Table Of Content

volume LI11 no. 1 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from Lyrasis IVIembers and Sloan Foundation http://www.archive.org/details/quadliteratufall1992unse Prosperity Fred SmitK Q uaa volume LI11 no. 1 1992 fall apublication or Birmin^nam-Soutnern College 900 Arkadelpkia Road Birmin^kam, AL 35254 Staff Eaitor-in-Cnier Russell Rice • Layout Eaitor Steve Davidson • Art Etlitor Erin Wliileekart . Poetry Eaitor Ellen Scnendel • Fiction Eaitor Stepnen Nickson • Selection Romn BrauQwell, Finley Bullara, Jenny Colien, Asnley Davidson, EUie Dees, Lisa Green, Saran Herslinerger, CindyJackson, Jenniler Kelly, Eric Kennedy, Kristine Lloyd, Ross McCain, Mark Osborne, Jennifer Piper, Brandy Ray, Cyntnia Sisson, William Smitn, Jr., Jonn Trest, Laura Underwood, Ralpn Young FacultyAclvisor Dr. Sandra Sprayrierry • Cover Art • Joyride • j'Vnn Mazzanovicn Back CoverArt • Blue-Green Naked Man No. 2 • Hllie Dees Title Paê Art Prosperity Fred Smitn • • Contents Paê Art laurus Cindy Jackson • • Editorial Policy Quad,tneliteraryartsmagazineofBirniingliam-SoutnernCollege,wasfoundedin 1940andispuDHsneaat leasttwotimesayear. Theeditorsencourageundergraduatesubmissions,wnicnarereviewedanonymouslyliyQl'.\D staffmembers. QuADisfundedliytne StudentGovernmentAssociation. Primarily an undergraduate publication, Qu.\D also accepts art, literature, and music submissions from studentsintneAdultStudiesprogram,facultymembers,graduatesandaffiliatesofBirmingham-SouthernCollege. Submissionpoliciesforthemagazinearesubjecttochangefromyeartoyear. Inquiriesaboutcurrentsubmission policiesmaybesenttoQUAD, BoxA-46, Birmingham-SouthernCollege, Birmingham,AL 35254. TheviewsexpressedinQu.\Darethoseoftheartistsandauthorsandarenotnecessarilythoseofthestaff,faculty advisor. Publications Board, SGA, ortheadministrationofBirmingham-SouthernLollege. Copyright 1992bytheeditorsofQuADandBirmingham-SouthernCollege. CindyJackson Fiction Melinda RaineyThompson 5 One Jjove JJown in L/ixie Rooin Braudwell 12 Rnytnms Micliael HempkiU 22 InsideA Skell Poetry ValerieWnaley 8 Tke Cat Mickael Hempkill 10 Tke art oi kracelet-making Miriam Elliot 16 Progress Deneen Senasi 19 Becoming Ilsa Finley Bullard 21 On Edward Hopper's Nig'ktkawks, Lonely Carolyn Hemnree 24 Remember Leslie Nuty 26 girl Art RalpkYoung 4 Nig'ktli^kt Leslie Nuky 6 Pia Jenniier Kelly 9 Tke Dance ol tke Kaleidoscope Jokn Trest 11 Sanctimony in Flow JenniierHlgkriela 14 untitled 0(îlliam Smitk, Jr. 20 Oculus Fred Smitk 25 Days Doing's, InMemoryofOtisBowen Smith Ellie Dees 28 Fauna Nig'litlig'kt One Dove Down in Dixie byMelinaa RaineyTnompson A personal arsenal of shotguns and pistols is year-old audience. I began talking about fathers still an expression of machismo in many and sons and fathers and daughters in our family. areas of the South. Weaponry seems a I think Southern sons have a hard time living up part of the cultural identity. Why? Perhaps this to bigger-than-life fathers, and Southern daughters is some misguided perception of the Romantic spend too much time proving they are just as good chivalric tradition, the Old South, and Charlie as Southern sons. Often, the most important per- Daniels' "The South's Gonna Rise Again" redneck son to pre-adolescent girls in the South can be kick-ass identity crisis manifesting itself in modern defined in one word, with all its denotations and male aggression. Maybe G.I. Joe is more appeal- connotations. That word is Daddy. This hero ing to the good ol' boys than Barbie's long-time worship is akin to idolatry and usually lasts until companion. Ken. But when did the great outdoors, early adulthood when the adoration shifts to Mama. dogs, camouflage, and 4-wheel drive vehicles all get 1 certainly adored my Daddy and followed him tied up together with guns? Bumper stickers with everywhere, even when he went fishing. logical fallacies like If Guns are Outlawed, Only Many times as a child I accompanied Daddy Outlaws Will Have Guns and This Car Protected into shops selling fishing and hunting equipment. by Smith and Wesson speak for themselves. As I called them death stores. Every piece of mer- a Southern woman, 1 have been spared most of the chandise was designed to kiU or maim another liv- traditional weapon indoctrination simply by virtue ing creature: razor-sharp fish hooks, colorful lures of my gender. Recently, however, I had to justify hiding barbs of steel, traps designed to snap at the my gun philosophy to my ten-year-old son who has smallest nibble of bait, snares of intricate weave, begun to ask questions about the abundance of fine-pointed arrows dipped in poison, knives with — firepower he sees in the homes of friends and curved, thick blades, and guns galore all with relatives. I vividly remember my introduction to every imaginable accessory. Always, I looked guns and my culture, and I want my son's first around the store and wondered if adults ques- guns-in-the-South experience to be different. tioned, like 1 did, the whole bloodthirsty trade. My son's gun question is fundamental: what do 1 remember one day when my ha—nds shuffled people need guns for? I found myself struggling around inside the bins of plastic lures some hard to articulate issues ofgender identification, cultural and shiny like matchbox cars, others mushy and — stereotyping, and personal empowerment to my ten- flexible like day-old Jello my fingers carefully Quad Leslie Nuby located sharp hooks hidden under lures with long different. Guns were adult territory that I recog- hairs that looked like cilia on protozoans in my nized instinctively as tools of sophisticated and 7th-grade biology book. Even though I couldn't premeditated killing. summon the warm, fuzzy feelings of sympathy for One evening. Daddy came home with a min- fish that I felt for all the Bambi creatures of the iature camouflage suit for me, the oldest daughter, forest, I still didn't enjoy fishing. When I caught to wear. I mouthed the appropriate platitudes, a fish, I felt the sickening weight of a fierce tug politely modelling the coverall for his approval. and knew the hook had ripped through flesh. Af- When he produced a second gift, a 4-10 shotgun, ter being reeled in, my fish squirmed on the hook my eyes widened with surprise and worry. As I with its gills stretching in and out trying to breathe, held the weight of the gun cradled in my arms for awkwardly flip-flopping as long as it had strength the first time, I felt my heart thud all the way to fight. Blood oozed from tiny tears along its through the camouflage in some sort of primeval mouth, and 1 cringed. The bright red fish blood fear response. Ever submissive and obedient, 1 looked just like human blood. Fish on beds of carefully examined each feature from the gleaming, crushed ice in the Winn Dixie looked completely polished wood stock to the bullet chamber, trigger, different. and steel barrel. It was small. Daddy pointed out, The realization that I killed something which light, and just right for a little girl like me. It moments before was alive seemed an overwhelm- wouldn't kick at all. Inevitably, 1 realized 1 had ing responsibility. Death, then, was the result of to make a big fuss over it, maybe even fire it. For mere chance. Another second and the fish would weeks, the image of that 4-10 shotgun haunted my have fiashed by my hook. A slight shift in my own dreams. fishing spot or schedule, and my fish would still be One Saturday morning, before daylight, my swimming in the river. But fishhooks and crab lather stuck his head in my bedroom door and traps were just the beginning of what seemed to urged me lo get up and dress quickly so we could me, even then, to be a slippery slope. Guns were try out mv new gun. He wanted an earlv start. 1 1W2 I-"all — couldn't manage breakfast, but I watched him grass in the pasture was the brown-green color of spread fig preserves on two slices of cheese toast early fall, and the varying lengths showed patches just like every other morning. We packed bagged of ragweed and other scraggly foliage. In the dis- lunches, extra layers of clothes, field chairs, bin- tance, 1 could see miles of red fields with ugly oculars, my 4-10, and box after box of shotgun short clumps of leftover cotton. shells. I could load, unload, clean, and aim my A friend of my father's, on older man and ob- gun, and it had become a game, a tool to capture viously an experienced hunter, rose from the shade Daddy's attention, completely separate from the of a pine tree to greet us. He seemed so much a guns sold in the death stores. part of the woods that he appeared to merge into We took our 1972 blue CJ Jeep and headed the ground like a perfectly constructed backdrop in south. It was so early in the morning that we met a movie. Immediately 1 noticed his gun. 1 re- few cars on the highway. For the first few miles, member it as disproportionately large, double- we seemed to be the only two people in the county barrelled, shiny. It didn't look new. The steel of awake. Gradually, in every direction the world the barrel looked like one of those black iron skil- seemed to wake up and stretch. 1 could almost lets that's been held over hundreds of campfires hear the sounds of morning in the houses we until it isn't any one color anymore, just sort of a passed as the occupants began their morning rou- brown/black/green glaze. The gun looked sea- tines. The sun streaked through the Jeep's dirty soned like a gumbo pot and weathered, like him. windshield as it rose higher and higher in the sky, The moment 1 dreaded most had arrived. In and the hum of the wheels on the concrete order to point out his daughter's prowess, my fa- sounded like a chorus of monotone voices remind- ther took a few husks of corn from the ground and ing me that it was too late to back out. 1 have threw them up into the lower branches of a pine felt this same panic at other moments in my life tree. 1 was positioned a few yards away. There 1 like when 1 was on a giant roller coaster at Six received my first order: shoot the husk out of the Flags Over Georgia, poised on the top of the loop, tree. 1 dared a quick look up at Daddy's face to about to plunge down the hill and again right be- gauge the importance of this request, but he was fore—I walked down the church aisle to get mar- already instructing his friend to watch. ried always a moment too late to change my There seemed nothing left to do but shoot. 1 mind, regardless of the consequences. Every bump aimed the gun and got the husk in my sights. in the road jarred my back, and only the seatbelt Trying to remember all the instructions 1 had re- kept me in the seat. Every once in a while 1 ceived, 1 hugged the butt of the gun close to my turned my eyes to the driver's seat to try and read shoulder to diminish the resulting kick and the expression in Daddy's eyes. squeezed the trigger. I'm sure I didn't come close What 1 hoped to feign was a nonchalant com- to hitting the husk, but both men nodded as if posure; what 1 felt was a paralysis of fear. Cer- pleased with my performance, so 1 took that sign tainly, I wanted to be grown-up and brave. 1 was as a temporary reprieve. determined to make Daddy proud. My mind was The worst was yet to come. Birds. We were crammed with words that needed to be said, but supposed to be shooting birds. 1 had already there was only silence above the hum of the road. reached my limit with the corn husk, so 1 swal- Daddy, as usual, seemed disinclined to talk. lowed carefullya few times beforeasking what kind Eventually, we parked on the side of a narrow ofbirds were in the field. "Dove" was the reply. 1 dirt road, collected our equipment, and headed into searched Daddy's face carefully to see if the irony the woods. We had only walked a few yards when registered as painfully with him as it did with me. I saw a barbed wire fence enclosing a pasture only A succession of images Hashed through my mind a few feet ahead of our pine-carpeted path. The like slides on my viewmaster. Doves of Peace on Quad Tke Cat his face. I could not move from my prone position. I felt rooted to the earth by the I knelt choice 1 had made. The dove's death was and reached out merely a crumb to drop at my father's feet. my hopeful hand to the skitterish cat. Slowly, I rose to my feet and followed She Charlestoned exactly the crushed grass outlining my father's then paused, steps. I reached his side just as he bent to eyes following me scoop the bird into his hands. There was life like those in an old oil painting. still in the dove's body. The brown feathers Come here, kitty. heaved once or twice as the bird tried to I reeled her in force air into tortured lungs. The one eye ounntilanmiynvifsiinbgleertliipnse visible dilated in fear of us, its predators. were a whisper With a nick of his wrist. Daddy broke the from her pink nose dove's neck. The sound of the neck break- and dancing whiskers. ing was small, insignificant, the breaking of I felt her small cat breath a toothpick when compared to the sound of on my thumb. The wind stirred the shot I had fired. pushing autumn leaves For the rest ofthe morning, I was merely along the sidewalk an observer. Perhaps Daddy sensed the re- with a sudden scratch. vulsion I could not voice because we packed Startled, she lept away. up soon after that, and he didn't linger to talk to his friend. I was silent on the ride Va Wkaley home and completely still, so tired from the day's activities that even holding my own head up seemed an overwhelming task. I Christmas cards. Noahand theArk.Olivebranches. leaned my head against the canvas of the jeep's I watched my father spotting coveys of doves passenger window fiap and watched mechanically with his binoculars. Occasionally, a noise would as telephone poles flashed by. Something had scare them, or maybe they just sensed our pres- changed forever inside me. That day, 1 fired my ence, and they would head for the sky with a first and last shot. No longer was the gun simply rushing sound like a vacuum-sealed container when an object; it was an instrument of death. For me. the seal is first broken. Soon it would be time to the abhorrence for guns was to become a life-long decide: shoot the bird or disappoint Daddy. I feeling. After I meticulously cleaned and checked assumed the prone position just like I had prac- the 4-10 shotgun for any remaining shells, it was ticed at summer camp, only this time there was no locked away in the gun cabinet. Daddy never black-and-white target fifty feet away. Just sky and mentioned the dove shoot again, and 1 carefully field and grass and birds. From far away I heard avoided looking at the gun cabinet whenever 1 Daddy shout at me to shoot. I closed my eyes and walked through the den. Today, when I gently squeezed the trigger. explain to my father that he can't give my son a The noise was an obscene explosion in the BB gun for Christmas, I don't mention the dove. early morning air. The shot was so loud that it seemed to block out everything that had come be- MeLINDA RaINEY Thompson, a native Alahamian, has fore in my life. By the time I opened my eyes, beenamemherofBSC7sEnglisnfacultyforJouryearsanJalso Daddy was already striding toward a fallen dove directsthecollegeWritingCenter. Herfielasofinterestinclude with a pleased, just-what-I-expected expression on rhetoric,journalism,anachildren'sliterature. Fall 1992