THE SCORE

TYP Scholars Present, The Score —Fiction, Memoir, and the Essay—–A publication of the

Transitional Year Program at Brandeis University 2003

Volume One

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THE SCOREBOARDEditor Tara H. Hightower Assistant Editors Chris Sol Gully and Andrea KarisEditorial Assistant Production Brandeis University Transitional Year ProgramJournal Committee Advisor Tara HightowerJournal Committee Ineida Andrade, Brook Bacon, Jimmy Guity, Thu Kiem, Soksan RoeungEditorial Offices Transitional Year Program (TYP)Brandeis UniversityWaltham, MA 02454 Brandeis University Transitional Year Program (TYP)Program Director Dr. Thompson Williams Program CoordinatorErika Smith Administrative Support Andrea Karis

THE PLAYERS:CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTESBrook Bacon (“THE SCORE” title page notes, Committee Member, Brandeis University Freshman)Susan Chan (“My Father,” Brandeis University Junior) Ildo Depina (Black-Icons, Brandeis University Freshman)Jimmy Guity (“Understanding Why,” “Dusty Road,” Committee Member, Bridgewater State Freshman)Jamal Isa (“My Future Wife,” M.I.T. Freshman)Thu Kiem (Diep, Apologia for Cover Art, Committee Member, Brandeis University Freshman)

Special thanks to Martha Twomey for her editorial advice and support, this project could not have been completed without her hard work and assistance.

Subscription Information: TYP Scholars Present “THE SCORE” is a free publication of the Brandeis University Transitional Year Program (TYP). Write to the TYP Program office for additional copies, subject to availability. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope with your request. Additional copies may also be available in the TYP Program office and at Brandeis University. Want to see your name in print? TYP Scholars: Now accepting submissions for the next issue. Submit your stories, essays, poetry, nonfiction and artwork to: TYP Scholars Present “THE SCORE,” the new writing journal of the Brandeis University Transitional Year Program (TYP).

Submissions to TYP Scholars Present “THE SCORE” may be made by email, mail, fax, or in person. Email: TYP@brandeis.edu. Fax: (781)736-2003 Drop off or address submissions to: “TYP Journal” or“TYP Scholars Present “THE SCORE”Brandeis University TYP MS 0741, 415 South StreetWaltham, MA 02454

© 2003 by the Brandeis University Transitional Year Program (TYP)Printed in the U.S.A.

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The Brandeis University Transitional Year Program (TYP)

The Transitional Year Program is the longest-running program of its kind in the

United States. Since its inception in 1968, the Brandeis University Transitional Year

Program (TYP) has offered post-secondary educational opportunities to high school

graduates who have had little exposure to quality academic preparation in their high

school and community settings, but demonstrate exceptional academic promise and

determination to succeed in life. TYP students are selected for their proven ability to

overcome many educational and life-related obstacles. Almost all students have been

high school graduates in urban or rural school districts that did not meet their needs,

expectations, and aspirations. Students who are selected for the program must have

demonstrated their commitment to and desire for academic success prior to applying to

the program. Some TYP students have lived as emancipated teens, single parents, or

young adults in the world of work. Some may have held part-time or full-time jobs while

attending high school and caring for their families. Some students accepted into the

program are returning students who have worked in the adult world in areas such as

finance, sales, marketing, and health care. Many students are also the first in their

families to be successfully seeking a college education. TYP students are granted

admission to the program because they have already demonstrated their ability to

persevere in the face of many challenges. Their tenacity coupled with their commitment

to academic excellence makes them a candidate for successful completion of the

program.

TYP is a one-year academic program. While giving students of the program the

opportunity to take undergraduate elective courses at Brandeis, TYP also provides

intensive, small group instruction in writing, science, mathematics, social science, and

computer literacy and programming to broaden the students’ general learning to

acclimate them to the demands of higher education. The TYP faculty consists of Brandeis

professors, as well as professors from other area universities such as Boston University,

Northeastern University, and Bentley College.

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While the TYP and the Brandeis community aim to help these talented young

people acquire new skills, build confidence, and prepare for making a successful

transition to a four-year college, they also reap vast benefits from the rich experiences

and talents that these students bring to the university. Among the 827 students who have

completed the TYP successfully during the past three decades, 783 (95%) have

matriculated at four-year institutions, including Boston College, Brandeis, BU, Clark,

Columbia, Harvard, MIT, Northeastern, Tufts, and other highly regarded schools. Many

graduates of TYP have gone on to complete graduate and professional degrees and

programs.

The Score

Brook Bacon, Journal Committee Member

In an e-mail dated the summer of 2002, Brook Bacon writes:

Definition: “The Score”

“The journal title that I feel most strongly about is: TYP Scholars Present “THE SCORE”

I believe this would be the best title for many reasons. One reason being that it will give immediate attention and recognition to TYP, its accomplishments, goals, and efforts. Secondly, the title acknowledges TYP students as we would like to be referred to, TYP “Scholars” which accentuates the idea that we are more than just students. By saying, “TYP Scholars ‘Presents’” our title informs the readers outright that we are offering them something that they can interpret, as they see fit, to be applied to their “reality” or it simply offers them something they can learn from. “THE SCORE” has multiple definitions and I hope that our readers will think of more than sports after reading only one piece in our journal. The definitions that would lend themselves to our objectives include:

The facts about an actual situation; “He didn’t know the score.”A ground; a reasonThe written form of a composition for orchestral or vocal parts

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With emphasis on the “written form” and “vocal parts” because we are using this publication as

a voice for TYP.

Finally, TYP Scholars Present, THE SCORE is catchy and, I believe, will automatically attract the attention of new readers which is the first step. After we have captured their attention, our content will keep the readers looking out for the next issue.

My vote is forTYP Scholars Present, THE SCORE

ThanksBrook

The Score

Editorial Note

The inaugural issue of the Transitional Year Program’s writing journal, TYP Scholars

Present The Score is a long-awaited event for both the writers and the students in Brandeis

University’s Transitional Year Program. This effort began in early 2002, when teachers in the

program wished to publish students’ writings as a way of recognizing both their students’ writing

abilities and their life experiences that have contributed to the pieces which you will read here.

Such a forum did not exist. “Let’s make our own,” responded the students. In the summer of

2002, a group of students, the TYP Journal Committee, met with advisors to make their own

journal. They planned to select the pieces, edit them, and publish them themselves. This is their

production: a collection of original artwork, fiction, essays, and poetry.

Why “The Score”? Perhaps TYP Journal committee member Brook Bacon says it best

when he writes, The Score “out rightly informs the readers that we are offering them something

that they can interpret as they see fit to be applied to their “reality.” This journal is the score: our

version of the truth. The truth that comes from experience, from exploration, from testing other

conceptions. The subject of truth, however, is an elusive thing, and we respect the idea that truth

itself is subjective. Each persons’ truth may be different, but that does not make one person’s

truth less valid than the other. The academic essay in this journal is illustrative of this fact. As an

example of an argumentative essay attempting to mix personal opinion with supporting ideas

from discussion and class readings in biography, including Frederick Douglass’s own Narrative

of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave, Written by Himself and The Autobiography

of Malcolm X, as told to Alex Haley, this essay may seem opinion for some, while for others, it is

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fact. This difference of opinion may be another part of the continuing legacy of racism and

racism-fighting in America, as the writer of “Black-Icons” attempts to reconcile the above

biographies with his own experiences. We hope, however, that for all the pieces included here,

the has stayed true to the writers’ own voices, rather than an overhasty, edited version of it. We

want to offer truth as an accurate reflection of reality, whatever one’s reality may be. TYP

students were asked to read these two autobiographies in their classes, and were encouraged to

find their own voices, their own ideas about truth, and to write their own arguments in response to

their reading, just as Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X did. Our journal committee members

this summer learned about the power of a person’s voice as well, when it became time to edit, as

did the editors, who will let the speakers speak for themselves, and for their own reality.

“Realism” in all its forms, and perceptions of it, is a central description of the work included here

this year, whether in essay, fiction, or nonfiction.

Students in the TYP come from a variety of backgrounds and previous experiences with

writing. The short story, “My Future Wife” by Jamal Isa is a straightforward introduction into

contemporary realism, while Susan Chan’s, “My Father” seems to cross over into the realistic

realm of nonfiction, such is its power.

Nonfiction and art are present here as well in the form of Thu Kiem’s Apologia for her

painting, Diep, which appears on our cover. Jimmy Guity ponders some life lessons in

“Understanding Why,” a short piece of memoir. His other work is a lyrical fiction piece, “Dusty

Road,” that has earned the name of poetry. Thus, we call it that, the only prose poem in this issue.

Read either as fiction or as a poem, or even as a contrasting vision of truth to that given in the

essays, it provides a fitting end to this first edition of TYP Scholars Present, THE SCORE.

We hope that you will join us in congratulating this new group of writers, artists, and editors to

the field of letters!

—The Editorial Committee

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Table of Contents

Vol. 1, 2002

Cover Art Apologia

Diep, Thu Kiem…………………………………..7

Fiction

“My Future Wife,” Jamal Isa………………………..8

“My Father,” Susan Chan…………………………...11

Memoir

“Understanding Why,” Jimmy Guity……………….13

Essay

Black-Icons, Ildo Depina…………………………14

Poetry

“Dusty Road,” Jimmy Guity………………………..16

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All rights, title and interest in the text of this publication, under the common law of copyright

respecting, the stories and articles belong to and are retained by the authors; any reproduction,

copying, distribution, or dissemination of all or any part of the texts are prohibited. The contents

of the fictional stories included in this publication are fictional, and any resemblance to actual

persons or events is purely coincidental unless specified by the author.

Cover Art by Thu Kiem. Diep. Oil and watercolor on Canvas. 2002. The painting was given as a

gift to Erika Smith from the TYP program.

Apologia “Diep” by Thu Kiem

Artwork exists within each individual, and it is up to that individual to finish their work

of art. Let me explain what, “work of art” means from my point of view; it is not just paint

thrown onto a canvas, but a notion of goals, dreams and hard work.

If one takes the time to look at an artist’s painting, he or she may observe a lot of things;

including emotions, recollections, dreams, and goals. My painting, Diep, comes from my little

brother; no one has inspired me more than Diep. When I look at him, I see what an artist would

probably see: structure, emotions, goals, and composition. Most of his friends say I am the

reflection or the spitting image of Diep. I find that funny because I don’t really fit his portrait.

Diep seems more like the older brother instead of me being his older sister. However, for

some reason I do not mind that; maybe it makes sense because there are a lot of things that he

knows more about than I do. There is never a time when I do not go to him for help with my

homework. When I am frustrated or angrily flipping the pages of a book, there he is looking at

me with his big round eyes, asking me, “What’s your problem?” If I tell him to go away, or that I

cannot do anything, Diep’s eyebrows slant a little, his eyelids droop down like a puppy, and his

lips close up as if he is about to spit.

He will then bluntly say the, “suck it up” and “just do it” phrases. I never like that

because it always seems harsh and careless. But, Diep has a weird way of showing that he cares

about me, and he demonstrates his caring by helping me with my schoolwork. I learn to

appreciate his bluntness more because that is what I need.

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Diep inspires me to give things a chance. I can actually have a conversation with him

about anything I have studied and he will discuss it with me without hesitation. He is honest

when he is revising my papers. For example, he once told me my philosophy paper “stunk”

because it was disorganized.

I could go on and on about him, but I will let my painting show Diep to others, as I see

him in black and white. It is not easy to describe him in a nutshell, because truthfully, Diep is a

very complicated person to understand. Sometimes I cannot really decipher what he is thinking.

The expression displayed on his face is priceless; I love that expression because it has so much

meaning behind it. It’s also the look he gives me when I am being unreasonable.

My work of Diep is what I see in my little brother, and I guess what I see in my little

brother is really me.

Fiction

“My Future Wife”

Jamal Isa

The last time I saw my father, Dr. Ismael, was at Mogadishu International Airport. I was

leaving Somalia on my way back to Boston after finishing four weeks of research on infectious

diseases among pastoral societies in Kismayo, Somalia. I had not seen my father since I left for

my undergraduate studies in the United States. Neither he nor I could afford the $2000 roundtrip

fare. A lot had changed since the last time we had seen each other. I suspected that both of us had

changed—I knew I had. I had grown and matured, and I was at a point in my life where I felt I

needed a wife. It has always been very important to me that my choice of a wife be accepted by

my family. Since I had been away for so long, I was hoping that a conversation regarding my

marriage would not take place during my stay.

I was in the arrivals line, about to clear customs; when I saw my father. He looked very

different from the last time I had seen him; he had shaved his beard and trimmed his afro, and his

hair had turned gray. As it turned out later, these were not the only changes. He was standing

inside the waiting room, carefully inspecting the arriving passengers, separated by large glass

windows. He was trying to identify me from the crowd. To my surprise, he didn’t recognize me,

even when I waved at him. He squinted his eyes, and I saw a frown on his face when he saw me.

when we got closer, he blurted:

“Abdi, it’s okay if you smoke that hashish, but not in my face! Where was this hair when

you sent us the pictures?”

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I had forgotten that I had grown my hair into dreadlocks. It had taken me three years to

grow the hair, and I loved my new look. I felt that my father was not the same person I had left

behind. He had never had problems with hairstyles.

“Abbo, I’ll cut it. I just didn’t have time to do it in the U.S.,” I lied, still puzzled by his

hostility. Nonetheless, I didn’t want a simple thing like hair to weaken our relationship. I needed

his cooperation and approval now more than ever.

As soon as I got home, my younger brother, Yus, sensing my astonishment at my father’s

behavior, informed me that my father had changed. Yus told me that my father had become the

clan leader after the death of Sheikh Osman, the previous leader. Now, my father is the oldest and

most educated clan member, so he has automatically become the new leader. Yus told me that my

father had become older, more religious, and more traditional than he had ever been. This new

condition had made my father succumb to pressures from my mother. Yus told me of a specific

conversation between my parents. My mother asked my father sarcastically, “Ismael, you acting

like a leader giving advice to all these people while when you can’t make your own son obey

you! You can’t control your own son! Tell me what is that?” My mother was referring to Yus’s

refusal to attend boarding school.

As for myself, I had dramatically changed as well. Living alone in the United States had

made me more independent, intrepid, and sometimes arrogant. I did not have an attachment to

anything or to anybody. I believed that I could do anything that I put my mind to. I could be

anybody I wanted to be. I was my own master. If you didn’t pay my bills, you didn’t have any say

in my life. In the United States I was labeled as an individual. On the contrary, in my father’s

eyes, I had become westernized.

Though my father had hinted in our previous conversations, he had always wanted to

know if I was thinking about getting married. My arrival sparked a new series of queries

regarding my marital

status. My mother had found a perfect match for me: Layla. My father had agreed with my

mother’s selection of my future wife—this I did not expect. Layla was an eighteen-year-old girl

Fiction continued

coming from a family who was good friends with mine. I wasn’t sure if Layla had been informed

of the matching or not, but I would have loved to hear her opinion. Layla had her own dreams:

she was a senior in high school with a very good GPA, and she wanted to become an accountant.

She could get into any school she wanted. In addition, she was well-grounded in the traditional

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values: she could cook, clean, wash, and baby-sit. In my father’s eyes, I had no reason not to

want to marry her.

Marrying Layla seemed very awkward to me. My mind would not allow me to conceive

of the idea of marrying her, even under the pressure. I had known Layla for all of her young life.

I remembered when she was younger, I used to carry her over my shoulders. I used to ask her

jokingly where her stomach was and she would think for a minute as if there were a the slightest

chance that her stomach would not be there. Now she had become a goddess: she is one of the

most beautiful women I know. She stood at five feet eight inches tall, light brown skin, dark

brown wide eyes, and long hair. I did not recognize her when I saw her this time around. My

heart dropped and an idea passed through my mind, “Who is that? She is fine!” Then she called

my name and I knew her voice; I condemned myself for allowing the idea to run through my

mind. If I were to bring her into the United States, modeling agencies would fill her mailbox with

audition requests.

In our culture, one way of disagreeing with an arranged marriage is to elope with

somebody you love. It required only one hundred miles of separation from your parents for a

marriage to be valid between the eloping parties. I wished that she had a fiancé with whom she

would want to elope. I felt the urge to ask her if she had anybody in mind, but I couldn’t. This

made me realize that if I was uncomfortable asking her such a simple question, then how could I

marry her?

The four weeks at my research site passed quickly, and afterwards, I was back with the

family once again. Little did I know that my whole family, including my aunts and grandmother,

had agreed that I should marry Layla. This became clear to me when, while visiting my

grandmother, Ms. Ali, in the hospital. She made what seemed to be a death wish on her sick bed.

My grandmother had had a serious case of food poisoning and had been admitted to the hospital.

She became paranoid and thought she would die. I knew it wasn’t very serious after speaking to

the attending physician. I told him I was a medical student, he told me the diagnosis and assured

me my grandmother would be fine. I did not see the need for all of the animation in the room

when, all of a sudden, my grandmother started mumbling something.

“Ayeyo,” she said, “If you marry Layla, I will die happy.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I stood there speechless. My aunt Kusha and my

mother, Aisha, started crying, assuming my silence meant, “no.” I do not remember how I got out

of that conversation. I was glad, however, that I didn’t have to disagree with my ‘dying’

grandmother. She recovered and was discharged after only three days.

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About a week later at my fathers house, my little brother shouted to me, “Mom and Dad

want to talk to you.”

Entering my parents’ room, I saw my mother sitting on the side of the bed. A chair was

set aside for me. My father turned and lowered his reading glasses to his nose. When he saw me,

he took off his glasses. I figured that they just wanted to have a conversation with their son whom

had been gone for a while. But alas! Something was bothering them. Without wasting any breath,

my father asked me,

“Son, when are you going to get married?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You know I have to finish medical school, then five more years

of residency. I don’t see how anybody can put up with that. Maybe later when I get more settled,”

I asserted.

“Well...that girl Layla will be a perfect fit for you. You know.”

I was shocked. My father had always been the one to criticize arranged marriages. Now

he wanted to arrange one for me; the last person I would have expected to bring up this issue. In

that room, I could sense my individualism slipping away, my independence wanted to take over,

but I stopped it. I did not want to be disrespectful to my father. I just looked down at the floor and

kept quiet.

Then my father said, “Unless you have someone else of whom we are not aware.” This

was a perfect time for me to break the news to them, but I hesitated. The woman I had in mind

would have many weaknesses as far as my parents are concerned. To make matters worse, she

was more westernized than I. Shadya, my girlfriend, though a Somali, had never been to Somalia,

could not speak the language, and cannot cook. She was born in Denmark and grew up in the U.S.

I concluded—in my mind—that it would not be a good idea to present her in such a heated

moment. The situation would do her no justice, and I would just be adding insult to injury.

“No!” I replied. “Is that the only acceptable reason why I should not marry Layla?”

My mother leaned toward me, her eyes shiny as if filled with tears, and said softly, “Your

are my oldest son. You have been going to school since you were three years old, and you still

have a few more years of school. I don’t want to die before seeing my grandchildren.”

I felt really bad. At that moment, no logic could convince her. So I put my face down on

my hand, my elbow on my knee, and kept quiet. My father felt my restlessness and decided to

change the conversation.

later, I tried to explain to my father that I am the one who is getting married. I told him

that I planned to live in the U.S., and that my wife must fit into my life there, Shadya, despite her

weaknesses, is more well-suited for life in the United States than any girl in Somalia—not to

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discredit Somali girls. But since I have been in the U.S., I have become a very good cook. I am

not looking for a housewife or a cook, but a partner, a companion and a friend. I don’t want to be

the only mind in the household in times of crisis, I wanted someone who could observe, analyze,

and help to solve any problems that we would face.

As a clan leader, my father commanded respect and conviction, and respected both, but I

could feel his sense of failure when I said goodbye to him in the airport. I haven’t seen him since.

Fiction “My Father”

Susan Chan

As I sit in the hospital waiting room, I think about our lives. It was cold and windy this

morning when my dad and I put on our heavy, oversized coats, ready to head out the door of our

apartment. I put the key in the ignition, started up my brother’s car, and warmed up the old rusty

engine.

My dad didn’t really speak. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, then said,

“Hey, Pa, why does it have to happen to you?”

But the silence was in the stillness around us. The car was ready to move. I put my wheels into

drive, flicked the right turn signal on, driving within the speed limit of 35 mph.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he replied, “nothing’s going to happen.” My stomach

started to feel big, like there were butterflies flying around. I knew he did not want to say

anything, or tell me anything bad. Then, as we neared the end of the street and headed through the

morning traffic toward downtown, toward City Hospital, I jumped.

“Pa, why do you need surgery? Why can’t you tell me?” My dad just kept on sputtering

and changing subjects on me. He wanted to know if I was going to take AP math, and if I was

ready to take my SAT test. But I felt like I had to find out what was wrong. Once again, I forgot

to show respect, and interrupted him.

“Pa, what’s wrong with you?” My dad said softly this time,

“There’s nothing wrong; I have a cyst.” Not knowing what a “cyst” was, I was totally clueless as

to what the news meant. When we entered the hospital this morning, the floor was completely

white and clean.

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A woman stands over me. She says, “Are you finished with this newspaper?” She is

white-skinned and has long, brown hair. It looks uncombed and she looks tired. I wonder if she is

waiting for someone to finish surgery, too. “It’s fine,” I reply softly. And remember to smile a

little. I had been lost in my thoughts.

Flowers are all over the place in this surgery unit, on top of the main reception desk and

in the recovery rooms; I can see them when I walk to the bathroom. Even early this morning, I

noticed them when I walked into the dark changing room with my dad. The rooms each contain

only an adjustable bed and some green cabinets full of bandages, needles, and masks. The walls

are decorated with yellow-flower wallpaper. The colorful decorations around the hospital are to

make people going into surgery happier, but they make me feel really sad inside. Just looking at

my dad while he’s lying in the hospital bed, waiting for the IV nurse, I find tears running down

my cheeks. My dad, too; this is the first time I ever saw my dad with watery eyes. I knew he was

frightened. He didn’t even have to tell me. Seeing him like this was like something hitting my

heart.

The last time I had spent this much time with my father, incredible to imagine, was

during the past December winter vacation. That time, I didn’t have the time to talk to my dad at

all. Day and night, he always worked in the Chinese restaurant. When he came home from work,

I was already sound asleep. When I woke up, my father would be sleeping. I know my father

wants to work to make all that he can to support the family. Ever since I can remember, all

through my growing-up, my dad has been busy working.

There were times when he would say, “I’m saving all that I can for your future, little

star.” And “I want what’s best for you.” And “I’m only doing this for you and your brothers.”

He said this continuously. He works so much that I often feel that he needs to take time off. I

think he should take a quiet and relaxing vacation and at least spend some time with me. When I

was about five years old, my father was getting ready to go to work. He had on his white

wrinkled, button-down shirt and brown polyester pants and his blue nylon jacket. It was raining. I

was looking out the window, glaring at the gloomy, rainy day. My dad grabbed his umbrella and

put on his shoes, ready to leave for work once again.

I can see him in my mind now, walking down the pathway of the apartment building. His

brown hair wisps around his head, and his unbuttoned jacket opens up under a gust of wind. He

walks pretty fast, trying to make it to the next bus. It was coming around eight in the morning. I

remember that all of a sudden I felt so lonely, my cheeks felt red and salty. With my pink Barbie-

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doll pajamas and one slipper on, I opened the front door and rushed outside. I ran towards my

dad, wrapping my legs around his knees because I really didn’t want him to leave.

Using both of his large hands, he picked me up and carried me home. He gallantly

walked into the house and placed me on our red sofa in the living room. My dad’s face was

completely straight and without a smile.

Calmly, he told me, “I have to go to work now. I need to support the family. I will come

back.”

I always remembered this because I was young, and all I wanted was for my father to stay

with me and at least take me to the park. Now, while he’s in surgery I wonder if he ever will get

to be more a part of my life.

I had wanted my father to attend my middle school graduation, high school graduation,

and my science fair events. But he wasn’t able to show up to any of these special events because

he had to work in the damn Chinese restaurant. Last year, when it was a hot summer in June, I

graduated from Booker High School. I had on my white graduation gown and underneath it, I

wore my white suit with my favorite sky-blue halter-top. Sitting in the cheap plastic chairs, I kept

scanning the arena for the sight of my father, but there was no sign of him. I only spotted my

mother in her new wool blue suit and my aunt in her yellow outfit, both with giant smiles, sitting

in a row of benches.

Towards the end of the graduation ceremonies, I asked my mom, “Where’s Pa?”

“He is at work.”

They were the same old words I always heard. It was hard for me to see why my dad was

not available to see me get my diploma. Sometimes I feel that my dad chooses his work over me.

I watch the white woman with the brown hair walk up to the desk and say something to a

woman in a white uniform with bronze skin and short curly hair, cut close to her head. The

woman behind the nurses’ station shakes her head and checks the time. The white woman sits

down again, this time across from me. But I look at the floor. I’m thinking again—about my dad.

I wish I could talk to him now, confront him, but he’s always out of my reach.

Sometimes when I have time, I would surprise him at his work and bring him a cup of

Dunkin Donuts decaffeinated coffee. Every time I visited him, I always saw him working really

hard. You can see him sweat through his white uniform while he stands in front of the hot,

steaming stove while he cooks food for the customers. Imagine it in summer! I sometimes see

him carrying a heavy bag or load of rice, or a heavy box of meat. And I try to give him a hand,

but he constantly refuses and ignores my offer. He is certainly using all this strength and muscles.

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My father is a hardworking and responsible person. Even though I remember those times,

like when he did not attend my graduation, I know that’s okay. For every special event, he will

always be in my heart. Even though he doesn’t have the time to talk to me when I want him to

and we don’t have that much to say to each other because it’s not his way, I know in my heart he

really cares about me. He works day and night proving it.

Memoir

“Understanding Why”

Jimmy Guity

One decade and seven months ago, with the hope that I would have a normal childhood at the age

of nine like many of the other kids on the soccer fields in Honduras, my parents and I started my

fight to survive cancer.

At that time, my family and I were engaged in the greatest struggle of my life: a fight that

would decide my life or death. This tested my courage, to see whether I was strong enough to live

another day. I became dedicated to achieving equilibrium for my family, which was split into

three parts. My father was working abroad, my sister lived in Honduras, Central America, and my

mother and I were at the hospital in the United States. A family split into three sections cannot

think as one. Thinking back to that time, I remember seeing my sister at the age of four sitting on

the gate of our house in Honduras. All I could think was, “I am splitting up a mother and

daughter, I am robbing them of years of their lives together.”

But my father kept our family well. He made sacrifices for us by working abroad in the

cold. I will always love him for that because he never gave up on my sister, my mother, and me.

A lot of negative vibrations flowed around my family, but in the end, we were able to stay

together and solve our problems.

Today, working at the Dana Farber Cancer Institute, I am reminded of that pain, the

chemotherapy, and the possibility of death. Those thoughts were a daily part of my life then,

when I valued the simplest conversations with my mother, talking about what we were going to

have for lunch, or what was on TV. I never knew if I would wake up to see her smile. My

mother’s smile could brighten my days in the worst moments of my treatments. It comforted me,

gave security that she was always with me. That security between mother and son formed a bond

that fought a twelve-hour surgery, the after-effects of chemotherapy, and facing the fact that death

was a major possibility in every step of our treatment. For both of us, the importance was not in

understanding the physical effects of cancer, but more the psychological state we were in.

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Understanding what was going on at the moment of treatment, asking “Why is this happening to

me”?

The only inspirational answer in my mind is that God had something special for me to do.

He was the one who gave me the strength and power to see my mother’s loving smile every day.

Life looked so far away that many kids just give up. Others face death with no fear. Facing death

is a hard knock to your reality. I say life is all we have, and since no one but you can feel the

breath of your soul but you alone, the heartbeat of time needs you to continue, if that soul is to

continue.

I will always remember friends who died in this struggle, and every victory in my life I

dedicate to them. My friends’ victories ring incomplete in their lifetimes, but not in mine. Not in

my memory. As brave people, they followed the dream of “live for today, hope for tomorrow.”

Their persistent daily hope became my inspiration. This is why I try my best in everything,

especially in school. My devotion has brought me far. I have learned that education is a self-

identity that will shape me into a person with some political power, a man who will later help

those in need to face their problems one day at a time as well.

I discovered my second calling to help people when I went back to Honduras last

summer. I saw poverty, violence and hunger in the same city where I lived nine years ago. I asked

myself, “Why aren’t there any groups or organizations that will help these people?” I saw this

country, I lived its problems, and I would like to be part of their solution. My decision is final. I

will devote my education to finding ways to help people through gaining an international

perspective. Studying human behavior, international business, and cultural economics will allow

me to progress toward reaching this goal. My goals both long-term and short-term are the result

of my understanding why.

Essay Black-Icons

Ildo DepinaEditor’s Note: These two essays both refer to the following works. All page numbers refer to these editions:

The Autobiography of Malcolm X, As told to Alex Haley, Malcolm X with Alex Haley, New York: Ballantine Books,

1999, [1964].

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglas, An American Slave, Written by Himself. Frederick Douglass. Edited and

with an Introduction by David W. Blight. Boston, New York: Bedford/ St.Martin’s, 1993 [1845].

Usually when people are talking about African-American history or American history,

two men are integrated into the conversation: Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X. They both

placed a high value on things like religion, education, and the economy. Overcoming their own

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hatred and the hatred of others, these two men were able to flourish into political icons. Their

achievements are noteworthy. Although born in different circumstances, Frederick Douglass and

Malcolm X were both victims of institutionalized hatred: racism. It is fascinating that these two

men took the initiative to educate themselves by becoming their own teachers with the help of

religious support. They stressed the importance of economic independence and education in

order to gain political freedoms and to overcome racism.

Malcolm X joined the debate team while in prison, and took advantage of the opportunity

to challenge others on a wide range of issues. On one occasion, he challenged a Catholic priest to

a dispute about the ethnic origins of Christ. Malcolm X used these debates to obtain a higher level

of education for himself. Frederick Douglass also used this tactic to broaden his education. When

Douglass was a little boy, he would challenge some of the white boys he knew to spell words he

wanted to learn. He would accuse them of not knowing the meaning of a word and when his

small colleagues gave the definition, Douglass made sure to record the spelling and definition of

the word (Douglass 60).

Malcolm X and Frederick Douglass had different concepts of religion. While Malcolm X

converted to Islam, Frederick Douglass was a slave and did not have the luxury of choosing his

own religion. Douglass became a Christian like his own master. Since Frederick Douglass and

Malcolm X both believed in different religious values, they had to find different ways to

communicate with people.

Personally, I think that Frederick Douglass was not a true believer in Christianity because

he spent so much time in his narrative condemning the religious slave masters for their hypocrisy.

I do believe, however, that he accepted the idea of a higher spirit. He relates in his narrative that

he felt he was chosen to go north and that there was a special reason for him to be picked, out of

all the other slaves, to escape from slavery. He comments that: “This good spirit was from God,

and to him I offer thanksgiving and praise” (Douglass 56).

Although Douglass gave praise to a higher spirit, he became, through his self-taught

education, perceptive enough to know when the slave masters were using religious images to

defend the abuse of slaves (Douglass 104-109). Douglass’s master used sacred words to justify

beating slaves. “He that knoweth his master’s will, and doeth it not, shall be beaten with many

stripes” he tells us was quoted from the Bible by slave masters as justification for beating slaves

(Douglass 70). Being abused in the name of God definitely did not help ease Frederick

Douglass’s pain, nor did it open his heart to his slave master’s Christianity (Douglass 82).

Malcolm X’s religion was the opposite of Douglass’s master’s because Malcolm X’s

religion advocated justice for blacks in the United States. Malcolm X’s religion cherished the idea

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of being black, and encouraged black solidarity. The religion of Islam, which Malcolm X

discovered while in prison, saved his life. It showed him how to become a free man, both

mentally and physically, even while still in prison. Malcolm X realized the effect of Islam on his

life when he said, “I still marvel as how swiftly my previous life’s thinking pattern slid away

from me, like snow off a roof” (Haley 173). After prison, Malcolm X continued to become a new

person with a different perspective on life. Malcolm X’s conversion to the Nation of Islam helped

him to realize the “game” that was taking place for blacks in the United States. This game, he

recognized, was the way that society itself systematically pushed for the destruction of black

communities through drugs. Drugs were a way to make people forget their problems, but the truth

is that drugs make problems appear rather than disappear, and in the end, even the children of a

society on drugs become the innocent victims. He felt that continuing a cycle of drug use and

abuse and the problems that go along with it destroyed the entire community. Children need good

role models in order to be successful in life. Without good role models, these cycles of poverty

and drug abuse would be forever unbroken, and consequently blacks would not think highly of

themselves. Malcolm X exposed this systematic truth.

What was special about these two men was the way they were willing to give their lives,

if necessary, for the well-being of others. Frederick Douglass was willing to take a big risk: he

made himself available to teach other slaves how to read and write while he was a slave.

Likewise, when Malcolm X was preaching to black people about the inherent racism of American

society, the CIA under J. Edgar Hoover could have easily conspired against him to end his life.

Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X accepted the possible consequences of their freedom-fighting

efforts so that their messages reached the people.

Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X also knew the importance of attaining economic

independence as well as an education and religious freedom, as a method for obtaining political

power. They both wanted black people to invest in valuable things. For example, Malcolm X

argued that blacks should invest in running their own businesses in order to keep the money

flowing into black neighborhoods. Frederick Douglass approved of the idea of slaves hiring

themselves out as independent contractors from their masters to other employers as a chance for

slaves to learn how to be independent of their owners. Douglass hired out his time and got a job

in a shipyard. This experience of independence led him to question the conditions of slavery in

which he lived. He finally escaped from slavery because he had learned to be independent and to

value his own dreams of liberty enough to act on them. Douglass argued that if other slaves hired

out their labor, they would also a valuable learning experience. He felt that slaves who were

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unsure of their own ability to survive on their own, would see that they had earning power. He

felt this would help slaves if they ran away or gained emancipation.

Today in the twenty-first century, we face similar economic problems to those faced by

African Americans years ago. The only reason blacks appear to be improving now is because

there are a few blacks who are doing well financially. But I think the number is small because

most blacks are still being judged on the basis of race, and not for their intellect or potential to get

jobs done. I feel this is just another example of how the system is used to oppress black people by

pushing them toward welfare and crime. Welfare and jail are ways of keeping people dependent

by mentally destroying a person’s drive toward obtaining any higher standards.

This systemic oppression is the reason why Malcolm X believed that blacks could only

be free in America when they had their own separate all-black state. He felt blacks need to be

independent of white society’s racism —systematic and otherwise. Malcolm X believed that the

entire American economic system is based on keeping blacks oppressed as a source for cheap

labor. Blacks are supposedly given the same opportunities as others, but in reality, I do not

believe this is true. For an example, look at what is going on in inner-city schools. Students are

not well prepared to succeed at the college level. The government does not invest sufficient funds

in these schools, causing classes to be overcrowded and lack resources. Suburban schools have

fewer students yet those schools get more funding than inner-city schools.

Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X had similar ideas about the need for alliance between

black American people. Frederick Douglass talks about the “Great House Farm” (Douglass 47),

he mentions how the house slaves used to think they were more important and sophisticated

because non-black people surrounded them. Malcolm X referred to a similar concept throughout

his autobiography to describe what he called “Uncle Tom Negroes.” Malcolm X said that these

people as “prided themselves on being incomparably more ‘cultured,’ ‘cultivated,’ ‘dignified,’

and better off than their black brethren down in the ghetto...”(Haley 42).

Malcolm X and Frederick Douglass both believed that people who thought of themselves as

superior because of the menial positions they held were more anti-black than anyone else. They

forgot about their own identity, and suffered a kind of self-hate. These black people were so

brainwashed that they forgot about their own kind. I believe, like Malcolm X and Frederick

Douglass that to look on your own people as less than you is harmful because it signifies a

tendency toward denying one’s own identity. The person in denial is someone who believes that

it is not okay to be the skin color that he or she is. While prejudice and racism may be overcome,

one’s own skin color cannot be changed. As Malcolm X urged, it is better to embrace one’s own

blackness than to hate it because white society hates it (Haley 57). People in denial show that not

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only are they hurting themselves because they don’t know or accept who they are, but are also

hurting their own people by not accepting them.

Frederick Douglass and Malcolm X felt the only way African-Americans could free

themselves from the racism of American society was through religion, education and economic

prosperity. These three things could offer faith, pride and respect. These two icons gave their

lives to securing a brighter future for other people. They should never be forgotten. Their loyalty,

courage and strength must not be forgotten. Their motivation should inspire us, even today, to

fight harder, so that the next generation will face fewer struggles with racial discrimination. The

fight should continue until all Americans are judged no more on the basis of identity.

Poetry Dusty Road

Jimmy Guity

I

had mastered the whisper of this road as I came to every shortcut and shadow that lay in the steep

curves. Every curve reveals a woody height that covers the surroundings like a green blanket at

the mercy of the bright sunshine. The silent slumbers of the afternoon were now awakened by the

turbulence of my footsteps. Houses separated as I segued along the dusty road; the trees waved to

me as I looked up to greet them, and the dogs stared with the desire to attack.

The endless road only allowed me to see the twinkling of the ocean, as I focused my eyes

tightly to identify my destination clearly. Street rocks so smooth and dusty take their shape by

enduring the constant abuse of people’s footsteps. The sun’s natural rays attracted my attention as

they blinded my eyes when I walked in the dome of their sunlight. On sunny days I saw birds

flying with pride because their feet would not walk on the dusty curves that were an enigma to

me.

On a cloudy day I did not see the birds fly with pride, but saw them fly with the wine and

laziness of an ordinary day. I felt the sun’s presence and continuous irritation in my skin. I felt no

pity for the street rocks because their shapes were immature like a baby what whined and cried

because no one paid attention to him anymore. The neighborhood dog was now so old that I felt

he was just bluffing every time he barked at me. The tree that waved was now so obvious at the

corner of my eyes that I felt like cutting every single leaf in sight waving too much at me. The

houses crowded together to make one road, which now looked like a pathway.

The dusty roads made my white Adidas sneakers look like brown, secondhand material,

and I hated that; my footsteps became delicate as I walked in the dust because style and

appearance came first. The green blanket seemed like a scary skyscraper that carried dangerous

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creatures that I was not so fond of. I would never be fondly after hearing that a man was poisoned

by a coral snake nearby.

My destination on that endless road helped me discover my maturity and my

understanding of the world. Now I can see the waves coming from where the road began, and I

am still amazed by how small a road can get in nine years.

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