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ttndreanSpring 1993

The Andrean

Editors

Lana AbrahamMolly HigginsFritz McCallTarmla Small

Faculty Advisor

Kathryn Blenkinsop

Layout Staff

Remmington CurtisWill PorterCarolyn Wirth

Staff

Laura BarnesDesi BlissJenn BourneAlyssa BowersKeri BrennerRachel BurnetteJen CheekHalimah DeLaineKip DiggesMandy FischerJon FrankUnique FraserEmmy Grinwis

Stony GrunowJill HindleCaroline HoogenboomCarl HudigRoland HughesAnne KellerWanda KraikitCharlie MeyerHolly MillerJohn MorganMary NicklinAlex Nuti de BiasiLisa OlsenKatie PaddenAli PapsonWhit PilsonAndrew PipesGinna PurringtonJames ReeveUlla RickertStanley RobertsRachel RuaneDominic SeiterleJane ShafferJane ShepherdGrant S humanAnna StandoffDionne ThomasJocelyn TorioAbi WhiteClaudine WileyHeidi WilliamsJonathan Williams

Once again, we would like to thank Donna Speers for the extensive use of her computer.

Table of Contents

Beach by Emmy GrinwisPrint by Rachel RuaneShort Story by Kristopher TaftCharcoal Drawing by John MorganMother Nature by Lana AbrahamPoem by Ginna PurringtonInk Drawing by Christopher Reiger"Skittle" - e - doo - bop, A Song by Whitney SkillcornShort Story by Fritz McCallPhotograph by Stony GrunowTorture AnonymousCharcoal Drawing by Katie ForrestalCharcoal Drawing by S tephanie BruderCharcoal Drawing by John MorganThe Spiral Night AnonymousMonoprint by Holly DunlapCrying for Beauty by David SkaffInk Drawing by John MorganShort Story by Emmy GrinwisPrint by Halimah DeLaineOvercast by Meg MusserCharcoal Drawing by Jenn BourneShort Story by Robert HargroveInk Drawing by Christopher ReigerPoem by Rachel RuanePhotograph by Shanna SamarasingheCharcoal Drawing by Fritz McCallShort Story by Nathaniel JenkinsPhotograph by Ryan LewisPencil Drawing by Alysia OakleyCharcoal Drawing by Molly HigginsThe Hymn Anonymous

The front cover is a charcoal drawing by John Morgan.

page 2pageSpage 4—6page 6page?pageSpageSpage 9page 10—11page 11page 12—13page 12page 13page 14—15page 16page 16page 17page 17page 18page 19page 20page 21page 22—23page 23page 24page 24page 25page 26page 26page 27page 28inside back cover

Beach

"last one insa rottenegggggggg!"she screamed.and I jumped like an idioton the burning sandwhile HE dancedgracefullydown to the sea whichwelcomed him like alover.When I reached theocean itspitme upit was coldthe sand was hotand I had nowhere to go.So I stood therebewildered.one foot inone foot outinoutnowhere to standalone and exposed.while theyHE and shesplashed aroundtogetherand the seawould notlet me in.

The cold wet pavement released the last of the day's heat as the night fell. The shadowslifted themselves off the pavement into the faint glow of the streeet lights, where I glimpsed theirdark and evil intentions. They seemed to smile at my companion and me, laughing at ourignorance. We walked for the sake of walking, seemingly into the brightness of the moon. Perhapswe would be protected.

We passed the warm glow of houses and families and finally reached the cold, unfriendlycement of the parking lot. Out of naivety, stupidity, or fatigue we rested on a tall, clean, whitecurb. She and I talked at ease. It was a healthy and spiritual conversation, concerning future plans,friends, and family. Both lost in each other's voices, we peered out into the deep sky at eachinsignificant star. Looking away from the serenity of the night, our eyes suddenly connected, andI caught her panic. The creeping shadows seemed to mold themselves into three dark figures ofmadness and cruelty. Their cold presence penetrated through my body, freezing the core of myspirit. My friend clenched my arm, returning me to the moment.

Somehow, with the knowledge of their presence, I knew what was about to happen. Itwould be brief, yet it would never leave me.

The now familiar figures continued their path towards us, with muffled and dark voices.I reached the awkward moment, where they were too close for a glance over my shoulder and anescape. My companion and I tried to resume a shaky conversation, but due to their presence weboth froze to the white curb, forming a solid fortress. Wincing my whole body while they passed,I gazed at my friend and sighed. She did not share my feelings. For the second time her panicseemed to flow out of her affectionate hand and into my body.

They paused. Turning around, the black face of the larger figure glared at me. We didnot connect. His eyes burned a cold fire. He seemed separated, possessed maybe. His eyes seemedto move out of his head probing mine. All rationality had left him.

Calling to the other figures, he ordered one of them to hit me. Grasping to comprehendthe situation and with total disbelief, I hoped their attack would be brief, and responded the onlyway I could think of: relax and it will soon be over.

His bony fist struck my jaw, sending "a sharp sliver of pain to the back of my neck.Shaking it off, I fluttered with a plea of forgiveness. Responding, the larger figure orderedanother crack to my jaw, and another, and another, and another. The repetition of his firingpiston fist was only broken by my friend's screams of horror and shock.

The larger figure seemed crazed and responsive only to some insatiable call forbrutality and suffering. His exertion of power over weaker creatures seemed to excite anddrive him to a higher plateau of existence.

The blood began to swell in my jaw, spreading through my face, pulling tighter andtighter, until my breath became shorter, and everything around me became a smear. I felt likea tortured animal; I was completely helpless. Building up inside me was a frustration, not ananger. All I wanted was for them to stop, so that my friend and I could go home. Again Irelaxed, letting my body go limp, while I was beaten and thrown around like a half dead fish.

Grabbling on my hands and knees, sputtering blood out of what seemed every cavityof my body, I reached for her aiding hand. She was not there. Brushing the hair from myeyes I spotted her little figure stumbling and searching around the lot, screeching in a hoarse

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shrill. Fumbling on the ground, I forced myself to my feet. Adjusting my clouded vision, Irecognized her shape sitting next to me, held there by one of the cryptic shadows. His darkhand, on her head, seemed to melt around her every curve, suffocating her breath and con-stricting her movement. Standing again, I futilely fumbled with some sort of rationalizationand plea for reconciliation.

We stood alone. He stood gaping down on me with eyes widened by my bloodshed.I pleaded. Taking a heavy dark glass bottle, he brought it to her head and declared that if Ididn't sit down and do what he ordered, she wouldn't live. I sat down next to my shiveringfriend.

Looking at the following few minutes, the fear seemed to stop my heart, ceasingevery living, moving, pumping tissue in my body. I was going to be forced to do somethingagainst my will, a deep violation of self.

Encircling us like a wild animal with its prey, he laughed. He gripped the bottle likeit was an extension of his arm, waving and pointing at us, waiting and watching for ourtwitches of anticipation. Walking to the rear of our breached fortress on the curb, I turnedaround, and immediately received a kick to my head. He leaned over and shouted for me toturn around or "she was going to get it." Obeying, I braced myself and prayed that the nextattack would be brief.

The attacks came with power. My head flew violently with his heavy foot. Keepinga fix on the ground in front of me, I desperately tried to remain strong for her. The hotbubbling blood ran through my smashed nose and swelling jaw, and I grasped for her bodyand found the tender hand that I was searching for. Kicking it away, my persecutor raised theextension of his arm and brought it down upon my quivering skull. The clang of the bottlerang through my ears and what seemed every tortured creature. Feeling the sharp frigid crackof the bottle, my eyes blackened and I could no longer feel her. Again the heavy bottle camesmashing across my skull, cutting, and then shattering. With my blurred vision, I made outthe shining of the shattered glass while it skipped across the pavement. Numbly, I reached formy head, touching the mangled and blood soaked hair. My flesh absorbed more blows. Thesoft glow of the street lights flickered out, and groping to see, I collapsed, wishing to sleep.As I faded, my body seemed to bend backwards, and I began to spin in an infinite space.

They disappeared. Stealthily, they fell back into the darkness. I was alone as I lay inthe hospital bed.

After the incident, I realized from watching the news and reading the paper, thatthese actions, usually unnoticed or ignored, happen everyday, everywhere, and most of thetime, somebody is left dead. I was thankful for my life and more importantly, that my friendhad been left unharmed. Thinking of my refusal to respond with any violence, I was relievedthat the situation had gone the way it had. I figured that if I had tried to fight, they wouldhave hurt my companion. I also thought of what I had absorbed for her protection. If it hadbeen anyone else I am sure I would have done the same, despite the consequences.

An overwhelming desire to return to the security of a warm embrace, a soothing5

word, and home, overtook me. They had invaded my dignity and breached my fortress,leaving me disgusted and outraged about the incident. Yet I had no contempt or desire forrevenge. I was only curious as to their motives. What was the reason? What propelled him?

I remembered the tension and separation between my assailant and me. The fact thathe was black and I white enraged him immensely. Through the sheer fury in his eyes I couldtell he only saw my skin, and there was no hope of understanding each other.

While the nurse tugged at my scalp, inserting my stitches, I realized what had reallyhappened. The futility of all my actions against his power forced me to realize that there aresituations where nothing can be done. Dealing with it at the time, I think I hid my pride anddignity, separating them from my body. Body and soul disconnected, I allowed myself toendure the pain. From the moment he turned and faced me, I knew of what was to follow. Iaccepted, and by this, I feel I was able to tolerate his brutality.

Reflecting back now, after four months, I realize how my view has broadened.Previously, tensions between the races had gone unnoticed by me. The thought of these hadnot touched my life, and, as far as I was concerned, they had little effect on my life. Now, Irealize that the struggle not only between races, but also religions and classes, howeverimbedded into history, will never be erased. Hatred will always exist, however undesirable.

He seemed to take something away from me. My security had been breached, butthe situation somehow seemed to degrade my masculinity. I now find myself working harderboth in sports and in everyday work, hoping to prove myself to people. This is not always aconscious decision, but, despite my denial, he does live with me.

The street lights' glow reflects the cold pavement, and again the shadows approachme. I continue towards them, wincing. I have too much faith in humanity to be forced tohide. I walk boldly towards the darkened group; surrounded and engulfed by them, I carry ontowards the moon. Protected.

he has muppet eyelidslike round plunky melonswaxen with a thickblack fringe

and when theypop!open he leans forwardwith an insane blue glare

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Follow my chin upwards, to my ear, and then watch as my jaw crosses my face,breaking to form a short bulging chin and two pale lips. Follow those lips into my nose, andwatch the lines curve out, over my eyes. Circle those eyes, still untouched, with eyebrowsand cheekbones and retrace, past the harsh plastic of my glasses, into my forehead. Watch itspread beneath the mop I call my hair and enter the wiry entanglements it presents. Then,lastly, go to my eyes, and look at how they sit in the small fleshy cups to either side of mynose. Follow each carefully sculpted wrinkle, until you reach the white ball inside and slowlyinterpret its volume. Continue inwards until everything is black, look deep inside, and drawwhat you see.

Self portraits are never easy, but their value is proportionate to their difficulty. Thereis something distinctly karmic about sitting alone in an art building's loft, staring at a dimly litmirror and your reflection within it, while trying to reproduce the mirror's immaculate lineson the blank paper in front of you. The creative process, or some phase within it, strangelyjustifies even the longest and most tedious sessions beneath a hot bulb and the mirror's criticaleyes.

Tonight, like many others, began slowly. I came to the art building like a pilgrimapproaching Mecca, in hopes of fulfillment. However, once inside the building, seatedcomfortably in my corner, I realized that tonight's work was no exception from the norm, itwould take time and energy. Inspiration could not carry me forever. The room, distractingwith its carefully-lit models, deeply-grained charcoals, and blaring music, demanded atten-tion; my tentative lines, periodically erased, demanded freedom; and I, suddenly frustrated bymy momentary inability, demanded peace.

Something wasn't working, and I couldn't blame the pencils. I could only stormdownstairs, disgusted with myself and the erasure-marked page I had left behind. Thespiraling green stairs, lit by the small incandescent lights, all seemed rapt by my insecurity,and something inside, half laughing, took pleasure in stepping on them, one by one. I hatedthat good work had to start like this, but I knew what I had to do. I plastered my hair back,changed the radio station, laughed at the intense look on my face, and slowly crawled backupstairs, acutely aware that caring too much could make a professional baseball player miss aWorld Series winning out, even when it was a ground ball to first. It seems that recklessabandon at the critical moment is often the only sane way to react. With this thought in mindI began again, retracing the lines I'd stupidly erased before.

Then, without my concerned erasures, the lines curved quickly, and I felt myselfdrawn into the warm shadows they described. As the room and its music began to recede, Ifound myself entranced by my mirror image, relaxing, as my mind, rather than the page, wentblank. Suddenly alone, away from the world in a dark quiet void, I watched the lines continueautonomously, leaving me to savor the intense solitude that accompanies this centered state. Irealized that, although acutely aware and focused, I had lost touch with the minute details thatsurrounded me before and, amidst the new-found peace, had looked inward.

I finished with my eye, slowly drawing the last reflections across my pupil as themusic crept back into my mind. Sitting, redfaced, spent, and satisfied, I turned off the lightand headed down the stairs, still half-laughing at their spiral green forms. The lights, once

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malicious, seemed only to light the charcoals above, while the radio seemed only to disturb adeeper impenetrable quiet. Strolling out into the cool night, I could almost forget everything Ihad done before, except for the peaceful center I had found. It was somehow resonant in thequiet that surrounded me, universal in its focus.

I find this void in everything I do well, from juggling to playing lacrosse. However,regardless of its medium, it is the same creative process, the same void that lets me lookinward.

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Torture

I love herShe knowsbut she doesn't want my heartletting me taste her breathtaking me into heavenI lose myselffalling into a trap she doesn't knowshe createdbelieving she loves me tooonly to find myselfwalking the halls alonestricken with obsessionI burn and acheso I try to please herfeeding the drugbut only in vainI can't leave herI don't want tolose the feelingpain and ecstasywhat does she wantnothingpermanentthe answers in a bookat homebut she can't understandwhat he saysexcept she is asradiant as the sunbut more beautifuland I miss hereven when I'm with herI want to be inside herheadwhat is she hiding

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I search foremptinessin her maze of thoughtsshe/s happywithout mebut I disintegratewithout hersuddenly whole in herpresencea slave to the addictiontormented by fears oflosing herremembering the expression oflove between usin a differentdimension

r reality rings in my earthe pain returnsif I survive one more day intortureshe'll get mehighso I live for herknowing that somedayI'll leave withmemoriesof the demon and thegoddesssearching all my life forsufferingbecause it wasgood to sufferI must fall inhell to findheavenagain

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the spiral night

One night while I was walking*"1

through silvery gardens of stoneI met a man with icy handsHe found me all alone

The wall was highThe gate was barredThe garden ground was cold and hardHe shoved me downHe ripped me throughThe cold night sky was deathly blueThe stars they were so far awayThe thoughts they ran through night and day

I got up wet and caked with mudI got up sick and caked with bloodHe left the frozen way he came,Back through the spiral nightBack to sick retch, stickyDisappeared out of my sight

One night while I was walki;through silvery gardens of stoiI found the lies I never dreamed,They found me all alone.

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Crying for Beauty

There I look intomystery.Insidemy body burns for it.What can I do, say,to describe just what I feel?

It is you,your face,a flowing selfthat cannot be denied.Some special beauty I should run from.Some special beauty that I cannot forget

NewnessdrivesMy channelled visionand it overcomes,confuses.

A lie,A high,Somethingin your eyethat reminds me ofFire.

Captivating,Beautiful,Fascinatingand warm.Intangible,by force.

WhileSomethinginside mecries,forBeauty.

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She looked outside at the snow which cushioned all the sounds. The tree rose severelyout of the perfect white powder, pretentious as if it walked on water. And the snow lay as ifchained to the ground, silent, marred only by the birds' tracks that scampered off to the shelter ofthe nearby forest.

She slowly turned her head and gazed around her. The suitcase on her floor, lay therenow filled for about three days maybe? She didn't know or really care. It was all right to live outof a suitcase. It only got annoying when things started to unfold and acted indignant when youtried to fold them up again. But then her eyes wandered over to the books which lay untouchednow for two weeks maybe? Books that were useless jumbles of words and numbers anyway thatmost people only feigned interest in so that some almighty authority could dub them as "edu-cated." Then to the door which stood cracked open, but she too lazy to close it, too lazy to care.And then down to her hands, which she opened and closed to see if they still worked. And thering her mother had given her once which had some legend attached about some bird in eternalcaptivity. Pity.

Then he caught her eye, walking outside her window, probably going to come aroundand knock on her door in a bit. And the footprints that he left would keep walking until theymelted, with the treads that lay unwilling against the whiteness.

And then the knock, but she too tired to answer "go away" and wishing she had closed itearlier, just sat still. So he opened it, and she wondering "what if.." What if I had been withsomeone else and why does anyone bother knocking because they just open the door anyway.

"Hey!" didn't smile. Then he sat at the end of the bed, dragging the corner down causingmy legs to shift. "How are you, feeling better?" asking me, you over there, sitting precariously atthe edge of my bed, you, why do you care? "Hey," again. What if I don't answer, he'll go away, Iknow it. And she lifted her hand up to push back the hair wich seemed to engulf her face, sniffedand said, "hmmmmmmm."

He shook his head and smiled that stupid smile and said, "So that's the way it's going tobe, huh. Because I won't let you." Oh, shut up and leave me alone, let me do it alone, the whole,long, endless time.

"Why won't you let me help you?" and my hand in his now, lying there, him squeezing itand me not feeling anything. I looked back out the window and saw footprints he had left andcried. She cried, and he didn't realize, so he hugged her. And she too lazy to push him away,tried to stop. And the footprints just stayed there, forever they would, till the end of the world.And she couldn't stop now, and he thinking it was "coming all out, let it all out" but she too lazyto tell him he was wrong.

And later, when she had stopped, "it's only a little part of your life." A little part of mylife. It is my life. "I'll take it off your hands when it's ready." Yeah, you will.

And then he left, maybe an hour or six after he came in, and me not saying a word tohim the whole time. And he thought the whole time we were having a conversation. And heleaving with a hop in his stride because he thinks everything is settled now, everything's happy.But he doesn't know what's under the covers with her, covered up safely in her hand, with thesmooth metal, and the simple click that would end their lives. And right before, she looked outthe window again and saw the sun. The sun which came out from behind the wall and slowlybegan to melt the snow.

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Overcast

I looked into the sky at dust —The far horizon burnedThe whisps of sun would soon be goneAs clouds of anger turned.

Entranced, I stare at nature's warIn grievance with the fire;That radiance suspends its glow,That Beauty should expire.

With Frozen, blank and silent fearI watch the sacrificeSure that hope will soon emergeBeyond the dark with life.

In pain I will endure the stormTo glimpse the passion flowKnowing Anger's end withdrawalAllows the light to glow.

A simple battle waged for sportWhere Beauty will prevailAnd whose rays would lose their shineWithout the Anger's stare.

Vowing that its brilliance shallBe potent ever last,The Beauty will remain exposedAnd never overcast.

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When I was in the eighth grade in Shreveport, Louisiana, James Pickens died. Hewas an elderly black man who had worked for my great-grandmother for more than fortyyears. James had taught my grandfather, my father, and me how to throw a baseball and kicka football. He had been an integral friend of my family for as long as I could remember, andhis death was a shock to us all. But it was only at his funeral that I realized what a valuedmember he was to his church and the community as a whole, and not just our family. On adeeper, and perhaps even more important level, James' funeral taught me a great deal aboutmy perceptions of life, and about human nature in general. At James' funeral, I was taught ina dramatic way that the differences between people of different races are superficial. For thefirst time in my life, I was forced to realize that, regardless of how different people may seem,we all share fundamental similarities which seem obvious if we only look for them.

When my great-grandfather was at the height of his successful career in the oilbusiness, he hired James Pickens as a handyman/butler/chauffeur. James worked for him forseveral, years until my great-grandfather'died unexpectedly in a plane crash. My great-grandmother took James aside and explained that she did not think she could afford his salary,nor, as a widow, would she require a fulltime household employee. James, who had by thistime become as attached to the family as the family was to him, said that, on the contrary,now my great-grandmother needed him more than ever, and to just pay him when she could.This was the start of a remarkable relationship which only ended with James1 death someforty-five years later.

Being only thirteen, I had not attended many funerals, and those were solemn, statelyservices at St. Mark's, the beautiful Episcopal Cathedral which we attended in Shreveport.My parents had told me that James' funeral at his Southern Baptist church would be a far cryfrom services to which I was accustomed, but I was still unprepared for what I was to experi-ence. When I entered the chuch, I noticed somewhat skeptically that instead of dignified,polished flagstone, a worn carpet covered the floors; a simple podium replaced the ornatelycarved pulpit I knew so well at St. Mark's. The altar, a huge gothic masterpiece of carvedstone and mosaics at St. Mark's, was little more than a table at James' church. When I lookedat the program, I was shocked. Instead of the usual order of psalms, lessons, prayers, andhymns, I saw that this service was to be composed of seven sermons and an anthem by thechoir. At St. Mark's, sitting through a single sermon was torture; how was I to endure seven?The congregation at James' service was almost entirely black, with the conspicuous exceptionof my large family. I felt completely out of place and sought comfort in the several pewsoccupied by Hargroves.

The service began with a sermon. An elderly black preacher who had known Jamessince childhood began his talk. I was amazed. Instead of the long, well-prepared, complexsermons which had plagued my childhood at St. Mark's, this man preached loudly andemotionally, without reading from a prepared text. His sermon was punctuated with cries of"Amen" and 'That's the truth" from the congregation, and, as it progressed, the preacherpicked up steam. By the end of his fifteen minute sermon (a length that would have provokednothing short of rebellion at St. Mark's) he was enumerating the many contibutions of James

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Pickens to the congregation (One summer James and his sons had replaced the roof of thechurch). His emotion captivated me. For the first time in my life, I was listening to a priestconducting a religious ceremony from the heart. I was disappointed when it was over, butonly temporarily. As the service continued, three similarly emotional men gave sermons, andsoon an hour had passed that I had scarcely noticed. After the fourth speaker, my fathernudged me in the arm and told me to look at my program. The next speaker was to be R.Clyde Hargrove, my great-uncle. I was shocked. Uncle Clyde was a graduate of Yale LawSchool, and was wearing a three-piece gray suit. How was he going to compete with thesermons of the other men? However, once he had begun, I began to see that Uncle Clyde wasnot completely out of his element. He had written a beautiful sermon about James Pickens asa friend to anyone who needed a friend. He talked about how James had started baseballleagues for the children of his neighborhood, and how James would never hesitate to helpsomeone who needed help with a curveball or a family problem. The congregation approved,for presently; they were shouting encouraging "Amen"s to Uncle Clyde just as they had to theother speakers.

After all of the speakers had finished, the choir stood to sing a hymn. Again, I hadnoticed skeptically that the choir did not wear any sort of robes and sat informally in foldingchairs behind the pulpit At one point during the sermons, a small child had toddled up to thechoir area and had climbed up onto one of the chorister's laps, where she remained for the restof the service. There was no formal conductor. At a signal from one of the singers, theyarose (the man still holding the little girl in his arms), and from then on they just sang. It wasone of the most beautifully harmonized songs I had ever heard. As they sang their soulful,spiritual hymn, the congregation processed around the open casket and back to their pews.Looking down at James' body, I remembered what the speakers had said about him; they hadspoken of James as a deacon in his church, a coach and counselor to countless children inShreveport, and as a friend to all who knew him. Here at his old church, seated among hisfriends, I no longer felt alien in these strange surroundings. In a church that lacked theresources of my own church, I realized that there was more to religion than just stained glassand ritual. By witnessing the congregation of this chuch clap and shout agreeement with whatmy Uncle Clyde had to say, I saw that the barriers between two disparate groups of people donot have to exist. The people in that church had nothing more in common with me and myfamily than the memory of a great friend, yet that was enough to create an atmosphere ofmutual respect and admiration in a city which is often riddled with racial strife and tension. IfJames was watching his funeral from above, I am sure he would have been pleased with whathe saw.

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Her face in the candlelighthaunts my sacred room,swimming, seething, gliding anger

what brutal songs I sanghold no memory of the notes that once were so firmly imprintedon our tongues

i turned away from her smotheringgroping lovethat threatened to stifle the harmonies that I struggled tocreate

Standing, alonein my sacred room I find myself,looking backinto the dark pools of rage that once controlled meso wholly

Stripped of former bloody rags that held my spirit inI wrap my fleshy arms around my human figureholding in what might explode

In these dark momentsI cleanse my soul, and escape into laughter.

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Baja, California, has one simple, frighteningly narrow paved highway that stretchesfrom Tijuana to Cabo San Lucas. It's a lonesome road, the type which allows plenty of time forthinking and quenches one's desire to explore the importance, effect, and mostly the beauty ofsolitude. A sense of wisdom in desolation prevails, and soft contentment blends uniquely withquiet fear to compose the nature of the road, a nature it shares with the Mexican people.

My father and I began our journey from San Diego, California, with one tangible goalof reaching the peninsula's southern tip by car without any time limits. The intangible goalswere innumerable, and maintaining an open mind seemed to be the key element of each one.As we rambled along in a dusty Suburban, words such as "basic", "simplicity", "roots", and"happiness" flashed through my mind. No trace of material excess existed, and, at first glance,the humble little towns seemed poverty-stricken. A closer look at the inhabitants of the townsproved this to be untrue. Young school boys and girls dressed in uniforms walked by the smallclay brick houses of their town with a light, carefree air. Large groups of old men sat togetherunder shaded porches made of cloth and drank beer, while young girls swept the dirt streets,taking great pride in their small plot of land. Never before in my life have I seen so manysmiles, so much joy, especially in areas which most Americans would view as run-down andundesirable. The term "standard of living" began to take on a new meaning as I contrastedthese humble towns with the class-oriented, obsessively progressive mindset of cities in theUnited States. Each observation of the uncomplicated, yet hidden, nobility of my surroundingsmade me question the direction of modern societies. It wasn't difficult to conclude that thislargely uneducated group of people held the knowledge of happiness. Minds clear of selfishcompetitiveness and material preoccupations revel in the simple pleasures of life.

Towards the end of our journey, the narrow Mexican road became easier to drive on,and I was gratefully accustomed to its crude construction. Once we reached the interstatehighways of Southern California, a great sadness engulfed my entire body. The drive was tooeasy, too fast, and too impersonal. Paved roads began to intersect and merge as we hummedalong; the surrounding atmosphere became hard to appreciate as cars zipped by us, trying to getahead in a race to the city.

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It

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The Hymn

Sounds fade,Holy darkness engulfs me,I speak;Endless confused words,Go unheard.

I plea to above,Justification for my abandonmentUnanswered.

I release my senses;Faintly, as a hymn,I descry the birdsThe cricketsThe wind...

Abandonment disperses,Comfort surrounds me;Why do we searchFor what we already have?