Wade Franck, West Des Moines, Iowa

Teacher: Cinda Coggins

The storm clouds vented their might on the 1875 town. Angry storm clouds, the color of steel wool. Clouds that for some reason decided to empty their warm rain furiously on the town’s porches and roofs, making the wooden sidewalks and muddy street vacant of visitors and townsfolk.

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My Grandmother

Angela Koh, Clinton, Iowa

Teacher: Rick Zollo

My grandma is, I think, about 80 years old. She came from Korea with my mom and dad when they first immigrated to the United States. We lived in Clinton, Iowa, ever since my parents moved here. My grandma has always lived with us except for when she lived in Chicago for two years with family and friends.

We used to live in an old house right behind our new house. We tore our old house down, when I was probably eight or nine years old, and then we built a new one.

My grandma was always there to help my mom out with the house until my grandma had her first stroke. It was a bad one but then she did start getting better in time. A few months later, she had another stroke and was put in the hospital. After many months of therapy, she got better again. The doctors said she would never walk again, and she was half paralyzed.

In time, she got some of her strength back and got a walker. Her left side of her body was paralyzed, but she started walking with her walker and now she can walk with that. She still can’t use her left arm but she is walking.

I don’t know for sure about my relationship with her. I never was really close with my grandma while I was growing up. She was closer with my older sister Christine. They had a very close relationship.

Now though, or this past year, my grandma and I have become a lot closer. My mom and she are very close, and my mom communicates and translates for me. I understand Korean, but I can’t speak it. It’s weird—everyone asks me, "Can you speak Korean?" I’m like, "No, but I understand it." My parents talk in Korean to each other, but to us kids they speak English.

Well, I think my grandma and I got closer towards the end of my senior year in high school when my mom and I were becoming close. Last February, my mom broke her leg, so I, being the oldest in the house, had to do all of the shopping, cooking, and cleaning. I think my grandma saw that and she appreciated me more, and that’s where it started. I made her supper and would bring it to her room. She would always tell me in Korean that I was such a good girl.

After a few months, my mom got better but I still helped her out; I understood now everything that my mom had to do. She had a big task on her shoulders, raising six children and keeping up the house, that I never understood or appreciated before. I found out the hard way.

Summer time came and my mom and grandma were telling me that they were going to miss me when I went off to college. I got sad and I didn’t want to think of it. I guess that’s really all there is to our relationship.

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Magic of Statistics

Masahiro Masuda, Osaka, Japan

Teacher: Teri Bostian

People tend to regard statistics as science. However, it is not science, but rhetoric. It is never objective, but argumen-tative. Statistics is just an impressive expression that represents a whole context. However, it has a magical power that makes people pay attention to only the "fact" itself and prevents them from investigating the whole context.

Since I also use statistics for my own research, I know what researchers mean by statistical numbers. I know we researchers can "fabricate" reality by manipulating data, moreover, even "fabricate" data itself by manipulating the procedure of collecting data.

Let me show you an example. According to "Harper's Index," approximately 90 percent of all American TV cartoon programs are drawn in Asia. Is this really true? As an Asian, I doubt whether this statistic is correct.

Indeed, in my childhood, I enjoyed imported American TV animation such as Popeye, the Sailorman, Tom & Jerry, and so on in Japan. However, it was the 1970’s. As far as I know, since 1980 we Japanese have not seen any newly produced American animation except for Disney movies. However, Disney features should not be counted in this statistic because they are not television programs.

There is another piece of evidence. Since the end of the 1970’s, much Japanese animation has been exported to other Asian and European countries. As a result, though Japanese animation got a very good reputation, it caused some controversial problems in some Asian countries. For instance, some Muslim countries criticized Japanese cartoons because they contained scenes in which girls took baths; these scenes were eliminated because they were regarded as "immoral."

Though we Japanese cannot be proud of such kinds of cultural conflicts, this incident shows how Japanese TV cartoons have affected other Asian countries.

Of course, I do not think Japan has completely replaced the United States as the animation provider to Asian countries because I have no evidence. However, as a Japanese, I cannot believe that 90 percent of animation should be exported. It is impossible that 90 percent of TV programs in Japan would be popular beyond cultural differences. We cannot count all TV programs since the beginning of TV broadcasting, and it is far from reasonable to think that every program has good quality.

Therefore, there must be some tricks in the statistics in "Harper's Index." One of most untrustworthy points is that they conceal "the total." Without indicating what the total is, the percentage loses its meaning. Which should be more valuable: 80 percent of ten persons, or 8 percent of one million people? No one but researchers can decide that. If a researcher wants to argue that 80 percent of ten persons is significant, he or she must explain to us the reason, referring to what these ten persons mean. Unless his or her explanation makes sense, showing only "80 percent" is misleading.

In this case of TV cartoons, this statistic does not show "90 percent of 'what.'" If it meant "90 percent of all animation produced during the 1970s," I would never doubt this figure. What if it’s "90 percent of all animation produced for the purpose of export to Asia"?

To make matters worse, this statistic does not define "Asian countries." It would be probable if this meant "Asian countries except for Japan." However, without notice, "Asian" includes Japan.

I am afraid that American people, the primary readers of this magazine, do not notice the fallacy of this statistic, except for those who have been to an Asian country. However, if so, what is the mission of journalism to provide the facts to those who do not know?

This article must be blamed for causing many speculations without clarified evidence. Some Americans might think that this statistic is reasonable because the American animation movies have a world-wide draw. On the other hand, some Japanese might wonder whether the American TV productions quit making animation for TV after 1980, because this "90 percent" might be assumed to be all cartoons that they have ever produced. Like this, every reader would deduce the fact differently. How to read the fact depends upon each one's preliminary knowledge. Thus, this article does not tell us any "new" information. If the editor intended to enlighten us sincerely, he or she should have indicated the context which would help us speculate correctly.

Some people might disagree with my opinion, complaining that if the article shows us whole data, this page would not be impressive and we would not be interested in it. However, if statistics is science, it would not have anything to do with impression. If some people want to be amused by this page, they should keep in mind the fact that statistics are not reality but one of the ways of interpreting reality subjectively, not objectively, because they are rhetoric.

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A Light Through the Fog

Jackie Burr, Manchester, Iowa

Teacher: Cinda Coggins

I spent this past spring break in Chicago, doing service work throughout different communities there. I was part of an eleven-person group and we were planning to attend mass together. I arose early on Sunday morning. The morning came too soon, like all mornings have since I came to college. Everyone was excited to attend mass that morning. Our group was from all different denominations and none of us had ever been to a mass where the whole congregation was African-American. St. Ailbe’s Catholic Church is located in an area of Chicago called Woodlawn. I was very nervous when we pulled into the parking lot.

Deep down I wondered if we would be accepted. I didn’t know how the congregation would feel with a group of white people entering their parish. My fears were brushed away as soon as we entered the doors. St. Ailbe’s motto for their church is "Rooted in faith, Strengthened by Love," and it showed. Everyone was very friendly and they smiled and thanked us for coming. We were welcomed from the beginning.

I am Catholic, so I am familiar with the format of a Catholic mass. The mass at St. Ailbe’s was electrifying and beautiful. It was filled with singing from an adult choir and also a children’s choir. I was really enjoying the mass, and when the sermon came upon us, I fell into a trance.

Father John Breslin was giving the sermon and had been at St. Ailbe’s for fifteen years. His sermon was like the magical key that unlocked the door to my future. It was the light that I could see from my boat and use it to get through the fog, to land. It was a gift from God.

He started off by saying, "What do you want to see and how are you going to see it?" I thought about this question and realized that there was a lot I wanted to do with my life—places I wanted to visit, people I wanted to meet, and experiences I wanted to have.

Father Breslin then directed his sermon towards college students. He said not to let anything stand in the way of our dreams. No matter what we wanted to do with our lives, to do it. He then reassured us that whatever choices we make about the future, God would always be there to help us reach our goals. With God, everything is possible. He continued by telling us not to let our parents or friends mold our minds for us. "Don’t do anything because they want you to; do it because you want to." He then repeated at the end of his sermon, "What do you want to see, and how are you going to see it?"

After the sermon I sat thinking about what Father Breslin had said. I realized that during this trip I was afraid of seeing the poor and homeless. But I also realized I was afraid of the reality of my future. I was afraid of reaching my dream because I had begun to listen to other people telling me it was a tough road ahead. I let them mold my mind for me. I was doing what they wanted me to do, not what I wanted to do.

Father Breslin’s sermon left me in tears. Tears of joy knowing I could reach my goal of going to medical school and becoming a doctor. I had a new confidence about myself. Father Breslin’s sermon and the week following helped me get to know myself and realize what I really wanted to do with my future. I realized I can be and do whatever I want, no matter who may question it. I walked out of the church with a burden lifted off my shoulders. The fog was cleared away and I could see the light through the fog. The land was ahead and I was almost there.

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Joe and I

by Chi-yin Lo, Hong Kong

Teacher: Rick Zollo

There is always a problem when two people live together. Joe and I have been housemates for almost two years. We both are Asian; he is from Tokyo and I am from Hong Kong. Basically, we have many things in common with each other. Both of us come from large cities and so we can identify with each other’s concerns about the fast and stressful big city lifestyle. Iowa is far too quiet and slow for us to live, and we agree that life is boring here. On the other hand, we both are interested in each other’s culture.

Joe likes Chinese language and history so much that he has taken Chinese history courses at the university and has a private tutor to teach him Chinese. I don’t know why and when he started this practice. Maybe he was so amazed with Hong Kong culture after living two years with two Hong Kong people in our apartment. My ex-roommate, who is also from Hong Kong,

loved to watch Hong Kong movies. He always brought home a lot of videotapes and watched them in the living room. Very often, Joe would come out and watch with him. At a certain point in time, he became interested in some Hong Kong movie stars. From the movies, he discovered a distinctive Hong Kong culture and loved the humor of its people. He also asked me to teach him Cantonese slang and vocabulary so that he can tease me sometimes.

I, on the other hand, am not as enthusiastic as him about knowing the Japanese language or their movies. But the environment that I was raised in was filled with traces of Japanese artifacts and culture. Hong Kong and Japan are located close to one another. Over the years, they have traded with each other, and Japanese products have gradually infiltrated the Hong Kong culture. In my childhood, what I could see on TV were Japanese cartoons, and most adults in Hong Kong nowadays still love those cartoon characters.

But problems started to arise when I found Joe always leaving his dishes in the sink and spreading his belongings all over the living room. I felt that Joe’s behavior became annoying. He seldom cleaned up the place but ruined it. I have already talked to him about the issue, He will then change his behavior and become considerate for a few weeks. Not long after that, he will be back to his old mode of behavior and start ruining the place again.

After living with Joe for almost two years, I notice that it is hard for him to alter his behavior. I have already gotten used to Joe’s behavior and I have began to act like him. Now we both throw our clothes all over the living room; needless to say, our bedrooms are hardly places for humans to live. Dishes are piled up in the kitchen sink and they will be washed only when we have to use them.

After all, Joe is not as annoying as I thought at the beginning. Now he always treats me with his homestyle Japanese food and I can’t find a single reason to dislike him any further.

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The Grand Marquee

Matt Szafranski, Wheaton, Illinois

Teacher: Patricia Coy

The 1986 white Grand Marquee glides down the paved two-way street. The car’s character and originality comes from the silver-spoked rims, white-walled tires, and elongated-body shape. Blaring from the standard factory model are the sounds of alternative music from a local radio station, songs playing continuously back to back. The feeling of relief and joy fills the entire car. The weather is wonderful and everyone is wearing warm weather clothing. I am the driver and the other people are my friends from school. We are going home from a long day at school, an everyday routine for the three of us.

The windows are wide open, allowing the wind to whip through the car. My long golden brown hair flaps in the wind. The wind is very calming. I am feeling very relaxed with my left hand on the top of the gray worn-down steering wheel and my other arm resting on my knee. Sitting in the plush gray passenger seat is my close buddy, Mike. He has a slender build and short brownish-blond hair. He is a huge Beatles’ fan and he can be seen wearing a Beatles T-shirt often. Mike is usually shy and quiet but he loves to make people laugh with his strange sense of humor that is always a silence breaker. Slouching down in the back seat is Dan, another friend of mine. He has wavy blond hair and a very innocent look to him. His personality is very much like his appearance. Whenever I need to talk to someone about something that is bothering me, he is there. We are both very active in spring sports. He plays on the volleyball team, while I’m involved in track and field. We are always giving each other rides home during the spring because we live on the same block. We always have so much fun after school. Sometimes we will go to shoot some hoops at a local playground. We are usually horsing around or gossiping about rumors that are circulating around school, ranging in topic from relationships to parties set for the next weekend.

All of us are continually joking around or just relaxing to the tunes. We will generally figure out who is driving tomorrow. Riding the bus to school is one of those things that you just don’t do because it is unpopular. Walking to school would be a more reasonable option than taking the bus, on account of the embarrassment. I will, as I normally do, drop off Mike first and then Dan since he lives so close.

On the whole way home, I am feeling relief that school is over and confidence that I’m in control. I do not have to worry about what I say or do in the car because there are no authority figures to correct me or scold me. When I am in the car I feel as if it is an extension of my room and I am able to kick back and be myself. Going from school to home is the only time of the day that I know that I can do whatever I want without having any worries. At school, I do what is expected of me by my teachers and when I go home, I must respect and obey my parents’ every word. My 1986 White Grand Marquee offers me freedom that nothing else can.

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LawEnforcement Is My Future

Tom Stauffer, Eldridge, Iowa

Teacher: Rick Zollo

Growing up as a kid, you may go through many different stages of what you want to do with your life. But I did not go through changing views on my future. As long as I can remember, I have wanted to go into some kind of law enforcement. The reason I decided that law enforcement was for me is because I have always liked to help people, and I have always been interested in the crimes that are committed and the way that criminals are punished for their crimes. Throughout the years I have read the daily newspaper’s articles that involved crime in the U.S. and local crime, and the activities involving our military.

As a kid I was curious about what our local police were up to and listened closely to the officers when they came to school to talk. I showed them respect and wanted to get to know the officers of my town of Eldridge. Almost all of the shows I watched while growing up involved police officers. You may think that I was influenced by television and think that I am going to go around shooting everyone in sight and drive fast through town in my car while chasing bank robbers. Well, you are wrong. I may have watched a lot of television, but I know a lot of what I saw does not happen in every day police work. I am not living in some fantasy world. I have taken the time to find out what it is like to be a real cop.

During my senior year in high school, I joined a police explorers group at the Bettendorf Police Department. I wanted to gain more knowledge of police procedure. I was able to learn the proper way to approach domestic disputes, search buildings with your partner, and the proper way to handcuff a person, just to name a few things. I was given the chance to ride with different officers while they were on duty and experience everything they did. I had to learn the radio codes that are used. When I rode I wore a uniform, a bullet proof vest, and had handcuffs, a flashlight, and my own portable radio for the time that we were out of the car. I attended the pre-shift briefing and took notes on what the lieutenant had to say. I did all the communicating with the dispatcher while we were working that shift. When we were sent on a call I turned on the lights and sirens and used the air horn as we went through intersections.

One of the first times that I rode, I had to chase after some kids through a wooded area. When I yelled at them to stop, they stopped, because they thought that I was really a cop. Another time I searched a car for drugs and found a marijuana pipe in the glove compartment.

I had the chance to ride with the police officers of Eldridge. There wasn’t an explorers program, but because I was active in one in another city, they allowed me to ride with them. I was not given the chance to be as active as I was in Bettendorf, but having the chance to observe police procedure helped me when I rode in Bettendorf. There was not as much to do in Eldridge, because it was smaller than Bettendorf, but one night we had our share of excitement. We had heard that there was a chase in progress in Davenport, just south of Eldridge. There was only one officer that was in this pursuit, so we decided to head towards the chase in case they started to head for Eldridge. As we went down a hill heading into Davenport, we saw that the car being chased was heading right for us. We turned on our lights and the driver then tried to take too sharp of a turn to avoid coming at us and he went into the ditch. By the time we got down the hill there was an Iowa State Trooper who arrived right behind the Davenport officer. As soon as we stopped, the officer I was with jumped out of the car to assist the other officers in apprehending the driver, who did not resist arrest in any way. About a minute after we had arrived, about six other officers arrived at the scene to help out. The Davenport officer who was doing the pursuit thanked us for helping out and told us we eliminated the risk of injury to anyone by stopping the pursuit before it got out of hand. That was quite an experience for me and it will be hard to forget.

When I was interested in becoming involved in riding with the officers of Eldridge, I knew that there was a risk in confronting friends in different situations. The first night that I rode in Eldridge, we were backed into a spot to watch for drunk drivers coming off the highway. About two minutes after we were sitting there, we saw a car blow a stop sign. We let him go by us, then we pulled out behind him and turned on the lights. As soon as we did that, I realized that the car belonged to a friend of mine. I didn’t know what to do, but sit in the car and hope that he hadn’t been drinking. The officer had him get out and gave him a field sobriety test and a portable breathalyzer test. He failed the breathalyzer, and we had to take him down to the station for another breathalyzer that was there. When my friend got in the back of the car, he noticed that I was sitting there and said "hi" to me. I nodded and said nothing more. I was lost for words, and could not believe that this was happening. When the results of the breathalyzer were analyzed at the station, my friend had failed by just a fraction. With the passing of stricter underage drinking laws, my friend was going to lose his license for sixty days. This event made me realize that when I go into law enforcement, there is a chance I may have to confront people I know and go on with my work.

I was fortunate to get the opportunity to experience law enforcement and to get a chance to be out on the streets with an officer, and I was able to see if it is something that I want to continue to pursue as my future.

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The Most Unforgettable Experience

Maeri Megumi, Kagoshima, Japan

Teacher: Becky Soglin

"Hey, Maeri! We're going to Fraser Island. You wanna join us? Eva's coming too." This was a telephone call from one of my best friends, Jen, and I immediately agreed, not knowing the nightmare I was about to become part of.

It was winter in Queensland, Australia. Fraser Island is about three to four hours drive from Brisbane, where I lived at that time, and is famous for its unique natural landforms—made only of sand. The beauty of the island was well known and the ads said that we could enjoy fishing, barbecue on the beach, and might even be lucky enough to encounter some wild animals. I was interested in fishing and the beautiful scenery of the island, and since it was winter holiday and I had no other plans, I joined this exceptionally exciting trip most willingly.

The trip started out quite happily. Jen's boyfriend (at that time) drove the car to the beach, where we took a ferry to the island. Since we knew one another pretty well, all of us felt like our party had started even before we arrived the beach: we talked a lot, joked around as if we were drunk, and the idea that we were free from school enabled us to fully relax. Reaching the beach, we rented a four-wheel drive because ordinary cars are not suitable for the island. The 4WD we rented looked cool and we were thrilled thinking about the adventure we would experience.

Then, we arrived on the island. It was really beautiful: the beach was completely white, the sea was light and transparent blue, and the air was crisp. We were fascinated to see even the bushes on the island grow on the sand. These jungle-like bushes excited us too, but we decided to drive on the beach first because we had never done such a thing.

It was gorgeous! How smooth the sand was as we drove over it! Our car ran just to the edge of the waves, where we watched the shinning splashes as they rolled over the shore and back again. The four-wheel was doing a good job and we were all in a great excitement. . .until it stopped suddenly in the middle of the waves. At first, we did not take it too seriously. We just thought, "Oh, we played a little too much." However, when the vehicle refused to start again after several tries, we became a little anxious. We were still lucky, for the time being, as a car happened to come from the bush. We asked these fellow vacationers for help. They pulled our four-wheel from the waves and dragged it onto the bush. They even managed to restart our vehicle’s engine. We thanked them and we thought the trouble was over. However, they warned us, as they drove away, that the engine might easily stop again because the battery was old.

When we looked under the hood for the first time, we knew that it was true—the car was indeed very old. We had no choice, though; we had to drive the car into the bush to reach a place where we could get mechanical aid. The people who had helped us told us to go to a nearby place called Central Station, where we could find a pay-phone and call a mechanic.

Well, the high tide was now covering the beach, the sky was getting dark. With nervousness and prayers, we started to drive into the jungle, toward Central Station, in search for a mechanic.

As we had feared, however, reality proved to be cruel as it so often does. Our brilliant four-wheel vehicle stopped again and did not start however much we endeavored. We pushed it as fast as we could in an effort to restart the engine, but it was completely dead. It was night already, and we could see nothing: we were utterly stranded in this unknown, dark jungle.

Of course, we had not anticipated staying overnight in the bush, so we didn't have any proper food or clothing. There were only a few bottles of lukewarm beer and a pack of peanuts in the car. The vehicle did not have enough space for the four of us to sleep comfortably. We had to bend our bodies into unnatural positions, which soon made them ache. We vainly changed our postures again and again. Worst of all, however, the power windows—which we had opened happily when we were still ignorant fools—would not close, and it was the middle of the goddamn winter! All these things were too much for us who only had lived in civilized environments. We were exhausted, cold, and frightened. It seemed that no morning would ever come to us. Where was God?!

It did come, though. Our bodies sensed the cold, but fresh morning air coming into the car. Despite hunger and "body aches," we decided to make a move. We knew we could not just sit and wait for someone to rescue us; no one would possibly come this place. So, two of us began to walk in search of a phone, to Central Station.

Funny thing is, although we must have been really exhausted, I remember that Eva and I did this job rather merrily. We talked all the way to Central Station (by the way, I'll never forget this name) and, helped by some signs which we must have missed the previous night, we at last reached our destination after more than three hours' walk. Once there, we drank some water and phoned a mechanic. We had to wait for an hour for the mechanic to arrive, as no one can drive more than 20 km/h on the island due to the narrow and bumpy paths. It also took another hour to drive from Central Station to the point where our poor friends were waiting. It was already night when we reached the mainland beach: our long day on the island was over, at last.

The first thing we did when we landed on the mainland beach was, as you can easily guess, EAT. We ate and drank the most delicious hamburgers, fish and chips, and cokes we had ever had. The hot showers we each took that night were unforgettably refreshing, and, thanks to God, we had good sleep without nightmares.

And so the story ends. Although it was undoubtedly an awful event, I have noticed it has already become one of the happiest and dearest memories I share with my best friends. I used to say, "NO, thanks," when these naughty friends would say to me, half jokingly, "Hey, let's go to Fraser Island, again!" However, if someone asked me to go there now, I might say "OK, let's go". . .but surely having prepared first, for a cold night in the bush on the island.

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Outward Bound

Yengyeng Yeong, Subang Jaya, Malaysia

Teacher: Cinda Coggins

There’s nothing that I do really well, so I don’t quite feel competent or confident about most things I do. What I am especially pathetic at is sports or physical activities. When I was fourteen, I had a chance to prove myself correct.

I went to train at the Outward Bound School for ten days. Our training included running, hiking, camping, canoeing, and performing various outdoor challenging activities. I was really apprehensive before I went that I would embarrass myself by my klutzyness and weak physique. I didn’t need to feel any smaller. The only thing that kept me going was my enthusiasm to try new things and a constant need to put myself to the challenge. Perhaps I hoped very hard, too, because OBS turned out to be one of the greatest experiences of my life. And it made me realize just how much I love the natural outdoors.

The Outward Bound School, Malaysia, is situated on a small piece of land by the beach. It is surrounded by rolling hills, mountains, swamps, and cliffs. Our dormitories were built on the hills and they make a pretty sight, each sort of growing out from between the trees.

I knew no one in OBS. In a way, I wanted that. Nobody knew how lousy I was, so I could start anew, sort of.

Our first activity was stretching at 6.00 a.m. on the first day. I was glad because stretching is something my relatively flexible body can do well. A two-mile run followed. Uh-oh. I could hardly run 400 meters in school! It was great that the instructors did not force us to run. In fact, some of them who couldn’t run walked with us. These activities were daily except when we were out on expeditions.

There were three expeditions and three one-day trips. I have an especially weak upper body and I knew I could not make it in the canoe to an island more than three miles away where we had to camp for two days. I was partnered with quite a muscular guy. I should have been glad but I was worried all the time that he might find me to be a burden. He didn’t and I enjoyed our three-hour canoeing under the midday sun. I got sick and cold when we reached our destination but I was in high spirits for our camp.

Everyone had nightwatch duties to see that our canoes would not be caught by the rising tides and our food would not be stolen by the monkeys. One night, our canoes were caught by the waves and everyone was alerted. It was funny seeing dark and cold figures in the night, rushing to the sea to retrieve their runaway canoes. My duty was at 6.00 a.m. and about that time we had to get a bigger fire going to prepare breakfast. The first time, it took us four hours to come up with something that remotely looked like food!

Our second and third expeditions included both hiking and camping. Here, I discovered that I’m not all that physically weak. While most girls were worried about thorns cutting into their pants and mosquitoes feeding on them, I found our four- hour hikes through hills, valleys and cliffs fascinating and definitely exciting. I could have gone on and on, thirsting to know more about the trees, the noises in the jungle and the myths surrounding it. My curiosity and enthusiasm shadowed my low self-esteem.

Two other courses that helped built my confidence were the rope course and the rock climbing. I was not very enthusiastic about heights, but the ropes hanging from the trees and the challenges it posed were too much to contain my excitement. I climbed, crawled and walked on ropes as high as 30 feet above ground and I "flew" down the "flying fox." It was exhilarating and I went back for more!

The rock we had to climb was literally vertical with mini crevices and rough edges here and there. I tore my pants and my fingers suffered multiple cuts. I fell more than four times. The falling sensation was fun, though, because the person supporting me on top of the rock had to let me fall for a while and gently pull me back into position. One of my fellow trainees was not paying attention and when he fell, he turned 180 degrees and his head went down and knocked the rock (his legs were in the air). He thought it was fun! He did not get hurt because we were well protected with gear. Nonetheless, he got reprimanded. It took me half an hour to climb a 20-foot high rock, but the fact that I made it gave me a sense of achievement.

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The Evolution of My Writing

Alan Unger, Iowa City

Teacher: Cinda Coggins

Writing was always a losing game for me until the Writing Lab showed me how to spar. Through participating in the Writing Lab for three semesters, I have learned techniques that have helped me become a motivated writer. As a result of my academic advisor’s encouragement and my lab mentoring, I have learned that writing requires invention, prewriting, drafting, composing, rewriting, and revising. From reading, I know now that effective writing also includes definition, analogy or comparison, consequence, testimony, clustering and sketching—all rhetorical elements.

Punctuation is another mystery that I am working on solving. Until recently, punctuation road signs of written discourse were something I never gave thought to. I merely wrote as I spoke without realizing that speaking and writing are two very different forms of communication. However, I am now able to understand the role of punctuation. It is an encoding process to the reader and not something that I arbitrarily add because of the lack of commas, colons, semicolons, or parenthetical hyphens! Additionally, as shown by the prior sentence, a full stop could use a period, exclamation point, or question mark. Since I wanted emphasis, I used an exclamation point. Hence, I have learned that in hierarchical order of importance, a comma is not as powerful as a semicolon, and a semicolon is midway between a comma and a full stop.

I now understand that good writing is not magically created by a gifted few. I previously thought that writers wrote perfectly without revision. But, upon reading Donald M. Murray’s The Craft of Revision, I realized my error was caused by lack of modeling during my formative years. Additionally, I had writer’s block because my inner mind heard my third-grade teacher speaking: "Alan, I know what you are saying, but you are not saying it the way I want you to." However, that blockage has thankfully passed. I can now write brief notes on Post-it slips! Years ago, if a card was passed around for a special occasion, I could only sign my name. Maybe someday I will be able to write thoughts off-the-cuff like other people. This writer’s block affected my writing style tremendously. In fact, I had no prose style because I tended to write in lists rather than prose. Hence, my orality and composition communication skills differed greatly.

In a course taken with my advisor, I learned about maximizing student potential through liberal education. Four years ago, in a class I wrote a position paper on liberal education but it has been only through my experience in the Writing Lab where I increased my ability to write coherent thoughts in one sitting that I have considered myself liberally educated. I no longer need writing rituals for the rhetorical process. I can just sit down practically anywhere and write.

I have accumulated much knowledge in education, measurement, psychology, and management. However, I have only recently grasped crucial facts my advisor has taught me. Speech has always been easy for me, but academic discourse involves peer communication, which is especially important in theses and dissertations, abstracts, journal articles, and professorial feedback to students. For example, individuals in the audience may have much knowledge about many subjects, yet your expertise may come to naught. Imagine the following scenario: a computer program you use daily is not performing as specified in the manual. Your co-worker knows how to fix the computer program but cannot communicate software jargon to you. Your guru may be able to fix the program dilemma this time but what about the next time your technophile is not immediately available? This is when speaking is subordinate to writing. Yet, writing provides permanency for fixing the computer. It is this writing versus speaking ability that I now possess that has given me a liberated feeling!

My advisor’s commendation and my instructor’s encouragement have made all of my efforts worthwhile. However, above all else, it is my spouse’s confirmation of the progress I have made, especially since she is putting me through graduate school, that matters most to me. The biggest proof of my writing improvement is that after years and years of battling a visuospatial learning disability, my wife says I no longer write backwards.

* * * * * *

Being Together

Tracy Bildstein, Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Teacher: Patricia Coy

We met in my basement every night for study group. The room was big enough and everything we needed was there. Somebody was always studying, but most people were there just hanging out. The different activities divided the large open room into several smaller units. Alongside the staircase was the pool table, where my friend Brad was always standing. He challenged everyone to a game, either playing to win or playing alone. Brad would do anything to avoid doing his calculus. He knew that I would explain it to him later; I always did.

Next to the pool table was the area enclosed by two old, blue couches. These couches were the permanent seats of Kerry and Keri. Kerry would sit on the love seat. He always wore a flannel shirt and sat twirling a piece of hair on the top of his head. He didn’t ever feel like studying and didn’t think it was necessary. Across from him, lying on the other couch, was my best friend Keri. She came over every night carrying an overflowing backpack that I never saw her open. She wasn’t in the study group, but she knew she could count on several of us to just be hanging out. These two watched whatever program happened to be on television and waited for the rest of us to finish our homework.

Four of us actually did study. We sat behind the couches or laid on the floor, books open and homework out. Zach and I worked together at a much slower pace than Kevin and Jackson. Zach and I were usually pretty frustrated with the problems and sat and watched Kevin and Jackson breeze through their work. We always needed help, but knew we would get none from Kevin and Jackson until they were finished. So Zach and I waited. Talking, laughing, and watching television with Kerry and Keri monopolized most of our time, but we pretended to be working.

Every night was the same. We said we were studying, but it was more of an excuse to get together. Though we actually did some calculus, one hour of work became three hours of taking breaks to play a game of pool or watching some TV. We didn’t get much done, and our grades never improved, but we weren’t concerned. We accomplished what was really important to us, being together.

* * * * * *

The Unforeseen End to Alcohol Use

Meredith Ross, Chicago, Illinois

Teacher: Cinda Coggins

I’m not a drinker by any means, but every once in awhile I’ll celebrate the weekend with an ice cold beer. Recently I’ve noticed the microscopic warnings of potential health risks on beer bottles. The health risks come as no surprise. If a person is old enough to drink, they are aware that alcohol can do damage to the body. A large amount of health education today deals with the consequences of alcohol. In Patrica Taylor’s article "It’s Time to Put Warning Labels on Alcohol," she expresses her belief that these warnings will actually have an effect on people. Obviously, she has never hung out on a college campus. Being a college student myself, I strongly disagree with Taylor. When a person wants a beer, the only thing read is the brand. Drinking will remain prevalent with or without warnings. Any college student knows parties aren’t complete without a full keg and a couple of 24 packs. The only action that can stop the flow of alcohol is completely stopping the production of it. Alcohol consumption will never end. It is part of America, like apple pie. Instead of trying to stop our children from drinking, we should be advising them about drinking intelligently. I believe this is possible.

* * * * * *

Demosthenes Karanikolaou, Athens, Greece

Teacher: Julie Barton

Athens at sunset, maybe a little later, when the sun has disappeared and the orange-yellow sky embraces the city, for a short time that is. Yet this spreading power of nimble coloring is most intriguing, especially in the summer. It was about that time when my friend and I had just finished throwing a football back and forth in the marble stadium and felt like resting our unnecessarily over-worked bodies. The temperature had dropped to a degree comfortable enough to put our shirts back on. As the sweat seeped through the cloth, we made our way to the benches.

The warm, sun-drenched marble welcomed me as I sat down, reminding me how that day had been another hot and lazy one. Trying to get comfortable on the marble bench, I suddenly felt immersed in a sea of quiet and relaxing silence. The desired cool dry breeze was relieving me for a few seconds and I had to pull my hair behind by ears to keep it from irritating my nose as it was savoring the smell of pine trees. After I had crossed my legs Indian style and rested my back on the bench behind me with my arms spread out, I looked around. Standing above me, the Parthenon awaited my attention in a world of her own. Her off-white marble was dressed with the orange color of the sky, which flowed through the spaces of the columns, revealing a crumbled silhouette. Yet she stands firmly, keeping herself together, like an admirable mother who endures pain, but chooses to keep it all inside and continues to feed and nurture her parasitic children faithfully and lovingly, only to become more and more worn down.

Locked in her own time, she represents the height of the classical period. The best work of architecture man and god could ever put together. A time when Athens meant something to this world. A reason why deep down inside I like to believe there is a drop of blood in me from these people.

The orange began to dissolve into a dark blue, and black was to be expected shortly after that. "Shall we get the hell out of here ?" my friend said. He had to spoil the moment; that’s all right—what are friends for?

"I guess. Maybe we should head on home." After coming out of that trance, I had trouble getting up, because my butt and right leg had fallen asleep. Descending the marble stairs, I came closer to the twentieth century and more garbage and pollution-blackened marble. In front of the gate, a short plump man, balding, in his mid-forties with hairy arms, dressed in a light-blue T-shirt with a collar, dark brown pants and a pair of dirty tennis shoes, was holding a key with another twenty keys hanging from the same chain. He signaled impatiently that it was time for him to lock up and us to get out. Probably it was time for him to go home and be infantalized by his fat wife, serving him mass quantities of the food she had been preparing all day.

Then the warm breeze, mixed with pollution, blew on me. The sound of annoyingly loud little kids screaming while riding their bikes or playing soccer began to torment me. The street lights came on and the traffic became heavier on the main street, as the horns beeped away and a cab driver was busy swearing at the driver in front of him for cutting him off, and at the public bus for holding up the traffic, while the sound of motorcycles became more intense, since some smart asses decided to remove their mufflers, believing that it was cool to make a lot of noise when driving around. Finally the cab driver pulled his head back into his car and took a more relaxed stance, with his hairy arm hanging out the window, holding a cigarette between his middle and index finger.

Sitting on the beaten up wooden bench of the bus stop with my friend, I passed him the bottle of water after I had my fill, and I began to look around me. First, at the engraved graffito on the bench: "Alexis + Maria= Love forever." Then I looked up and I saw miserable faces of all age groups, but at that moment my salvation from this misery appeared. She was about my height, but looked tall, brunette, with thick healthy wavy hair, made a little bit blond by the sun, French braided, revealing her unbroken profile with a straight nose, voluptuous lips and chin with a rounded tip that eventually formed a right angle with her long neck. She wore a loose and wrinkled white summer shirt, which created a nice contrast with her maroon hippie skirt, all hiding a beautifully sculpted thin figure, and carrying herself with an air of confidence, sort of like a goddess.

Looking at her as she disappeared into the distance, I could only admire and feel an attraction to her, but of course my super ego had to kick in, reminding me in the back of my mind that this isn’t what I want, because I will never get it. I turned to my friend, " A girl like that, who also has a brain, and character similar to mine and is humble; why are they so difficult to find?"

"I don’t know," he answered indifferently.

The Games I Play

by Peggy Ehrenreich, Chicago, Illinois

Teacher: Teri Bostian

"Tom, your painting is beautiful. How did you come up with the idea?" said Mandy. I just stood there with my mouth open; I couldn’t talk. Mandy is so beautiful. She is wearing a long pink silk dress, and her corn silk hair is pulled up in a French twist. She is absolutely stunning just standing there leaning against the bar with a glass of wine in her hand.

I have known Mandy all my life. We grew up on the same block in Evanston. Our parents are friends, and they brought Mandy and me together. Mandy and I are both cops. We both work at the Evanston police station where my dad is the chief of police. Mandy always knew she was going to be a cop. That’s all she has been talking about since she was a little girl. I always ask her why, and she says, "I want to save the world." That pretty much sums up Mandy. She is the most caring person in the world. She is always helping someone out with something or another. If she is not at work, she is at the shelter feeding the homeless or at the big brother/ big sister club in our town.

I am a complete opposite of Mandy. To start off, I have no interest in being a cop. I never wanted to be a cop. I guess the only reason I became one was because of my dad. I am the only son out of four kids. All my sisters are married and have kids, so really I felt a lot of pressure from my family, and especially my dad. Even though he has never told me, I know that he wants me to take over his position as the chief of police when he retires, but I really have no desire to.

Mandy and I have been working at the same station for almost ten years, and have been partners for about five years. There are only two things that keep me going to work every day. One, I don’t want to let down my father, and second, I get to see Mandy.

I have never told Mandy how much I like her because I am afraid that she doesn’t feel the same way about me, and it would ruin our relationship. But I do find the courage to invite her to art shows. Which brings us to the bar.

I love to paint; my ideal job would be to paint all day and night. I started to enjoy art when I was in high school. I took an art class for fun and I ended up loving it. No one but Mandy knows that I paint. I never told anyone else because I am afraid my dad would find out and be disappointed in me.

"Tom! Tom. . .are you there?"

"Yeah, Mandy." I was just looking at her green eyes this whole time. She must think I’m the biggest freak.

"They are going to announce the winners."

My stomach dropped to the floor. I have entered a lot of art contests. I have won some awards, which I never really cared about, but this time I wanted to win because this painting is very special to me. It is a painting of a girl and her father in an open field running. I named it "Young Times."

I like taking Mandy with me to my art shows because I feel it is a perfect opportunity for me to spend time with her. We have been to about twenty art shows in the last two years, and by inviting her I feel like it really isn’t like I’m asking her out on a date.

"And third place goes to. . .Tom Picchietti," the announcer said.

"Congratulations, Tom, that’s fantastic," Mandy said.

With a smile on my face I said, "Yeah, it is." There were over fifty paintings in the contest, and I was proud that I had won.

After the awards were distributed I drove Mandy home. I live about a mile away from her. It was a Saturday night and we both have Sunday off. My ‘77 powder blue Dodge pulled up to the driveway of Mandy’s apartment building, and I was hoping that she would ask me inside. But she didn’t. "Congratulations, Tom. I am really proud of you," she said. As she was talking, all I wanted to do was lean over and kiss her, but I am too much of a chicken to show how I feel. I guess I still am afraid if I admit my feelings and she doesn’t feel the same way, it will ruin our relationship. So, instead of taking the risk, I have never told her.

"So, what are you going to do tomorrow?" I asked. I was doing everything I could do to keep Mandy in the car because I wanted to spend more time with her.

"I’m going out for lunch with Dave," said Mandy.

"Dave?" I said in disgust.

She shook her head up and down and said, "Yeah, Dave."

I was upset. How could she go out with Dave? She has gone out on a lot of dates this past year, which I never approved of, but I can’t control what she does. But I hate Dave. I despise Dave. Dave also lived on our block with Mandy and me while growing up, and we have always tried to out-perform each other. I was captain of the football team; he was captain of the basketball team. I was good in math, and he was good in English. We never see eye-to-eye on anything. Mandy knows how much we dislike each other, and I can’t believe she is going to go out with him.

I couldn’t look at her because I was pissed off, but I still wanted to go inside. I know she could tell by the look on my face that I was upset. She took off her seat belt, grabbed her pink satin purse from the car floor and said, "See you Monday."

I waited for her to walk into her house and then I drove away. The whole car ride I told myself that I need to find someone else. But I think about her constantly. I have been on a couple of dates these past few months but every time I go out with someone, I think of her. Her blond hair, her perfect smile, and her green eyes. I feel like she is the only one who understands me.

* * * * * *

Sakura (cherry blossoms)

Chiemi Tanaka, Osaka, Japan

Teacher: Cinda Coggins

Japan has many cherry trees. In the spring, cherry blossoms bloom all over Japan. When I was a child, my family and I used to go to the mountains to see the cherry blossoms and eat lunch. They were just beautiful. But I did not know that the flowers would one day have so much meaning for me. I preferred eating lunch to watching trees. Cherry blossoms did not have special meaning at that time.

School begins in April in Japan, so the cherry trees in my elementary school yard were in full bloom on my first day of school. I was excited about what was going to happen to me. At the same time, I was anxious about new school life. The cherry blossom symbolized the beginning, the excitement and the anxiety I felt.

After six years, I graduated from the elementary school and then entered junior high school. It was also spring. The cherry blossoms existed around me, watching the students in elementary school and junior high school. The cherry blossoms marked a sad separation from old classmates and the encounter of new friends in junior high school. Japanese spring is the end and the beginning of the school life for students. Every time we separated from our friends and met new friends, the cherry blossoms were there.

When I graduated from high school, my friends and I went to Kyoto, which is an old city in Japan. Kyoto used to be a Japanese capital long ago. It has many shrines and temples that are representative of the Japanese landscape. We visited one temple that has a beautiful Japanese garden and stayed for two hours. We were just looking at the garden and relaxing. At night, we went to the park which is famous for cherry blossoms. One of the cherry trees was very big and beautiful. We could not move in front of it because we felt that the tree was watching people like us for a long time silently. We could not talk to each other. It was the first time for me to realize that cherry blossoms are really beautiful. My friends who were with me are still good friends now.

Many years after the trip, I came to America to study at the University of Iowa. The first spring of Iowa came to me. But I felt that something was missing. It was the cherry blossoms. I could not see the pink flowers that I always saw in the spring. Then I really missed Japan, my family, my friends, and everything related to Japan. They are in Japan, but I am in the U.S. Japan is far away from the U.S. I got home sick for a while.

The cherry blossom is the symbol of Japan for me. It is the symbol of everything that is meaningful to me in Japan, such as my family, my friends, my memory, my school days, separation and beginning, because I grew up in Japan watching the cherry trees. Their existence is very natural for me. In the spring, many Japanese go to the park or mountains to see the cherry blossoms. We bring food, alcohol and a karaoke machine (a special machine with a microphone to play only music without original singer's voice so you can sing along with the background music) and enjoy singing, dancing and talking together under the cherry tree. We can be relieved there because we are always with trees and the Sakura (cherry trees) are always watching our growing.

* * * * * *

Memories

Karyn Ruttenberg, Deerfield, Illinois

Teacher: Ann Franzenburg

It sounds sort of odd but when I think of a special place, my mind goes back to high school, to the hallway where six of my closest friends and I spent most of our time before school, and at the end of the day. This place sticks out in my mind because my girlfriends and I spent a lot of time gossiping in this very spot. It brings back a lot of good memories for me.

Each morning we greeted each other. One by one we would put our books away and sit on the floor and begin to talk. I distinctly remember the ugly gray lockers that we had to use. They had writing on them from past years, dents in the corners because of the occasional kicking, and I was lucky—in my locker there was a lovely wad of gum to look at. It was the kind that had been there for too long to even think about trying to get it off. On the other hand, the floors of the school were shining in the morning. You could practically see your reflection they were so clean. The cleanliness did not last for long because by the end of the day they were disgusting.

Mornings were one of the only times my friends and I were all together. Many of us had busy schedules and did not see much of each other, so that half an hour we had before school started was beneficial. We talked about anything and everything. People would pass us by and wonder what we were up to because we were so deep into conversation. Our talks usually consisted of boys, problems we had, and, of course, plans for the weekend (the most important topic of all).

I have found that I must have fifty pictures of my friends and me, all which were taken by our lockers. I love them all and even though they are in the same place, each one of them reminds me of something different that was happening in my life or one of my friend’s lives.

When the bell rang for first period, it was extremely disappointing. Of course, none of us wanted to go to class. We would have stayed there all day if we could. From that point on we would see each other periodically during the day. Some of us had lunch together, but we were never able to get everyone back together until the end of the day.

Ninth-period bell finally rang (last period). We all met at our lockers either complaining about our days, telling each other about good grades we had received, or freaking out about a test we had or were going to have. If it was almost the weekend, then we had a lot to talk about. Making plans was important!

After I got all of my books together, I did not waste time, leaving as quickly as possible. The hallways looked quite different at the end of the day. They were dusty and had trash all over the place. It was not a pretty sight. People basically did not care what they threw on the floor throughout the day. There was gum and candy wrappers, notes written to friends, and papers sometimes with grades on them that people were too lazy to throw away or put in their bags.

To many people a hallway is probably not a memorable place for them. In my case it reminds me of my closest and dearest friends. It makes me feel good inside. Now that they are all far away from me, I tend to think about this hallway a lot more. I think of the good times that we had here and all I can do is smile.

* * * * * *

Accidents Happen

Glenn Clark, Earth

Teacher: Ann Franzenburg

How can we imagine what time is? Normally we think of time as flowing past us, or we think of ourselves as flowing through time. Imagine yourself driving through the middle of a four-way intersection. One road runs east and west, and the other runs north and south. You are traveling west into the future. The past is in your rear-view mirror. Or maybe you are not traveling at all: it’s the road that’s moving. Is this the only way to imagine time? I don’t think so.

Imagine you’re driving that car through the middle of the intersection again. Only this time you can only look through the rear-view mirror. You can only correct where you’re going by looking at a small part of where you’ve been. The future hasn’t happened yet so there’s nothing to see through the windshield. Everything you see now got that way because of everything that happened in the past: it’s all just momentum from the past. Because you can’t see into the future, accidents happen. Time is just the series of these accidents.

* * * * * *

Silhouette

Brian Buss, Dubuque, Iowa

Teacher: Ann Franzenburg

My day? You want to know about my day? As most people were working on their second cup of coffee, I had already left my house for the library. This research project I was working on was extremely time-consuming and took up most of my day. From the library I set out for the Communications Center, where the majority of my early morning hours were spent going over films time and time again. By late afternoon I called upon an old college buddy to get his input on my project. At last, my exhaustion led me to the last appointment of my day, at an old professor’s office.

By this point, the day had gotten the better of me. I was tired and crabby. I wished I could have rescheduled this appointment for some other time, but it was too late. To relax, I leafed through a stack of reading material on a low coffee table. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just some nice easy reading that didn’t require much effort to understand. As I settled deeper into the soft armchair, a heavy book bounced into my lap. It was a plain white book with a hard-bound cover sandwiching what must have been a couple of hundred pages. I liked the look of it, simple and honest.

Opening the book, I realized I had stumbled onto a book of paintings. The first painting struck me as rather odd, or rather plain, I should say. The blue-gray page was nearly blank except for what grabbed my attention—the lower left-hand corner. It was a colorless, almost midnight black silhouette of a baby on hands and knees. An interesting introduction to the book, I thought.

Page two was no different: the same plain background, the same silhouette. Page five and eleven and sixteen and twenty-three; they were all the same! The same little miserable picture, only as the page numbers got larger, the silhouette seemed to be drawn progressively closer to the center of the page. But for what reason? Why this picture?

I wanted to slam shut this tasteless joke, throw open the front doors, and run home. I didn’t, for whatever energy still left in my body compelled me to get to the bottom of this book. Slower! I should maybe turn the pages slower. I must be missing something. Back to page one, slowly page twelve, now thirty-three. The same! The same silhouette, drawn from corner to center to the other corner. In a heat of frustration my fingers allowed the pages to turn rapidly, falling freely and smoothly. Wait!

I did it again, flipping faster and faster. I did it yet again, this time even faster and now again, the fastest. I understood. Before I had only looked at the drawings, but now I was beginning to see. What I was looking at appeared to be some sort of cartoon flip book, where objects were drawn to create a progressive motion. As I flipped through again, that once boring image came to life. Now I was watching it crawl from one corner to the other. The silhouette seemed to actually move. The faster I slipped the pages, the faster the image crawled.

Having mastered this technique, I began to make my way deeper and deeper into the folds of pages. Suddenly, the silhouette stopped crawling and was transformed into a tiny child. Walking, pacing side to side, and soon the child was a young adult, and then an adult. All the while, the silhouette remained the same colorless color, and always moving at the same pace and in the same direction, from one corner to another. And soon that adult transformed magically into an elderly person, walking a bit hunched and slowed down a step or two. On the last two or three pages, the figure all-together disappeared and the final page was blank, a bright white.

I gave the book another go around and watched more closely. I guessed these were the stages one goes through in life. It seemed obvious enough—an infant transformed into an adolescent, then teen, adult, and elderly person. The young child wonders what being a teen is like, the teen then wonders when adulthood settles in and without warning, the adult becomes old.

I decided to flip through once more, only this time in reverse order. The elderly person became an adult, teen, young adult, finally an infant. I guessed that as old age approaches, one either celebrates and welcomes it, or dreads the moment. This silhouette looks to have enjoyed its life-time. When the book is flipped backwards, the silhouette can look back, in a way, at the different stages of life. It can look back and remember, remember with a smile.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was going through this process right now, at that very moment! It was just that I was so caught up in my project that I had forgotten to stop and look around, to look at the wrinkles beginning to appear on my hands, or the gray tints in my hair. When my old professor came to greet me, I welcomed him, feeling refreshed and full of energy. Closing the book, I opened my eyes for what felt like the first time. Time seemed to move slower now, and instead of asking that professor for help in my project, I asked her how things were going in her life. That, and nothing more.

* * * * * *

Voices from the Writing Lab is published twice a year at the University of Iowa, Rhetoric Department, in the Fall and Spring semesters. Thank you to all the students and their teachers who contributed to this issue.

Editors/Proofreaders: Carol Severino and Becky Soglin