VOICES

Creativity

Sierra Caldwell, San Diego, California

poetry

Creativity makes up half of the human,

half of the personality

and half of the universe.

It is the drive that makes one hack

for nothing,

the cat dipping its paw into a glass

for a drink when it can’t reach

with its tongue.

It is the logical fallacy

in a math problem that somehow

turns out correctly,

the way out of a traffic jam

using left turns and exits.

It is the muscles telling a hand

to make blank into beauty.

Creativity is the nerves

in a brain telling you what to do,

the prompt to an essay

that makes you really think.

It is the spark in the air

in an electric storm,

the sarcasm to write ‘mut’ on a toilet

and make it famous.

Creativity’s a black finger nail

next to all the green ones,

and all the pillars of Rome.

It is the blue feather in the crows nest,

and the set of keys

you will never find in the couch.

Creativity is the wrong answer

to the how question,

but the right answer to all others.

It’s what cameras capture

and religion shadows.

Creativity is conformity

in a nonconformist world.

Race and Identity

Chan Hyeok Lee, Ulsan, Korea

nonfiction

Four years ago, my beloved friend, Moon, caught me while I was rushing to class and asked, “Hey, Chan, is it true that you are going to America next summer?” I confess, I felt superior and responded, “Yes, I am going there just to get a chance to meet GreenDay. I am quite excited.” I was only fourteen years old back then, and indeed, I did not know anything about the U.S. culture. Worse, I had no clue how being of a different culture affects one’s identity. I thought I knew everything about the U.S.A. by watching many Hollywood films, listening to American songs, and talking with my white English teacher in school. All I did to prepare for my trip abroad was study the English language. I soon learned that indeed, I had lived in a small well, looking up at a small fraction of the vast sky.

When I arrived in Southaven, Mississippi on August 2004--about twenty minutes from Memphis, Tennessee, where Martin Luther King was unfortunately assassinated, all of my expectations about the U.S.A. soon vaporized into the air leaving me with serious disappointments. Nothing seemed to be like Hollywood or New York City. Instead, what I observed were ordinary people with tedious styles of t-shirts and jeans, and hunters with guns: I thought the activity of hunting existed only in Africa before I arrived in America, so many trees defied my expectation that the U.S. is mostly urbanized, and various races of people. Although I was quite disappointed by the different aspects of the U.S., I convinced myself to be satisfied with experiencing such a different culture. Unfortunately, my disappointment was not all I had to face. A big fat monster—labeled as racism—had been lurking, ready to swallow the soul of this poor Asian boy. Unlike my other Korean friends who lived in the other states of the U.S., I had to overcome not only the difficulty of the language but also all the hardships related with racism. Even worse, during that year, I also went through adolescence, so the beginning of my foreign studying also actually meant the start of forming my identity.

I learned in the world history class that segregation among whites and blacks was over after the 1970s in the U.S. However, de facto of the segregation, indeed it still existed while I stayed in Mississippi. For instance, various churches existed for the different races and different formations of peer groups were dependent on each race. Demographically, Southaven has many blacks, whites, and Latinos, but few Asians. Whenever I had walked down the street, or hung out with my friends in downtown Memphis, I felt awkward stares from whites and blacks. Some of them were just curious, but some were truly hostile against my skin color. In school, it was even worse. My school had a group of so-called skin heads, most of them participating either in the school football or rugby team. On May 19, 2007, I was eating my hamburger for lunch so lonely because I did not have friends to chat with. The only thing I could concentrate on was the hamburger that looked at me sympathetically. Feeling mad at a hamburger looking down on me, I ate her up without any hesitance, finished my milk with hurrying for no reason, and then mumbled, “I did not come to here to be alone.” Right after my mumbling, I felt a cold, but sharp, piece of hamburger hitting the back of my head. I looked back at who threw this gruesome piece of hamburger, and I found a skin-head hulk mocking me, “Here, Confederate for whites, yo da Asian!” After that, these skin heads often mocked me by throwing food remnants during the lunch or bumping into me while walking in the hallway. I wanted to explain my situation to my school counselor, but because of my poor English, I did not have enough courage to effectively persuade the counselor to place me in a different state. Therefore, the first three months of my year abroad were quite desperate.

However, racism was not a factor all the time. It eventually shaped my identity. Confronted with the racism, I had to find the ways to survive from that quagmire, so I obsessively followed the standards of coolness that MTV presents to make a bunch of friends, although I had an introverted personality. I started working out in the gym to be in good shape, because I was obsessed with fashion, played the electric guitar, went to parties whenever available, and studied hard to make straight A’s. I suffered side effects, such as my morality drifting away, but I became quite famous in the school, known as a rad Asian, loving to party all the time while maintaining a decent G.P.A. Unlike the painful situation at the beginning, I ended up finding an entirely new aspect of myself, and I loved that I could overcome obstacles. Without the racism, I could never have thought about the new start, so I began to broaden my perspective.

My experience with the racism was not over though. After the first year, I moved to McBain, Michigan, where the environment was just opposite to that of Mississippi: The town comprised of whites and Amish community. My skin color was once again distinguishing, but the peoples’ reactions were different. The community recognized me as special, and, unlike Mississippi, whatever I did—even the unpleasant things—was permissible because of my different background. In McBain, my pursuits of MTV standards were meaningless; instead, people valued Christian morality the most. Whereas I expected that people would be cautious of my different race, the community tried their best to make a positive relationship with me. They wanted to demonstrate the harmony of all the different races bound within the Christian love; the differences of races means only different outlook to them. Without doubt, my identity once again changed; I abandoned those MTV standards but learned to practice the Christian values. If I were not to be an Asian, but a white, the community would not have tried to stack the blocks of the warm relationship as hard as they did to me during the second year.

Now I am in the University of Iowa which contains both liberal and conservative ideals. Moreover, there are more options of races available. The range of Asian here comprises of not only Koreans, but also Chinese, Thais, Taiwanese, Indonesians, Indians, Japanese, etc. As the time goes by, I recognize that racism here is natural; different races form the different groups, but no hostility exists. My identity is once again in the process of change; I do not follow someone else’s personality or standards, but I follow where my mind is willing to go. For example, I study hard, not to impress others, but to satisfy my scholastic interests; I go to church, not only to make a relationship with the local people, but also to keep my faith; I go to the gym not just to make friends but to keep my health; I play guitar not to show off, but to fill up my insatiable desire on music; and I hang out with my friends, not to make allies but to build true friendship.

I feel that I currently live in the vast ocean, no longer a small well, as I ended up perceiving the racism in the wide range of its values. Coming to the U.S.A. has been special to me, as it sculpted my identity, and I am satisfied with my decision to come here four years ago. If I had not come to the U.S., my life would have gone differently; I would not have discovered my hidden ability to survive in a new environment or diversified my perspective towards the world. I am now comfortable with any kind of cultures without any prejudice. As an old proverb says, “No pains, no gains.”

February

Meg Tisinger, Davenport, Iowa

poetry

Towards the end he sailed into an extraordinary mildness.

There had been good days and bad days, pictures of us asleep.

Later we found what we thought was 50 years, was more like 46.

Someone else baby inside her, while he crawled on his stomach

through a frozen island, thinking of the wife and daughter waiting his return.

I was going away for the weekend when the phone rang.

There had been good days and bad days, heavy eyelids

and labored breathing, pictures of us asleep.

Things that go Bump in the Night

Devin VanDyke, Iowa City, Iowa

fiction

The Calculus teacher droned on into the night. By the end of class the students were all so bored, tired or intimidated by the material that they habitually started to put their books back into their backpacks. Their bodies moved toward the door en mass knowing they could now leave. The wind howled against the plate glass window that oversaw the wildlife habitat by the river. A deer walked around just outside the window and noticed his reflection. He stamped his feet anticipating a challenge from the three-hundred pound buck before him.

The teacher drifted back to a time in her childhood when her father had gone outside on a Sunday morning to retrieve the paper. She remembered because her mom was hysterical as he came back inside with blood running down his side from having been gored by the deer as he tried to pick up the paper. The teacher recalled how her dad had seen the deer stamp his feet on the lawn and paw at the ground while the deer raised and lowered his head. “Next thing I know I got the paper in my hand and a deer antler in my side—so I hit the animal with the paper and he ran off.”

The large buck with eighteen-point antlers in the window stamped his feet and pawed the ground in perfect rhythm. The teacher jolted back to the here and now as she realized what was unfolding. The class started to walk out the door and startled the deer. He charged the window. In the teacher’s mind it all happened in slow motion: a star shaped crack appeared in the window and an antler followed by a moist black nose emerged. The head was momentarily held up by the shattering glass which slit the deer’s throat and slowed the body’s entrance into the classroom. It paused as the hind legs reached the threshold of the window pane as if it wanted to reconsider its headlong charge into its own reflection in the window. It dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

Its head was turned toward the blackboard like a student taking notes. Blood spewed forth from its partially severed neck and onto the wall before forming a puddle. An antler slid across the student’s feet and crashed into the back of the door leading to the hallway. Undaunted, the students, apathetic from the math, hangovers, stress, or all three, continued filing into the hallway barely noticing the shattered window carpeting the floor.

A small group of students stayed behind mesmerized by the actions of the local wildlife. A long haired un-shaven student said, “Its Kill Bill, live!”

A petite, blond, honors student bent over and pulled the eyes closed and said quietly, “poor thing.”

The teacher was left with her mouth open unable even to scream. The wind blew straight into the classroom as she thanked god it wasn’t raining. She walked over to the phone as nonchalantly as she could and called Campus Security wishfully thinking they would be able to help.

“State your emergency.”

“A deer just crashed though my classroom window and is bleeding all over the floor!”

“Ma’am, please. I know Halloween is just around the corner, but we’re here for emergencies, not pranks.”

“This isn’t a prank, he just ran through the window…”

“OK. What’s your student ID number?”

“I’m not a student, I’m a math professor. Can’t you call someone to come over and clean up this mess?”

“This is Campus security ma’am, not Facilities Management, but we’re here to help. Would you like me to transfer you to facilities management?”

“I don’t know; it’s pretty late. Are you sure they’re open?”

“That’s not my department ma’am.’”

“I know. You’re Campus security. Go ahead and transfer me.”

The teacher heard a lot of clicks on the line before she heard: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

In her mind, the teacher remembered watching as her mother soaked up the blood from her father’s side with a dish towel. Her dad had called 911 and was rationalizing to the dispatcher how he had been gored. The paramedics arrived in a jovial mood and reassured him that it was only a flesh wound despite the massive blood loss and the wounds location on the left side of his body. They jabbed cotton swabs at it like they were skewering meat at a barbecue.

She looked in the phone book for Facilities Management and dialed.

“We do the floors, not the buildings.”

“Uh, a deer crashed through the window of my classroom.”

“If you got a toilet overflowing, I’d transfer you to maintenance, but as it is, it isn’t my department. You could try Campus security.”

“I have. Goodbye.”

She drifted back to her childhood and saw her mom and dad discussing why the paramedics had not called an ambulance. They had believed it was only a flesh wound and had joked about how the wound had really been made. They asked my father over and over if he had really been gored by a deer while retrieving the newspaper. Her mom talked her dad into going to the hospital because she didn’t believe that it was only a flesh wound…there was too much blood loss.

The window’s victim had finished thrashing on the floor and was now lying perfectly still. The teacher exhaled loudly as a cold gust of air blew bits and pieces of glass onto her sandaled feet. The phone book was still open to the University directory. A fresh gust of wind hit the book and it fell open to the city services page. An idea dawned in the math teacher’s mind. “Maybe I could try animal control.”

“Road maintenance, Animal Control division.”

“Hi, I work for the University and I have a problem. A huge deer just committed suicide by flying through the window of my classroom.”

“Well that’s really interesting and I’d love to help you, but we only scrape stuff up that’s actually on a city street. No county roads or state highways—so I’m afraid it ain’t us you need ma’am. Have you tried Campus security?”

She could feel beads of perspiration beginning though the room was cold from all the air circulating through it. She forced herself to hang up the phone, afraid of what she might say to the suggestion she call “security” again. The gears in her head started to generate a simple plan to take care of the problem. She asked the group of students remaining in the classroom if they would help her move the deer. They laughed nervously and said they would. She packed her bag, brought it out to her car, and parked closer to the building. The idea was now fully formed in her head as she chuckled at her solution.

The janitor was upstairs at this time of night—the coast was clear. In the classroom, the deer was getting stiff as rigor mortis set in. It needed to be moved soon or it would be too big and stiff to fit in her trunk. She grabbed it by the only un-bloodied part, its right front foot and gave her winter gloves to two of the students so they could help transport it to her car. The petite blond did her part as best she could by holding the tail. As they arrived, at the car a couple of students paused to watch. Speaking in the most authoritative voice she could, she told them, “I teach forensic pathology and this was tonight’s prop.” The two students shrugged and continued walking while she and her group heaved the dead, organic mass into the trunk.

The wheels of the car screeched as she pulled way from the curb. She put on some soothing classical music to help her get psyched-up for the next step in her bizarre evening. A Campus security vehicle passed her going the opposite direction as the light turned green. She carefully accelerated, not wanting to attract attention to the deer hooves hanging flopping around outside of her trunk. The deer’s final resting place was visible now, off in the distance.

She pulled into the parking lot and chose a spot carefully. She lined her car up and backed into a Disabled only spot. The bumper came to rest against the pole for the sign.

The car door opened silently as she donned a pair of surgical gloves she kept in the glove box in case she had to change a tire. Walking silently on the paved lot she heard the trunk squeak ominously as she raised the lid. The deer’s hooves retracted as the trunk lid stopped restraining them. She jumped back, ruminating to herself it couldn’t possibly be alive.

There was a role of duct tape in the corner of the trunk for emergencies. Its end was folded back onto itself making a ready-to-use tab. She grabbed the deer’s ankles and sandwiched the pole between pairs of them. A car door slammed in the distance as she reached for the duct tape. She taped the ankles together so that the deer was attached to the pole, but still in her trunk.

Back in the driver’s seat, she put the car in gear and slowly pulled out of her spot. Looking in the rear-view mirror, she could see the “Disabled only” sign superimposed over the “Campus security” sign behind it, on their building. The deer was slowly pried free from the trunk as she pulled away. When it hit the ground she heard a sound like the one you hear when you hit a deer.

She reached the street and happily recalled that her dad was only in the hospital for a week getting his spleen stitched up.

Dream Sequence #6

Eric Bennett, Lisbon, Iowa

poetry

A murder of crows composed of white wire frames,

pale spindle claws wrapped ‘round black crystal tree branch,

leaves floating down as flawlessly formed shards of stained glass,

glittering dust on the earthen concrete below that stretches in all directions,

miniscule holes burnt into the gritty gray by the litter of humanized sand,

gridded vortexes opening up in the gaps releasing

a geyser of electric energy,

fried crows smoking desolately on the pavement,

this barren parking lot of sorts occupying here and the horizons,

ivory mountains to the fictional west

and a blood red sun spiraling out of sight to the south,

some dull thud of distant impact,

and a soft undulation shaking the smoking lattices an inch or two to the side,

a temporary lull in awareness,

an aimless slideshow:

guitars with suspended rust for strings

cold headache hardwood floors

three stillborn children floating in a tub of water

head full of phlegm

lost human limbs fed into an incinerator

chipped teeth with frayed nerves leaking out,

agony, agony,

nothingness…

the yellowed 7 A.M. hue of my tiled ceiling two feet away

my lead curtain eyelids

roiling stomach acids

and slowly numbing limbs:

nothingness…

heartflutter love and reciprocation

torrential rainfalls

sweet sandstone landscapes

the intoxicating company of friends long missing

gardens bursting with omnivorous butterflies and sentient sunflowers

mountain streams lined with psychedelic dandelions

scrambled eggs and lingering embraces

melting treelines

rocket propulsion swingsets and lost childhood

tractor tires on their sides full of sand

dead grandpa cracking a joke about horsemilk (then drinking it)

an idealized town fair and funnelcakes,

sweet nothingness…

the pristine 11 A.M. hue of my tiled ceiling two feet away

a fervent energy crackling through my limbs

a warm contentedness in my chest

another dream sequence concluded and

a life lived for the next one.

Selenite: Into that Sky of Stars

Rochelle Liu, hometown?

fiction

I cannot possibly understand. I cannot even begin to comprehend the pain, the agony, the absolute suffering he is going through. How can I? I am living a blissful life; I am not struggling to survive—I am a hypocrite and he is sick of me.

He tells me this over and over again. He asks me why I’m still here. Why won’t I understand that he doesn’t want me here? Why won’t I just leave him alone to die in peace? He has no patience for my sympathy! He doesn’t want me here—he wants me to go away.

But I can’t.

I’ve watched him since he was an innocent little boy, filled with sweet toothless smiles and ignorance. And from that little boy, I watched him as he slowly, but surely, transformed into a stunning and intelligent man. I watched him take his first steps, say his first words, receive his first kiss, fall in love for the first time…I was there for everything, so how could I possibly leave him at a time where I am needed most?

“Go away,” he croaks through his parched lips, eyebrows furrowing in frustration at my obstinacy.

My heart aches at his pain and I reach down to touch his perspiring forehead.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!”

My hand retreats quickly before I settle myself in the seat next to his bed, stoically registering my objection to his demand.

He is alone in the world. His family had been brutally murdered by the opposing soldiers at the outbreak of the war, his comrades are dying left and right of him…and he has no one. He sees hundreds of men suffer by day and hears their cries of death every night. He touches the clammy hands of his fellow friends at the brink of their death and tastes the bitterness of loss when they are freed of their humanly constraints. He feels fear—immense fear—of having to leave a world he is so accustomed to for a world that he does not understand.

I did not understand. I cannot even begin to grasp the pain that he is suffering. He is telling me this again. He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t want to see me. It’s too early for that. He doesn’t want me. Please, can’t I understand his bitterness? Please, can’t I leave him in peace because I am only a hindrance to his sanity?

I smile at him like I do every time he gives this speech and shake my head. What would he do without me? What would happen to him at night as he suffers nightmare after nightmare? Who would calm his agonized screams that rip through the silence of the night?

He has given up for the time being and proceeds to close his dull eyes in exhaustion. Five of his fellow comrades passed on today—each young, talented, and died a magnificently tragic death.

Two of them were close friends of his. One lost his hand in an explosion; the wound festered with maggots and disease that quickly ate him away. The other lost his sight and hearing as well as a leg; the heavy handicap drove him to insanity and to his eventual death. Both deaths affected him greatly and now he lies there, suffering from a war that cannot be won.

He is at his ultimate low and I sit there, waiting for sleep to overtake him so that I may comfort him when he is plagued by demons that haunt him in his dreams.

“Julia…” he mumbles as he slowly drifts off to a place where nothing can touch him.

I place a hand at his cheek. I can feel the temperature rise but I can do nothing to help his current state of deliria.

Julia, his late wife, was a gorgeous woman. She was constantly filled with laughter and kindness, an easy woman to fall in love with. He spent years trying to win her heart and when he did, I can vividly remember the absolute happiness in his very being. They were deeply in love and, soon after the blessed wedding, produced two beautiful twin girls named Emily and Molly, who could brighten any room with their presence. They were just as dazzling and as charming as their parents, and they painted a picture of pure Eden. There could not have been a happier family living in the world.

It was such a heartbreaking moment for him when he found his house lying in ruins, burnt to the ground, signaling the end of his marvelously constructed world and the beginning of a hellish nightmare, from which he cannot escape. He fell to his knees in despair at the sight of his daughters’ little fingers detached from their bodies next to their mother’s mangled and burnt body lying in the ruins—the sorrow was so overwhelming that he could not cry a single tear or utter a single sound. The wife he cherished and the daughters who did not receive the chance of a beautiful and fulfilling life were gone, burnt with the house in ashy memories, never to be seen again.

“Julia…”

I look over at him, my golden eyebrows crease lightly as I take in his feverish state. He suppresses his sobs, eyes shut tightly so that tears cannot escape from their confinements. I allow myself to let out a sigh as I dip a cloth into the cool water of the bowl sitting next to his deathbed.

“Julia.”

He is trembling with anguished ferocity and he grips the sheets until his knuckles turn white. I gently place the chilly rag on his forehead in attempt to lower his temperature.

“Julia, Julia, Julia…”

He is crying now, his face twists in evident pain as his mind begins to fill with the faces of those he killed, those he saw die while begging for mercy, and those who are suffering in their jails as they starve and pine for freedom to see their families one last time. He is being dragged down under waves of guilt as those faces grasp at his very soul, wanting to drag him down with them and oh! How he wishes he could suffer to atone for all of the sins he had committed! How he wishes that Justice and Divinity would kill him off and send him to Hell where he belongs!

“Julia!”

He sits up, eyes wide and unfocused, sweating and breathing heavily as he tries to shake off the nightmare.

“You are still here,” he comments after he calms himself. His eyes turn towards me. “Why are you still here?”

I do not answer and this angers him.

“TELL ME!”

And still, I do not answer. I only smile lightly at him, pick up the rag that has fallen from his forehead and proceed to help him lie down. He throws suspicious glares at me but heeds my hands as they push down gently upon his shoulders. I sense nothing but weakness as he eases down into the lumpy bed, this once strong man that stood in front of his troops gone and replaced by this sad skeleton figure.

I dampen the rag and place it upon his burning forehead again. I seat myself in that chair that can now be proclaimed mine and I place a hand upon his, squeezing only lightly.

“Why are you here?” he asks me again.

And again, I do not answer.

But he is used to my silence now and he only offers me a smile.

“You look familiar.”

I gaze down into his face and see him looking sleepy and for the first time in years, he looks completely peaceful.

“I hated you,” he says groggily as he smiles up at me. His free hand reaches up to touch a few strands of my golden hair. He says quietly, “Because I did not want you to see me like this.”

He laughs quietly at my confused expression, giddy like a little boy.

“You watched me for a long time, didn’t you?”

I nod in response.

“I did not want you to see me so weak.”

The expression on my face must have been incredulous because he laughs out loud this time, incurring a series of deep, heavy coughs from the back of his throat.

I help him up and pat him soothingly on the back, gentle with his rotting injuries. It takes a while for his coughs to disperse and then another minute for his breathing to regulate again.

“I hated you,” he says again, “but now I’m glad you are here.”

My hand stops its rubbing in question.

“Death doesn’t feel so frightening with you here,” he utters as he slowly lowers himself back onto his pillow. “I feel calm and warm.”

I smile and nod, placing my hand on his ever-burning face.

“Are you a figment of my imagination?”

No; I shake my head.

“Good,” he gives me one last mortal smile. “That means I can leave in peace.”

And after a moment of still silence, I see him rising up before me. I give him a bright smile and offer him my hand. He looks at it with only slight hesitation and then he places his hand into mine.

Coming To America

Hsiao-Ying Chang, Taipei, Taiwan

nonfiction

Taipei is a big city on a small island. It is a city that sells merchandise from all over the world. Time goes fast and everyone walks fast there. That is where I came from. I am a Taiwanese girl. I’m not the type of person to make detailed plans when I go somewhere—to me that takes all of the excitement out of it. I’m more impulsive, the type of person who likes to jump right in and I welcome surprises. I don’t usually check whether the place is safe or not, what is fun or not fun there, or whether my personality will fit in or not. Because of this, I have become a master of adaptation. Therefore, without any specific idea about America, I decided to come here in my senior year of high school.

This is the fifth year of my life in America; however, I can still remember the first day when I first arrived at the airport. It was a summer day in Kansas City. Sunshine reflected off of the windows in the airport; it was so bright that it made my vision black out when I first walked out of the tunnel. It was my first time going to a foreign country, and it was my first time traveling alone. However, I wasn’t anxious or feeling homesick, I was too excited. My excitement defeated my exhaustion, even after a twenty-six hour flight, and soon my vision quickly overcame the bright light. My Asian squinty eyes were already searching through the sea of unfamiliar faces to find the familiar forms of my house family, thus far, known to me only through a photograph.

My search was suddenly interrupted by the voice of a woman saying, “Hello! Welcome to America!” I turned and immediately recognized the woman as my house mother, along with my house brother; both wearing big smiles. Although there was much I wanted to say, I couldn’t bring myself to respond with even a simple greeting. Instead, I flashed a nervous smile; the kind of smile that struggles between whether to show teeth or not. I was too agitated to speak with my broken English; it was the first time I had ever had a real, live American talk to me. That was an interesting first day. You may have noticed that I keep incorrectly referring to them as my ‘house family’. Well, this is because I didn’t know the word ‘host’ at the time, so when I heard the term ‘host family’ I heard it as ‘house family’, which really seemed to make a lot of sense at the time. I continued calling them my house family for an entire year. I think they just attributed the strange pronunciation of ‘host’ to my accent. Since then my English has improved a lot, at least, I am sure that I can say hi back to you if you greet to me. However, I am still the same Taiwanese girl that is impulsive on where to go. With same brashness I came to Iowa City, except I knew from one of the friends that it has a good school with a good psychology program, and decided to spend the second half of my college life here.

Unlike most international students, I’ve never really experienced culture shock. I was not shocked by American’s straight forward talking attitude, which can feel a little impolite to foreigners, especially Asians. On the contrary, I love the straightforward attitude I have found here; I don’t have to strain my brain in an attempt at guessing whether an American really likes me or they are just being polite. One example that can explain why the kind of attitude wins my favorite is my baking experience. I like to use my oven because people in Taiwan don’t usually have an oven at home, for that reason I bake a lot. This is, if I bake something and turn out to be terrible, my American friends will reject my offer politely. Where as my Asian friends will always take it without any comments but good no matter what. Different from many people, I didn’t come to Iowa City with any preconceived notions about a small town in the Midwest. Even after living here for almost five years, I still don’t find living in a state full of cornfields and cows to be upsetting; besides, there is a lot more to it than that!

I have often heard people say that people in small town are close-minded and small towns are boring. However, this kind of small town impression doesn’t seem to fit into Iowa City. When I first arrived to the campus it was a week before school starts. I was so amazed by the outstanding characteristics of this small city. Everywhere I went, I saw signs about volunteer work and was greeted with smiling faces. I thought maybe it is just because of the summer season, but I still see it now that it is almost winter. People are extremely friendly here, more so than any place I have lived so far. People are so friendly that I sometimes feel as if I have walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Everywhere I look people are smiling, and someone is sure to say hi to me as I walk down the street. Because the atmosphere here only contains happiness, sometimes it seems unreal. For a while, I kept expecting that maybe one day after all this is what always happens in the Twilight Zone, I would discover the dark secret of this place, but I never did. It turns out that people are just generally nice here. Because I am very clumsy I have run into people many times, but every time, instead of screaming, I hear a genuine, “Are you okay?”

Iowa City is a very open-minded place. Extreme topics which are usually abandoned in public speech, such as gay marriage, abortion and religious or politics beliefs are very welcome in the city. Human rights and free-speech are not just some rules that are written on the wall to show off, in Iowa City, people put real effort into practicing these types of work. It is nice to see gay people stand up for their rights without being punished. So far I haven’t heard any one use any derogatory speech toward gay people, even if those people hold different beliefs. Also, people respect free-speech in Iowa City. When I am talking about my opinion on abortion, I don’t get to stare at or yelled at by people.

There are so many fun things to do that I think I could mention one or two here. Even though Iowa City is located in middle of nowhere, I have had the opportunity to try many things here that I had never tried before. Kayaking on Lake MacBride and bicycling on the trails, which are two of my favorite activities. I am so glad I end up stay here because I would never have imagined that here would be a beach in mid-west and more than five bike trails. Besides, can you believe there is a scuba diving club? Even though the city is small, it has many things to do. Iowa City is not just some small dot in “fly over” country; it is a place that is full of energy and has many ideas to offer.

I have had the luck to experience life at a variety of levels from a big city (Taipei) to a medium sized city in Kansas to a small town in rural Iowa. Though I never thought that I would spend more than one year in America, I am glad I did because now I am able to appreciate aspects of each different place.

WHAT A URINAL!

Eri Kurniawan, Jakarta, Indonesia

nonfiction

Back in Indonesia, I used to talk with my colleagues about issues around us. Sometimes, we talked about political issues, like how intrusive the U.S. is in dealing with other countries. Other times, we simply discussed trivial issues, like how public restrooms are privately exploited for commercial purposes.

At one event, a senior lecturer who had spent a couple of months on a scholarly visit to several American universities commented on how we should have free access to any public facilities, one of which is the restroom. In Indonesia, for instance, we have to pay Rp. 1000, or around 10 cents, per restroom visit in public spaces. To the lecturer, it showed how inept the government is in providing freely accessible facilities for its people. She stressed that such won't be the case in any developed countries like America.

Furthermore, she was dissatisfied with the fact that most restrooms in public spaces are not properly taken care of. She didn't expect them to be modern. Rather, she simply hoped that with the money paid, we would have more comfortable and cleaner restrooms, with better hygiene, and more proper hand soap.

At that time, I fantasized how pleasant it would be to stay in a country where public facilities are freely accessible for all. I didn’t have any clear image of what restrooms in developed countries would look like though.

In my departmental office in Indonesia, there is only one decent restroom on the third floor. As a matter of fact, there are two altogether, but the other one is in awful condition. There is a big hole in its roof, the drainage is atrocious and it is also cramped. The so-called “decent” restroom is relatively cleaner and more spacious. But quite frequently there is no water. And there is no such thing as a urinal or sink. It has a quite big cubical water container with a small pail instead. So, we have to go downstairs to the first floor because no restroom is on the second floor. It is a three-story building and, what's more, the building has no elevator. What a building!

On October 23, 2006, I was nominated as a Fulbright grantee, meaning that I would be going to America. At the same time, though, I was accepted by AusAID to pursue my masters in the University of Sydney. I puzzled for quite some time about where to go, and asked my colleagues and parents for advice. After much careful thought, I decided to go the U.S., a country which I had always dreamed of going to. A colleague of mine told me I would have a wider variety of specialization choices in the U.S. than in Australia. Plus, the knowledge and technology is much more advanced in the U.S.

The moment I reached O'Hare International Airport, I was so passionate about having arrived in America, I felt like telling everyone in my village, "I'm here now in the U.S." Having been checked and questioned, I was held for a while by the NSEERS (the National Security Exit-Entry Registration System) officers, most probably because I happen to be a young Indonesian (Moslem). Needless to say, this country has encountered a heightened trauma after the horrible September 11 attacks, which were allegedly performed by ‘Islamic’ terrorists. I would have been personally eager to ask them, had they been still alive, “Are you a real Moslem?” This Islamic terrorism stereotype has since influenced the U.S. treatment of Moslems throughout the globe. So, given the fact that I’m an Indonesian and Moslem, I may be considered a potential threat against the people here in America. That’s why it took hours for me to satisfy NSEERS.

Having been through all these exhaustive procedures, I tried to find a restroom in Terminal 2. I went back and forth amidst many people crowding for the gate. I finally found one near the queue. I went inside and was a bit shocked with what I saw. The urinal was too sophisticated for me. It had an automatic flush mechanism. So, I was confused as to how to get the water out because I usually rinse myself soon after urinating or defecating as it is prescribed in my Islamic traditions. I am supposed to clean off my urinary orifice with water. It is permissible to clean it off with some fabric, though. But I rarely found any toilet paper in most restrooms in my village. So, I’m not used to using it.

I then figured out how the urinal works when I saw someone else using it. Once he left, it started to flush automatically. So, I decided to move aside a bit to hide from the auto detection. Great, it worked. Hurriedly, I moved again and scooped up some water. Anyhow, it didn’t feel convenient because I feared that someone might watch me doing this.

While getting used to using the restrooms in the University of Iowa, it came to my attention that there is a little black rubber button right beneath the auto detection on the upper part of the urinal. I once pressed it on, just to have a try. Yes, it flushed. I was so excited that I didn't need to keep pretending to hide from auto detection simply to wait for the water.

This type of restroom was my first introduction to the state-of-the-art world where everything in America seems sophisticated. I haven't seen such a toilet in my village. I would predict that, with the growing technological advancement in many parts of the world, in the next few decades such a restroom will be commonplace in my village.

Moreover, the restrooms are so clean and dry in the U.S. On the contrary, in my village (I don't want to generalize about Indonesia) they are dirty, messy, slippery and smelly. How can people be comforted using restrooms with such lousy conditions?

Best of all, restrooms in the U.S. don't cost me anything. I couldn't imagine how much I would be charged if there were such a restroom in my home country.

When I came to the University of Iowa for the first time and used the restroom, I found a separate place for the handicapped. Extra utilities, such as a hand drier, are also accessible for them. This is amazing. This country highly appreciates everyone's right to accessibility in the public domain. This is something I haven't found in Indonesia. Almost all public facilities are exclusively for abled-people. The handicapped, for instance, are not considered to have equal rights in regard to the facilities. They don't even have the access to education. This is pathetic.

All of these—irrespective of my urinal experience—have together led me to understand that this country has been developed partly because it continues to appreciate everyone’s rights and access to public sphere. The U.S. has integrated technology of all sorts for the people’s comfort and convenience. This is what my country must learn to do.

the speakers in a babbling brook are its indigenous tribe

Eric Bennett, Lisbon, Iowa

poetry