We started MU Voices in 2009 to reflect the myriad voices in the diverse and colorful Madonna community. In the fall 2013 issue of MU Voices, you'll see beautiful photography by Marian Gonsior, Betty Jean Hebel, and Cheryl Pullen. You'll read evocative poetry by Matt Tochman, Josh Bloom, David Laing, Sharonna Johnson, and more. You'll also experience disturbing but powerful essays by Valerie Sawyers, Aron Walls, and Hannah Faber, to name a few.
Please feel free to post encouraging comments to our writers and photographers. We all benefit from an appreciative audience. You can comment on this blog if you have a Google account such as gmail.
If you have not contributed to MU Voices, please consider doing so for our winter 2014 issue (deadline: March 14). We accept poetry, song lyrics, fiction, creative non-fiction, plays, reflections, artwork (as long as it's scanned and sent electronically), photographs, and even video links. We'd love to include an even broader swathe of our Madonna family. Every voice matters.
Frances FitzGerald, editor
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Aron's Journey, by Aron Walls
Is
what you consider normal actually normal? I lived where people stayed up all
night blasting rap music and police never came; where in the morning I would
find bullet remains on my grass. Well, this is my city: Detroit. My name is
Aron and all I want to know is why did my life have to turn out like that? The
thing is, my life was anything but normal. Growing up I was never really a good
kid in school.
I
turned so corrupt that the same day my mom would put me back in school after a suspension,
I would be walking home with another suspension within a matter of hours. As I
walked home, all I thought about was how powerful I felt fighting and nothing
else. When this kept happening, my mother had gotten tired of me and gave up on
me being anything in life. I just never cared about her feelings; all I just
wanted was to be remembered for the good I did or the bad. Even when she gave
up on me, she still punished me, for my mistakes, and when she got tired of
punishing me, she started calling my uncle. My Uncle Nig was stronger than her.
My uncle, who worked all day lifting steel, would not only punish me by chasing
me around his house, swinging a belt at me and not caring where it hit, but he
also cut off my braids..jpg)
It
wasn’t until 10th grade that I made a change. I was sitting at one of my acquaintances’
house, doing nothing. I don’t know why I was thinking about him, but all I
could think about was my granddad. All I could think about was him making fun
of me, laughing at me, taunting me.
In
school I would always get into an altercation that would end with me on a trip
home with a short-term suspension in my hand. My mother would always beat me
with a belt for getting into trouble, and I would promise never to get into
trouble again, knowing I was lying. The thing about me was I always wanted to
be the cool kid, or the tough guy. I had no friends and no one showed even the
slightest sign that they wanted to be my friend. So I decided to be the tough
guy. I then thrived to become the guy everyone feared.
He
and my mother kept giving me bad haircuts just to punish me. I would be so embarrassed
that I did not want to go to school, walk out of the house, or even look at my
family members. I hated my uncle for a long time, and felt as if he took away
my manhood and my pride.
What
they never realized in my family was that I
was bullied. I hated how I had to defend my pride at school, just to come home
and have it taken away. Because of that pride I tried so hard to defend, I
failed a grade. Yet every day, I still acted tough, as if nothing was wrong.
Every
day I went to school, and I had no friends and very few acquaintances. The few
people who talked to me would only talk about video games for a short period of
time. People who wanted to prove they were better than me would taunt me. They
threw bars of wet soap from the restroom at my face, pushed me in the hallways,
call me names, and even spit on me. All I did was give people what I felt they
had coming. I believed I was the punishment they deserved and received. I was getting hit at school, just to
come home and get hit again. I hated my mother and my uncle for a long time.
All I thought about day in and day out was killing them for not understanding.
As
time went by, my hatred grew. Day in and day out for years, all I saw was my
uncle beating me for getting into trouble. After a while, I grew to despise
him. His very existence enraged me. Every time I looked at my uncle, I was
enraged and felt as if I was going to die if I did not take him down. All I
could smell was my blood when he was around, but I also felt as if as if I was worthless.
I felt like I was nothing compared to him, and I knew that it was the truth. I
say this because I knew I could not win and I knew that physically I was weaker
than him, and because of this I hated myself even more than I hated him.
When
I entered high school, things went even further downhill from there. During the
first week of school I already had people who hated my guts, but I never really
cared. Within the first couple of weeks
I had gained some acquaintances from all different grade levels. By the time
the third month of school came, I was hustling snacks with them, charging
everyone outside of my group double what I had paid. One day a guy named Ice stole
some of the snacks and ran while I was talking to a teacher. What he did not
realize was that I was angered easily. My acquaintances and I found him in a
bathroom stall and beat him until we saw blood.
During
my 9th grade year, all I did was fight and skip school. Almost every day I was supposed
to be at school I was ether at the mall, downtown, or at my friend’s house
playing video games. My grades were so low, my cumulative GPA for 9th grade was
around a 1.0 on a 4 point grading scale. When I did get suspended for fighting
I had to stay home, take a thrashing from my mother or uncle, and clean
anything that was dirty in the house.
During
my 9th grade year, my family had a get-together for Thanksgiving. I sat in the
room next to the adults, just listening to everyone talk. I failed to
understand how I had become the topic of the conversation, but my mother was
telling everyone about the latest Aron screw-ups in school. My grandfather, who
never has much to say, spoke. He was telling everyone, “That boy is never going
to learn. He is just stupid.”
When
I heard him say that, I jumped up and walked into the room so he would know
that I heard him, but he didn’t care. All he did was walk up to me, look me in
the eye, and say, “You will never graduate high school; you will never be
anything. You will die in the street like a dog.” All I did was grimace him and
then I walked away. As I walked away, I heard him tell my mother, “That boy is
too far gone. It’s over for him.” I had never even realized how far I had been
falling, and even if I knew, I would not have cared.
I
imagined him standing over my grave, laughing, saying I was nothing, saying I
was never anything, and it enraged me. The thing different about this situation
was that I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to graduate from high
school and laugh in his face, as I thought he would do in mine. At this time, I
had already moved, and no one from the hood knew where I lived, so I just made the
change. I changed my number and begged my mom to enroll me in The Academy of
Public Leadership At Cody. This school was small and everyone knew everyone.
The environment was friendly and I actually felt as if I belonged there.
The
problem that I faced now was the classes I had failed. I had failed nearly half
of all the classes I had taken up until that point, and just thinking about
them made me want to quit. But I did not. I stayed after school every day of my
11th grade year until 8:00 p.m. just to make up some of my classes. In 12th
grade I had to stay after school every day until 6:00 p.m. just to make up my
work.
My
original plan was only to graduate from high school, but after people saw me
trying so hard, it was different. My principal, Mr. Mathews, my math teacher,
Ms. Raye, and my counselor, Ms. Meyers saw something in me that most people
never saw a glimpse of. They saw my potential and helped me get into college.
My
life has been far from what people consider normal, yet I am proud of my mistakes
and everything else. I am now a Madonna University freshman. I also graduated from
high school with my last two report cards being a 3.8 on a 4 point scale. I
would never have made it to where I am if it was not for all of my bad experiences.
Even though I have changed my life around, I am still defined by that one
moment when my granddad said, “That boy is too far gone.”
Monday, December 2, 2013
Her Grimoire, by Danijela Zivadinovic
.jpg)
Waking
up in the morning and getting out of bed was the hardest thing he had to do,
let alone leave the house. Clouds turned grey, causing heavy rain to fall,
pounding on the windows. Keeping focused wasn’t any easier, either. Every
second became harder. A day later after he received the news about his beloved
witch, he wished more than anything to see her again, to say words he had forgotten
to say. An hour later, he arrived at the memorial site and parked the car. He
sighed deeply.
Taking
a few steps forward, he reached her grave and knelt down. Reaching with his
thumb, he lightly traced the engraved letters, reminiscing. His eyes shut
tightly. In that instant, a spiritual hand rested on his shoulder, except he
could not feel anything. The ghostly figure of his witch knelt beside him.
The
man started to talk. “How can I talk to my favorite witch about feelings when I
kept them buried and never opened up before? How can I admit to secrets when this
whole time, I led you to believe something different? You are truly someone
special. You and I have history. That’s a starter. I had a nickname for you.
The nickname is little bird, my little bird. I want you to know that I always
cared about you, even if I had excuses for why I didn’t. Those reasons were
just a cover-up. The truth is, I kind of love you. I just lived in denial at
the time because I knew if I got too attached, everything would change, and now
it has.”
She
took a deep breath as she looked at him. He felt a waterfall of tears streaming
down his cheeks. She said, “I am closer than you think. Even though I appear
dead to you, that does not mean I am gone.”
She couldn’t remember a single time when he looked this devastated. “You
showed me enough,” she said quietly.
Suddenly,
he did the unthinkable and grabbed the Grimoire, turning to a page that had a
spell. He read it a few times to memorize how it was done. He said the words
for the spell, focused, concentrating. He had to do this right because if not,
there wasn’t an “undo” option. Seconds later, he felt himself being pulled into
a new dimension he couldn’t recognize. Everything about the place felt
unfamiliar. He blinked once and then a second time, eyes glancing everywhere.
He turned himself around, only to see his witch present. The Grimoire belonged
to her.
He stared at the ground while he responded to her. “It’s not fair. You are a young and beautiful
woman
who had her life taken away. There is so much you did not get to do and
experience.” He sighed deeply.
Perhaps
she did not understand why he was feeling like this, but she knew he had to
move forward. “I want you to make me a couple of promises, please.”
She
remained silent for a few minutes and took a deep breath. “Life is not about
having what you want. Life is about expecting the unexpected.”
“I
wish it were me who died instead. You are going to miss out on so much because
I wasn’t able to keep you safe.” A thought crossed his mind. “Is there a
reverse spell we can perform?”
Even
if there was a spell, it always had a price. “Maybe, but doing spells can cause
problems I know from memory. I would not suggest it to you.”
After
the witch spoke, he took a dagger and aimed it at his heart. He just wanted to die
and never live another day without the love of his life. His body was shaking
in fear. He brought the dagger closer and looked at her. “This is for you. This
is for us,” he told her with a whisper. His eyes were closed.
He
moved the dagger inside his flesh a little bit, making blood ooze from the
wound. “I’d rather bleed. It’s the best thing to feel.”
Before
he could go any further, she snatched the dagger away. “No! Don’t you dare think about it. This is not the answer. We will
meet again in the future.”
She
smiled warmly at him. “I will exist in your memories, just as you will in mine.
I won’t ever forget you.”
They
embraced each other tightly, tears forming in both of their eyes. He didn’t
want to let her go; she didn’t want to, either. Time was running out. Before he
knew it, he emerged into his own reality, alone.
Alarming Wake-up, by Kevin Finch
.jpg)
You are my alarm
The gadget that wakes me up in the morning
You are set in stone to get this stone of a man out of bed
And I must tell you a story…
You
went off, making noise in my ears, screaming at the top of your alarming lungs,
making silence escape my room
Startled,
I, with my half-asleep hand, put you on snoozeI am sorry for that.
Yet I do hear the conviction in your voice
But I made your job a lot harder than it needed to be
I made you a part of my daily routine of laziness.
How? Well, to be truthful, I hate mornings, because it is always so hard to get up
It may have to do with the fact that I don’t go to sleep on time
But anyway, I took advantage of you
Expecting you to wake me up with your oh-so-delicate touch of rambunctious noise within the close proximity of my body called my private space
I can still hear you saying, GET UP!
You know, the kind of noise that scrambles the thoughts in your head, disrupting dreams in your sleep, pushing reflection and meditation out of your brain into the air of nothing and no return
I am sorry for sleeping a second past 6:30
But in my defense, it was early
But
for the sake of the moment I guess you can say I misused you
Your
job description was always simple, but I made it difficultMaking you sound extra alarms, causing you to repeat the action of notification
As you played my favorite tunes, in which I must have made entertainment to go along with my disobedient slumber
I have abused and violated your snooze button
Unprepared
for the day, I stay in my bed of relaxation, knowing that it is time to get up
and be productive
I
stay in my bed of relaxation, knowing that it is time to start, initiate, and
innovateI stay in my bed of relaxation, knowing that it is time to shower, read, and meditate
I stay in my bed of relaxation, knowing that it is time to execute
I stay in my bed and plan around what could have been a productive start of my morning
Pushing your snooze button for 5 more minutes
As if I am asking you to allow me to slack off and waste more time
As if I really think I will be less tired and better off 5 simple minutes from now
Simple,
simplicity, easy, my day starts off a lot like this
My
unrealistic and careless acts of laziness has destroyed and destructed our relationshipMany people take you for granted every day, only requiring you to wake them up
But I may be worse
Because not only do I expect you to wake me
But I already know for a fact that I won’t get up
So instead of letting you rest until I can train myself to awaken
I
use you and make you do the work for me
It’s
just a lazy process of my imitation of “betterment”And I have involved you in this process, causing you to do the hard labor for me
This
is not the equivalent of a pity party
This
isn’t an effort to do better with a sob story on top of an apologyI promise I am not wandering around the weak and shallow aspects of my life
Pointing out error and flaw in my actions
But I am advocating for change
I am advocating for meaning
I am advocating for substance
I think it would be quite selfish of me to ask you to continue to wake me up every day
But as I sit here on hollowed ground in embarrassment and disappointment
As I try disciplining myself to wake up every day
Can you please tell me what the NEW purpose is for you in my life?
Because you, alarm, have already woken me
Do Not be Afraid, by Melissa Gardocki
So, I have had many inquiries about why I was
recently hospitalized, and I have given mostly vague answers to everyone. It
happened the day after my 30th birthday, and I will now never be the
same again, not because I turned 30 (which seemed tragic in itself) but because
of what I learned and began fighting. I went in lost and afraid and came out
strong and brave, and that is why I have chosen to share the little story of my
“birthday party,” or what I have referred to as my “coming-out party.” Not the
kind you’re thinking about, but the kind where you step out of the shadows. I
guess “coming out” applies to either one. Anyway, here it goes.
I have decided not to be ashamed of my
disease/disorder because—just like diabetes, asthma, high blood pressure (which
I have and which contributed to my hospital stay)—it is a disease/disorder in
which medical intervention is necessary. I know that many people out there
believe that mental illness is “all in your head” (well, it kind of is), or
that you should be able to just “snap out of it,” or that you are possessed by
demons or something of the like (which is super ridiculous). My point is that
there is such a huge stigma that
still exists. This is true even after recent scientific evidence has linked
most, if not all, mental illnesses with genetics and “mis-firings” of the
brain, and/ or too much or not enough of one, two, or multiple
neurotransmitters being released or not being released in the brain. But just
like people who are gay, people with a mental illness are often looked at as
attention-seeking, crazy sinners or something….
So, my hospital stay. Yes, get on with it, right? I
went into the hospital the day after my birthday, October 11, because I got in
my car after my lab at school and literally did not know where to go or what to
do. I felt lost in such a familiar world and I was terrified. Thoughts of
driving as far as I could or into a wall (eek!) raced through my mind. I called
my mom, hoping for some consolation or comfort, but the thoughts continued
racing through my head. I had let all the insane things that have happened over
the past few years—or my whole life, really—build up inside of me until I
cracked. I was trying to be strong, but that can only go on for so long. For
those of you that think “being strong” is the right thing to do, you may be
wrong.
The only thing that I could think to do, for the
sake of my boys (who are 7 and 5), husband, family and friends, was to drive
myself to the hospital, not only because I was cracking but also because I
literally felt like I was going to die. I got to the hospital, where they
immediately got me back in a room (probably because they didn’t want me scaring
other patients…I was hyperventilating, crying, you know, your typical, good old
panic attack). Anyway, my blood pressure was something like 195/120, so they
immediately IV’d me and loaded me up with Ativan. It really didn’t do very much,
but they tried. Then the doctor came in with papers and started talking about
signing myself into the psych ward for further evaluation. Now, you can imagine
my reluctance at this point. “You want me to do what now?” I mean, I knew I
needed to do something, but the psych ward did not sound appealing at that
moment. After a nice talk with the doctor about how I could voluntarily sign
myself in, or they could get a court order to have me involuntarily signed in,
I took the high road and signed the damned paper.
When I got up to the ward, I was scared as hell. It
was your stereotypical psych ward: people wandering the halls, yelling, talking
to themselves, etc., and all I was thinking was “holy sh**,” for lack of better
words. That night I saw a psychiatrist, and I begged him to let me out of that
hell hole. He said I would have to stay for no fewer than three days. I was not
a happy camper….at all. But I stayed strong, held my head high, and walked into
those group therapy sessions. I waited in line to be handed a food tray for
meals, I smiled at the nurses who had to check on me every 15 minutes, I
attended group recreational activities, and I even danced the “Tootsie Roll”
with some of my fellow “inmates.” In the time I spent there, it felt like
prison, a day care, and summer camp all rolled into one. I actually met some of
the most caring, loving, fun, inspiring and brave people I’d ever known. It was
quite the experience.
After four days of being monitored and retelling my
“story” about 500 million times to doctors, psychiatrists, social workers,
nurses, nursing students (which made me feel like an idiot when I was like
“hey, I’m a nursing student and I’m getting right back to it when I get out of
this psych ward here”) they came up with a diagnosis of Bipolar I disorder with
severe anxiety and hypertension. Oh, plus a seizure disorder. Can I get a new
brain please????? Well, obviously and unfortunately that is not an option as of
today, unless I just use my cellular device and let Siri do my thinking and
talking….hmmmm…. that’s probably not a feasible option, so I have to take the
steps and follow through with my ordered progressive plans and…..take a bunch
of meds.
It
is not easy to be diagnosed with a mental illness because it’s not something
people like to talk about and it makes some people uncomfortable, but it is a
serious illness and I feel like not many people get the treatment they need and
deserve. I was on a roller coaster and started doing some reckless, stupid
things during my “manic” phases, as the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual
of Mental Disorders) so suitably named that part of Bipolar, and in the
“depressed” phases I would barely get out of bed and felt completely worthless
and guilty for the things I was doing during those manic, hyperactive, reckless
phases. I didn’t even realize until I took that “time out” in the hospital just
how serious I had let this illness become and how much it was not only affecting
me, but my husband, my kids, my whole family and my friends. Well, to sum things up, I’m crazy and proud of it! No really, I would just like to be a voice for mental illness that says “it’s ok, there is nothing to be ashamed of!” The people I met and had the pleasure of being a “nut” with, were probably the strongest people I’ve ever met because they were in there to admit they needed help and they were getting it, without shame, and without embarrassment. For the first time in my life I did not feel judged! It was truly inspiring and I have actually started writing a book about all of this that I hope to finish one day and maybe even get published. It’s always good to have goals!
In
the end, I just hope that anyone who reads this and maybe feels like they or
someone they know may have a problem whether it be severe depression, anxiety,
thoughts of suicide, noticeable ups and downs, and/or addiction, please,
please, do not be afraid. You are not alone! Some of the most artistic,
brilliant, creative minded people in history have been known to suffer from
mental illness. So, maybe it is not an illness or a curse, maybe it is gift..?
Thank you for reading and thanks to those of you that have stuck by me through this…I appreciate all of you and life now more than you will ever know.
Tupac Shakur, by Courtney Jones
.jpg)
Tupac embodied everything men strive to be.
His bright smile caught your attention when you saw him on the TV screen
When I first saw him in Juice, his character caught me by surprise
He came across the screen as this lost boy with a depleted drive
His dark eyes held so many destructive lies.
But then in Poetic Justice, when he played Lucky,
His and Janet’s love scene
Their connection made it seem as if they were one being
He held Janet so tenderly and sweet
Like a couple who stares at each other until the other blinks.
Tupac was not only an actor; he was an activist, too
He stood up for the sisters in the back who needed child support
Because a supportive father for their child they lacked.
Tupac preached that in order to survive in this world
You have to know how to smile
It keeps you from seeing the world as hateful bile.
We go through so many trials and tribulations in this thing called life.
But if we keep our head up, we will be able to keep our joyful strut
Tupac was gunned down on the Las Vegas strip
And it’s like all the spectators disappeared into thin air
Because they still haven’t found his murderer
But I know Tupac’s up in heaven and he’s smiling down
Because people will always respect him for uplifting spirits that were so torn down.
West to East, by David Laing
.jpg)
All history people have been going east to west Columbus, Lewis and Clarke, my grandparents. Manifest Destiny was alive and well. Hell, east to west even sounded better, more natural
Now leaving Los Angeles
Barstow Vegas Salt Lake City
My destination lies so far away it
doesn’t even warrant a mile marker yet, but it doesn’t matter because my
journey has begun. Except for one thing
Traffic Horrible
car after car mile after mile traffic This never happens
in the movies
By the time I’m in constant motion again
the sun has disappeared behind a few scraggly mountain peaks turning the desert
into a blood red wasteland No civilization to
speak of, LA never felt further Engine don’t
fail me now My imagination runs
wild with a flat tire nightmare that concludes with me fighting off a group of bloodthirsty
backcountry cannibals The daydream is
interrupted by flashing neon lights and a 100 foot cowboy beckoning to me
Now entering Las Vegas the land of slots
and sluts No penthouses or
hundred dollar bill hurricanes though Those scraggly pit bosses fear
my 20 year old mind and all the ways I’d bankrupt their precious casino.
A beacon of light in the middle of
nothing, their glow is gone soon enough, giving way to the natural light of the
stars Soon I’m the
only visible driver. I must be the only living person for miles My car slows down
and I pull off the side of the road then follow a sign up to a lookout
point And what a lookout it is. From over a
hundred feet above the surface the desert lies still in the darkness. The
desert stretches out for miles until a panorama of mountains stops the sand in
its tracks. I
think I’ll stay here for the night.
Up at sunrise, back to the road. The
world moves pretty quickly at 110 mph
Now entering Colorado
And just like that desert and cacti morph into
grass and tall trees and a roaring river, no mountains yet. I thought the Rocky
Mountains would be a little rockier than this
No matter. I’m a bootlegger now running
alcohol west to east gliding at top speeds parallel to the Colorado River. My
hands grip the wheel powerfully but delicately keeping the car gliding smoothly
through hairpin turns and gentle dips Mountains
gradually begin filling my vision. Time to lose ‘em I hammer on the gas and
zig zag through the mountain pass and through a collection of tunnels Soon enough I’ve lost the mind made federal
agents and the majestic mountain passes of the Rockies are a distant memory.
I’ve got real problems to worry about
now, namely how to find a place to sleep when the entire area east of Denver
lacks any kind of vacancies because of a damn rodeo
One last try. All booked up the lady says, no rooms at this hotel for a
road weary traveler like myself. She does give me one option though. The kindness of
people never ceases to amaze
A hearty home cooked meal and I’m back
to the road
Wasn’t I just in the mountains? The world
stretches out like a never -ending pancake in front of me A sign warns the hitchhikers are escaped cons
from a nearby prison
Welcome to Nebraska If there’s another
Civil War direct all participants to this fine state; it’d be a favor for both
sides Five painfully
boring hours later the wasteland ends. I earned myself a speeding ticket trying
to escape but the minions of Nebraska keep all those entrapped in the territory
at a mid 70s crawl
But now it is over. The drab and
depressing brown landscape yields to a lush, vibrant green a shining emerald on earth Who would think Iowa
could elicit that reaction? Rolling farmlands pass by at the
speed of a fastball, before I know it the sun has set and I find myself alone
on the road in one of those rural pockets of the Midwest.
Soon towns, and gas stations, and fast
food joints Chicago 30 miles Not tonight though,
because like the city I never sleep. I drive. I drive and I
drive and when the sun breaks the plane of evergreen trees framing my vision I
see it
Welcome to Michigan
I pull over, step out, and inhale a deep
vacuum sized breath
Tastes like home.
Continental Christmas Market--Belfast, Northern Ireland, by Rebekah Phillips
mulled
wine warming
frozen
red fingertipssteam curling around the
dark blue sky
a
galaxy of stars
hanging
in the boughsof the winter evergreen
icy
white lights
dangling
from theoutstretched branches
shining
baubles
reflecting
the millingcrowd below
everywhere
the tidal
push
and pull of people
Italian
vendors calling
out
to pretty women,offering samples of chocolates
Germans
peddling wares
laughing loud and hearty
laughing loud and hearty
thick
accents and
European
languages
standing
on tiptoe
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