’Losing her”
Looking out over the ocean
Crying with the young gulls
Dreaming of how it would have been.
“Sisters”
She gave me his sweaters
to get them out of the house
calling an end to doubts...
But I hang them in my closet,
and the slight smell of his sweat
remains deceptive.
His brushes are mine-worn
to angles on canvases long gone
brushes and his paint box
brushes still tinted with yellow ochre
real artifacts of that father
painting desert scenes in Arizona
making storms in the kitchen back home.
When he died, we entered his room
opened drawers, took his comb and shoes
packed suits and pants, his’shirts and ties
made him an anonymous benefactor
that man who was never quiet
the center of all storms, unruly
raging through our childhoods.
My sister kept the shirt she had given him
still wrapped in cellophane
put at the top of the drawer
pale yellow ochre strips folding in angles.
But I took the sweaters
worn at the elbows, splashed with paint.
Claudia O'Driscoll
Thinking of what he said
Watching the sailing boats
Erasing the tragic memories.
Dealing with today and not tomorrow
Seeing the waves crash with the rocks
Calling her name over and over.
Staying too long in the night
Trying to let her go
Waiting for the daylight to come.
Renada Anderson
“Dear Friend”
Distant friend across troubled seas,
your paper thoughts so dear to me.
With words alone we've joined our shores,
Not with politics or threats of war.
Every letter, sharing our dreams,
Has made this world smaller it seems.
Ink feelings and paper hopes,
Fragilely sealed in envelopes.
Two people of such different lands,
Letters reaching as out stretched hands.
If they could know what we have found.
People are people the world around.
It seems we are old friends and yet,
Sadly true we have never met.
One day perhaps I hope we meet,
A quiet park, a crowded street.
Until that time I speak with pen,
To you my not so distant friend.
Sincerely
by Ben D. Anderson
"My God! how little do my countrymen know what precious bless­
ings they are in possession of, and which no other people on earth en­
joy." Thomas Jefferson
The last days of summer were almost over. Slowly, the autumn was
tip-toeing through the golden hills, carrying a mantle of rusty and
bright yellow leaves scattered from time to time by the eastern wind
coming from the Russian steppe, on the other side of the Prut River,
the natural border between Romania and Russia.
Slowly, I was making my way towards the end of the row carrying
two buckets full of grapes..18,..19..comrade instructor was counting
the buckets as I was dumping them into the big barrel. I was still far
from making my quota for the day which was coming to an end soon.
The sun was descending from the clear sky, behind the hill into the
amber waves of grain in the horizon.
Finally, at the sound of a whistle we started to group ourselves for
the return trip to the camp which was about seven miles away. The in­
structors were adding up the day's harvest in their notebooks. The
looks on their faces were not very pleased. They had to report the
numbers to their superiors at the Party headquarters, as soon as they
arrived at the camp. Yet they would probably do what they always do
when the buckets on the field did not match the quota set by the
almighty party chiefs, inflate the numbers.
Another day was over and we were closer to building a bright future
for the country the socialist republic. At least this is how the words of
the song sounded as we sang it half heartedly marching back to the
camp on the dusty country road.
I remember it as if it happened yesterday.
I was 14, just going into the ninth grade. Two weeks every year
before the start of the school year and two weeks after the end of every
school year we had to go out in the cornfields or into the vineyards to
help out with the harvest It was on a "voluntary" basis, our instruc­
tors assured us. Yet the alternative was expulsion for a term and a
public reprimand in front of the whole school, for not serving the
motherland with all our might in the spirit of partiotism and unselfish
dedication. How I used to hate that with all the particles of my being.
Born in a "free" socialistic society, I was just another faceless
number destined to follow the path carved in stone by the com­
munist elite who governed the country. I often found myself crying
at night searching for a way out. Raised in a family with a rich
Christian heritage, I have been humiliated countless times at school
in front of my classmates for not worshipping the official religion,
Communism. In my heart, as a teenager, a lot of anger started to
build up. I often pounded the walls with my fists crying out for
justice that seemed so far away.
One Monday morning as I was just turning sixteen, I was told by
the school principal that I was just the right age to join the Com­
munist Party youth organization. When I bluntly refused to do it, I
Julia Singer
paid with a black eye and a few bruised ribs. Who was I to stand
against the current? And this was just the beginning.
I always dreamed of someday becoming an engineer, yet this
dream was so far away from becoming a reality, as I found out
when I finished the high school. When applying to a university, the
student was judged on his or her grades from high school and also
on the political behavior of that individual during the previous
school years. In my case, as in the case of other Christians, I was
considered unfit for a higher education environment, a disgrace for
the university.
A few months later I was sent into a labor camp near The Black
Sea. The Communist Party was trying its best to reshape my way of
thinking into a more appropriate environment while I was to per­
form free lab& white is blue.
"Three minutes until landing, and welcome to Rome's Fiumicino
International Airport," the captain said as the airplane made the
final approach for landing. I still could not believe my ears and my
eyes. I was finally free, forever. Less than two hours ago we left the
Romanian capital covered under a thick blanket of snow and we ar­
rived in a sunny Italy, which was to be our home for the next three
weeks.
I was still pinching myself to see if it was true. This was the result
of a fierce battle between the American Consul and the Romanian
Interior Ministry in an attempt to grant us exit visas. Under heavy
pressure from Washington, the Romanian authorities agreed to let
us go, I and my family, but not before we were stripped of our
citizenship. Even though I felt for a long time to come like a man
without a country, I never missed losing my Romanian citizenship.
Looking through the airplane's window, I was searching for a
torch. The Lady Liberty's torch that shined for years welcoming
newcomers to this great country. The snow was coming down heavily
in the evening hour as the TWA flight 841 from Rome was ready to
land on the JFK Airport in New York. I saw the Lady the next day. I
had to. A tear dropped from the corner of my eye as I looked at her
standing majestic at the entrance of the New York harbor. I felt bless­
ed to be a part of this great country, a nation under God.
Today it is a special day. A day that will remain in my memory for
the rest of my life and it will mean a great deal to me. As I was walking
on the steps of the U.S. District Courthouse, in Portland, my heart
started to beat faster. I have been waiting for this day for a long time
and it is finally here. My heart and my whole body tremble as I walk
into the courtroom. "All rise," the clerk says making room for the
judge. "I pledge allegiance to the flag..." I can not control my tears
anymore. The moment is so overwhelmingly sacred, so powerful. I
hear the last words of the judge... "I welcome you today as the new
United States citizens." I feel like flying and for the first time in my
life I feel that I belong somewhere, that J am welcomed and respected
for what I am.
Editor & Designer
Judy Singer
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