drawled.

Despite herself, Claire felt hot, angry tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I asked you that he and I could know peace!” she snapped, looking up to glare at him again. The Devil remained impassive, though a small smirk twitched along his thin lips. “Not death!” Claire choked back an angry sob. “We have known enough death to last for a thousand lifetimes. You are part of the South as much as I am. You should know that.”

“I know that neither you nor any other Southerner will know peace on this Earth until the Yankees cease enforcing their twisted sense of justice. I know that no peace will be possible while the North steals everything that the South creates to feed its diseased Union.”

Claire flinched back from the force of his words, whimpering quietly that she knew their truth.

“You have no reason to lie to me now, Devil, as I am already yours,” she whispered, lips brushing her brother’s cheek. “Will I see him again, where we are going?”

The Devil paused a moment, thoughtfully. “Yes.”Claire remained silent for a moment that echoed

the Devil’s, closing her eyes as she wrapped herself around her brother. Resting her ear against his chest, she dreamt that she could hear his heartbeat. But perhaps it was only the ticking of the pocket-watch.

“Then let me too know peace with him.”“As you wish, darlin’.” Leaning over her, the Devil

kissed Claire’s cheek, and she heard him lower the lid on the coffin. It clicked shut, the weight shielding her and the corpse of her brother from the day. Distantly, footsteps retreated across the smooth stone floor, tapping through the wide door into the honeyed sunlight and Spanish-moss shadows.

Within the surprisingly cool darkness, the flowers no longer smelled of decay, and Claire’s brother stroked her hair.

SIXTH STREET IN SEPTEMBERHolly Adelle Clark


HUMANITY LOSTAnonymous

I asked her where she was from. The interpreter did not mince words; she was not

going back there.Haina’s eyes hold no secrets, but still they conceal

much. They remind me of waves crashing on the shore, offering tantalizing glimpses beneath the churning murkiness, though not more than the most ephemeral of insights. Her body is not quite so mysterious. Beneath a tattered bedsheet lies a child, or what’s left of one; a young girl, body not quite commensurate with the many years superimposed onto what was surely a once-youthful face. Out from under, like the fronds of an anemone, the toes of one foot fight to free themselves of each other’s company, a snarled mess. The other leg: a trace, a shadow, a slowly fading memory. It lies in pieces, somewhere in a field in southwest Cambodia, slowly nourishing the earth.

I hold her hand, as she silently beseeches me with eyes a shifting shade of cacao. They harbor a depth unknown to me, like windows to a hall of mirrors. Her ochre skin catches the late afternoon light filtering in from the windows, revealing countless scars with stories never to be told. I long to comfort her, but somehow I do not feel adequate. Nothing in my experience could ever compare to what this child has undergone in her brief days. My history stands in such stark contrast to hers; apples and oranges to be sure, only this orange still has its peel, and that apple’s tender flesh has been bruised beyond compare. I was busy resenting the dream while she was only vaguely aware of its existence.

They say that God loves all his children, but where was he for Haina?

In her presence, I am humbled. I cannot begin to fathom the nature of anguish undergone. I cannot begin to comprehend the kind of world that implicitly sanctions a fate like this for a child. And I cannot help but find hope, somehow, buried deep within those eyes. Hope that life will one day be manageable; hope that one day people will be afforded more respect than they have found as naught but the instruments of policy. Hope that people like me will one day realize our place in the

lives of Hainas everywhere. It seemingly matters not what hope she holds; her

destiny was never hers to determine. Haina’s life to this point has been the product of forces well beyond her influence, set in motion years before her birth. She may be without a foot, but the world that took it from her is without collective heart.

In my opinion, legless Haina is still much better off. She hasn’t had time to lose heart, or to cultivate cynicism.

Blameless are the children, for they have no hand in creating the harms that afflict them.

I yearn so desperately to make the world a welcoming place for Haina. I want so badly to believe that children like her can live free of the strife they did not create. In this dingy hospital ward, standing in the presence of Haina’s quiet pain, it seems a quixotic pursuit. To lift up the cross borne by this and every other forsaken child’s frail shoulders is a task almost beyond comprehension. And yet hope remains alive.

I let my eyes drift away, catching those of the interpreter for an instant. All I need is that little moment to read from his glance the same wrenching grief, that awful sour truth of an unpleasant reality projected by my own pained countenance. I am rooted to the spot, unable to let go of Haina’s hand, equally unable to take my eyes off the interpreter. Years of life seemingly condense into a single moment. I know it will pass; eternity cannot contain this much suffering. He slowly brings forth a quiet sigh, while maintaining the resigned expression of a long-caged dog. I shudder under the weight of the anguish in this hospital ward.

All I want to do is cry or yell or throw my fist into something to express what words and thoughts cannot do alone. I temper the flare of sentimentality with the thought that all of my emotions cannot bring back a childhood lost. It’s everything I have, welled up in my throat, as I try to remain present.

I’m less than successful, drifting away from the trees back to the forest. I paint a picture in my head, a map of sorrow. It leads from Haina through her missing limb to the skeletal remains of the long-


ended military conquest of some forgotten regime; a relic of the past. Unfortunately, present history continues to be written by the politics of yesteryear, as Haina so regrettably learned. For her, the war is not over. For me, the war is not over. For all of us, this war has not ended.

She smiles. Not the smile of a child, but the wistful, weary smile of one that sees the end in sight. The smile of one that has nothing left to lose. I cry, reduced to nothing more than this powerless quivering mass of flesh that biology will not allow

me to escape. It doesn’t matter. The feeling is still too real. I force a smile in kind, but I can’t convince even myself; it hurts too badly.

I silently wonder, when can it end? When will humanity gain a foothold against the tide of ill will that swells and surges, crashing relentlessly on the shores of our existence? When will we emerge into the sunlight of a shared humanity found? It is the question held aloft in Haina’s beleaguered eyes. It is the question engulfing my agitated mind. And it is the question we must all ask pointedly of ourselves.

AERIAL SILKPhilip Vukelich


“An extra hot triple tall breve vanilla latte with chocolate sprinkles,” the barista chimes as she places the steaming hot drink onto the counter, prompting you to reach forward with the same certainty that you would had she called you by name, only to find your firm callused fingers suddenly enmeshed with a soft creamy quintet sporting colored nails of cotton candy pink that belong to the platinum blonde who now meets your gaze over the contested prize with large espresso colored eyes that have grown even wider with an amazement that you suppose must be mirrored in your own at this rare confluence of tastes, an intriguing coincidence that urges you to concoct on the instant that witty bon mot which will occasion the awkward yet serendipitous introduction where the two of you discover over identical coffee-flavored drinks that you both attended the same school at the same time, yet somehow never met because while she was playing golf along with second chair cello in the jazz band, you were playing linebacker for the football team or else bit pieces for the drama department, such as the irascible Constable Dogberry in Much Ado About Nothing, a humorous role made memorable by the unexpected glee of the audience at your delightfully droll rendition of the line “I am an ass,” the offhanded mention of which causes her to suddenly recall your performance with a tinkling laugh accented by a Betty Boop-like arching of her eyebrows that you find so utterly captivating that, before you know it, you have asked her out on that first casual date which will result in the speculative kiss that leads a few nights later to a candlelit dinner, accompanied by a bottle of expensive red wine, that culminates in urgent half-dressed sex on her living room floor followed by her obvious delight at your unexpected gift of next-day roses which provokes intense encore performances that increase in frequency until it only makes sense that the two of you share first a bed, then a house, then the dreams that you have never told anyone else, until the day arrives at last when she walks down the aisle toward you looking like a princess – swathed in folds of white that remind you of the foam on a breve latte – to join you finally at the steps of the altar, looking

NO IF’S, AND’S, OR BUT’SMike Andrews

more beautiful than she will ever seem again, where you interlace your fingers together like you did on that very first day, etching into your mind a memory that you will replay a dozen years later, after her blonde hair has returned to its natural brunette, on a day when you wolf down a hurried breakfast of dry toast chased with cold coffee before you head toward the door, where you are forced to step over the golden retriever sprawled out on the floor who is watching the Siamese cat lounging on the sofa, who in turn is keeping a speculative eye on the lone goldfish as it floats contentedly in its bowl atop the tiger-eye granite countertop, a useless sacrosanct trio that you recognize only as another trinity of mouths to feed, incidental adjuncts of the three children whom you hardly ever see because you now work overtime at the office to pay off a jumbo mortgage along with two car loans while you know she spends hours each day chatting online with her psycho half-sister who is always trying to borrow money, when she isn’t out splurging on 600-thread-count pima cotton king-size sheets that you scarcely have time to sleep on anyway, only to finally become conservative in the matter of the lacy black lingerie that you remember so fondly from the days of the living room floor, as she favors now a collection of colorless utilitarian undergarments that dangle periodically from the shower curtain rod like white flags of surrender, symbols of how seldom there is a meeting of either minds or anatomy anymore, how any mention of your dreams is met immediately these days with the reminder that you now have responsibilities which preclude a career in theater, especially for someone whose greatest line was “I am an ass,” leaving only the physical for which she is now always too tired, complaining instead how hard it is to keep up with everything when you are never home to help, which makes you increasingly aware of how with each passing day she has begun to sound like your mother, even begun to look like your mother, an entire tableau of the future that unfolds in your mind in the time it takes to unlace your fingers from hers, leaving the words, “You bitch,” poised on the tip of your tongue as you smile, then say politely, “I’m sorry – I’ll wait for the next one.”


SPRINGTIME MORNING ART SHOWGeorge Harding

Drip, drop, plip, plopThe rainbow still visible while the mists remainThe birds are twittering, like the audiences’ murmurs of amazement

As I’m clearing up from my mid-morning mealI watch the last lingering mist dissipateAs Mrs. Nature too does her cleaning up

Drip, drop, plip, plopThe sounds of art in the makingWhile the greatest painter of all works her craft on the world

Drip, drop, plip, plopThe rain begins to fall on a Saturday morningIt quickly accelerates to a drizzle, pitter-pattering on the roof

As I sit here on my Saturday morningSipping sweet tea, watching the rain come downContemplating the moods of Mother Nature

Drip, drop, plip, plopI hear it splashing in the puddles,As she spreads her nurturing rains.

I notice the rain abatingAs the sun shines through the clouds and a golden ray of sunlight shoots downAnd as I toast a bagel I see a rainbow forming

Drip, drop, plip, plopThe occasional shower tippety-tapping on the leaves of the treesAs she smiles with her colorful rainbow and that ray of sunlight, pleased with her work

I glance up between pages of my latest paperback fantasy novelWatching the rain come and go, with each movement of the cloudsEach ray of sunlight coming down like the smile of a toddlerlooking at his finger-paints and checking his progress

Drip, drop, plip, plopThe last lingering droplets are coming down; flowers are blooming, every petal spreading outCatching sunlight while the clouds roll back to reveal her brilliant shining face

I set my book down and bask in the sunshineAnd I find myself grinning right back at Mrs. NatureVery much impressed by the unveiling of her masterpiece

A DOOR FOR USWieteke Holthuijzen


FORGETWieteke Holthuijzen


RACE AND THE UNIVERSITY HONORS PROGRAMMegan “Micah” KehreinA Synopsis of an Academic Exploration

Background:According to University of Idaho demographic

data from 2010, just under twenty percent of UI students come from diverse racial or ethnic backgrounds. Based on my own personal observations of the honors community on this campus, I knew that these demographics for students of color would be much lower within the University Honors Program (UHP) community. UHP Director, Stephan Flores, admitted, “it is very low,” but he did not know quite how low as the office has not had a review done that included student race and ethnicity. The Associate Director, Alton Campbell, said that it was “at best a few percent. It doesn’t begin to mimic our diversity on campus.” Both recognized the issue, but were perplexed by how to solve it, as UHP invites all prospective, transfer, and current students, including students of color, who meet the initial criteria to join the program each semester, and they have even sent out personal invitation to students of color in the past. After analyzing findings of race and education scholars and interviewing the Director and Associate Director of the UHP, I have realized that this incongruence based on race and ethnicity in the UHP is related to two broad issues: external institutional and structural biases in the admission process and an eclipsing of diversity in courses and programming.

External Institutional and Structural Biases:The bulk of UHP students are admitted to the

program when they are first-year students initially applying to the University of Idaho based mostly on their GPA and score on college admission tests. This is problematic for two reasons: college admission tests have bias and educational inequality is rampant in the United States. Based on this information, the UHP is not including all students who have the potential to succeed in this more educationally rigorous community.

According to The Shape of the River, college admission tests are not effective predictors for the

success of students of color, particularly African Americans (Bowen and Bok 1998). Bowen and Bok’s study of academic outcomes showed that SAT score did not have as much to do with the graduation rate of black students as the selectivity of the school they applied to did (Bowen and Bok 1998). That is, the black students with the lowest SAT scores “graduated at higher rates the more selective the school they attended” (Bowen and Bok 1998). In fact, black students with the lowest SAT scores in the most selective schools had a higher graduation rate than any other group of black students, as well as a higher graduation rate than white students who had similar scores and were placed in similar schools (Bowen and Bok 1998). This data shows that graduation rates cannot be tied entirely to college admission test scores and disrupts the idea that using SAT scores in conjunction with high school GPA is the best predictor of student success in college.

While the UHP has other ways to admit students, that is their extenuating circumstances application and inviting students who have high cumulative GPAs each semester, the program does not specifically target students whose scores may have been adversely affected by cultural bias, stereotype threat, educational tracking, or other institutional and structural biases. This leaves the burden of application on students who have already faced hardship in their education. As long as UHP primarily uses these biased tests in their admission process, they will have a difficult time overcoming institutional and structural biases to create an educational environment that is reflective of the greater racial and ethnic diversity of the University of Idaho, the State of Idaho, or the nation as a whole.

Eclipsing of Diversity:The UHP curriculum is said to be a “diverse

curriculum, including special topic courses and innovative seminars, [serving] a variety of needs and interests.” However, the majority of the classes taught do not engage issues of race and ethnic


relations. One could argue that there are options available in the UHP curriculum, as there is usually at least one class offering each semester that has more of a diverse focus. However, it is not integrated into the curriculum for all classes. Additionally, the faculty members that teach honors courses are seldom from racially diverse backgrounds. While this is not entirely the fault of the UHP as individual departments select the courses and the faculty that teach them, it still creates a culture within honors that, for the most part, eclipses issues of diversity.

Race and education scholars argue that if programs for gifted students want to increase the racial and ethnic diversity of their programming their must be a focus on multicultural education and on “the recruitment and retention of minority students in gifted education” (Ford, Grantham, and Harris 1996:72). The argument is that if programs and schools want students from diverse racial backgrounds to participate in honors classes, then these programs and schools must be sure to include educational material that will create a culture of inclusion and reduce the chance that students will feel alienated or isolated (Ford et al. 1996). Aside from the obvious diversification of classes and faculty, an important aspect of multicultural education, especially within honors programs, is removing any semblance of an assimilationist approach and replacing it with a pluralist view (Ford et al. 1996). Using curriculum that accurately depicts the socio-historical contexts of different racial and ethnic groups can do this (Ford et al. 1996). Additionally, when these materials fall short, it is also important to point out any omissions, biases, and stereotypes (Ford et al. 1996). Ford, Grantham, and Harris (1996) conclude that this cannot be a reality without culturally competent faculty teaching the courses.

Even with the best of recruitment efforts, the UHP will not be able to fully recruit and retain students of color until their course of study becomes more pluralistic and their extracurricular programming becomes more multicultural. If the UHP wishes to expand their membership to include students from different racial and ethnic backgrounds, immediate action must be taken to diversify the content that is transmitted to students, the faculty who transmit the information, and the way the content is transmitted. Without these efforts, the UHP will remain relatively homogenous.

Conclusion:While nothing about the UHP is overtly racist,

practices in place, ones that are mirrored in honors programs all over the country, have created an environment that is not advantageous for students of color. If the UHP wants to continue promoting diversity, they need to reconsider their admission process. Additionally, the UHP needs to have a more multicultural, inclusive focus. In order for UHP to be able to say it is a safe and accepting place for those from diverse backgrounds, there needs to be courses and programming in place that reflect this ideal. These solutions will cost little money and take little more effort than is already goes into the UHP and, in turn, work around the funding issues that UHP and the University of Idaho as a whole are facing. With a cognizant effort to overcome institutional and structural biases and prioritize multicultural education, the UHP can create a more inclusive, welcoming diverse focus that benefits all students regardless of their background.

If you are interested in reading the research essay in its entirety or in reviewing the references used, please email Megan “Micah” Kehrein at [email protected].

ARTFUL AIRMarco MendozaAir opens wings and sets you freeSeeing clouds to a new degreeHeaven’s gate you will pleaBreezing up the open seaHearing song of the bansheeThe wind carrying the hopeful gleeAiring at adverting artAll alone the heart will be


UHP CERTIFICATE RECIPIENTSNathan Dane Anderson, Spangle, Washington, Mathematics

Valerie Renee Barry, Beaverton, Oregon, Electrical Engineering

Emily Kay Brookhart, Idaho Falls, English, International Studies

Esme Renee Busch, Lewiston, Finance, Production/Operations Management

Thomas Jordan Howser, Boise, English-Professional Emph, Philosophy

Gentry Kip Jenkins, Troy, History

Meaghan Elisabeth Jones, Nampa, Anthropology, Chemistry

Victoria Raye Kampfer, Wilsonville, Oregon, Mechanical Engineering

Megan “Micah” Kehrein, Dixon, California, Sociology

Justin M. Knox, Saint John, Washington, Economics

Braden J. Lang, Boise, Economics

Paige Elizabeth Leffingwell Reid, Moscow, American Studies

Jessica Marie Morrow, Sandpoint, Management & Human Resources, Foreign Languages-French Opt.

Alex Shamus Nilson, Milton-Freewater, Oregon, Computer Science

Brendan Terence O’Donnell, Eagle, Philosophy

Katherine Anne Phelps, Philomath, Oregon, Mathematics

David Henson Royall, Moscow, Marketing, Foreign Languages-Spanish Opt.

Margaret Columbia Schoenfeld, Douglas, Alaska, Biology

Macy H. Swift, Yacoit, Washington, Foreign Languages-Spanish Opt., Elementary Education

Tasha Nicolette Thompson, Nikiski, Alaska, English

Leah Wegner, Moscow, Computer Science

Nicholas Anthony, Weires, Eagle, Chemistry

UHP CORE AWARD RECIPIENTSWendy Ann Banzhof, Kennewick, Washington, Civil Engineering

Kathryn Marie Barber, Mountain Home, Animal & Veterinary Sciences

Paige Holly Davies, Fairfield, Anthropology, Psychology

Amanda Rose Downen, Emmett, Foreign Languages-Spanish Opt., Mathematics

Brian M. Hare, Oldtown, Physics

Douglas Michael Kippes, Buhl, Biological & Agricultural Engineering

Daniel Klismith, Park City, Utah, English

Brady Wells McNall, Kuna, Materials Science & Engineering

Daniel Aaron Pitts, Genesee, Music Education, Music

Shianne Marie Salvadalena, Pullman, Washington, Psychology

Samuel Mannix Schmoker, Fairbanks, Alaska, International Studies

Jessica C. Stewart, Anchorage, Alaska, Biology

Christina Ariel Sullivan, La Verne, California, Ecology & Conservation Biology

Eva M. Thomas, Boise, Clothing, Textiles and Design

Amanda Clare Williams, Boise, Microbiology

Hailey Catherine Woodruff, Sandpoint, Civil Engineering

Nathan Aaron Yergenson, Moscow, Chemical Engineering, Chemistry

University of Idaho

Honors Program Student

Advisory Board

P.O. Box 442533

Moscow, ID 83844-2533

[email protected]

[email protected]

the looking glass | spring 2012

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