Della Donna

2011-07-03T22:16:00.009-05:00

Dear Readers,

After four successful years "in print" on the web, Della Donna: a webzine for women is coming to a close. It has been nothing less than a life-changing experience for me, as founder and sole managing editor, to watch the magazine grow and impact women around the globe. I've said this from the beginning and I say it again: None of this would have been possible without YOU - the women out there who have poured their hearts and souls into their work, and who have kindly shared it with the rest of us not for financial compensation, but for the celebration of the female experience and the telling of our stories, so long neglected throughout history. Silence has ruled us for centuries, but now our words break forth, unstoppable as the wildest river current and made more powerful with each contribution, however small.

Della Donna has led me to new insights, new friends and new opportunities, and though it represented my first venture into a serious discussion of and meditation on women's issues, it will not be my last. Thank you for the support, the love, the laughter, the warm words and the memories. On to new ways of expression for ourselves and our sisters around the world.

With love,
April D. Boland

*Artwork: "Recur" by Ali Cavanaugh

Spring Issue 2011

2011-04-01T23:59:00.002-06:00

Letter from the Editor

Lifestyles: "Bad Mothering"

Health and Beauty: "Straight Talk"

Lit by Chicks: "Camembert Soup"

Lifestyles: "Finding the Light in the Darkness of Marital Separation"

Letter from the Editor

2011-04-01T23:00:00.004-06:00

Happy spring! With Mother's Day just around the corner, this new issue features a piece on what it means to be a good (or bad) mother. We also have an excerpt from a new book on how to go through marital separation, one of the most difficult things a woman can face. We have a Health and Beauty piece on one woman's "curse" of curly hair, a short story, and some of our favorite works of art. Enjoy!

- April

Lifestyles

2011-04-01T22:30:00.005-06:00

Bad Mothering
by Jennifer Durando

It is easy to spot a bad mother. She is the one letting her children run amok in business establishments. She is the one who brought her disruptive/crying/whining child to the theatre/restaurant/ museum. We all make judgments about these women. They’re somehow at fault that their children are being…well, children. Each one of us struggle with parenting. And we are afraid to share those struggles. We are embarrassed to tell other women that we don’t always know what to do. We are frightened that these confessions will broadcast our failures as mothers, and ultimately as women. We gauge our own successes as mothers by the failures of others. If we are doing a better job than she is, we must be a good mother.

It is rare to hear how well you are doing as a mother outside of Mother’s Day. We are not praised for all that we do, but will be chastised for what we fail to do. This is with anything. When you do well, it is expected and thus ignored. When you falter, it is noticed and addressed. Women do not approach other women to compliment them on their mothering skills. I know I am unlike other mothers. I have been honest about my shortcomings. I do not claim to know everything. I do my best. We learn to be mothers from our own mothers. We decide from their mothering how we will mother our own. Even the worst mother is a good mother in the sense that through her lack of parenting skills, her daughters will know what not to do, and in turn, be good mothers. This is the gift my mother gave me. She lacked nurturing skills, compassion, and patience; she was selfish, unyielding, and unloving. Children are to be seen and not heard. She lived by this credo. This all may sound terribly sad, but I believe she did her best. I can only imagine how she was mothered by her own if what we do, as I suggest, is learn how to mother from our own mothers. I’m grateful she was all those things. I may not always know what to do, but I know what not to do.

Competitive parenting is everywhere: school yards at dismissal, children’s sports events, dance recitals, PTA meetings, etc. In their idle chitchat, women compete with other mothers. Although it may appear that they are boasting about their children and their accomplishments, they are actually competing as mothers. If Johnny is a straight A student, on honor roll, and a star athlete, you are a good mother. If Matthew struggles with reading, needs tutoring, and doesn’t know how to catch a fast ball, let alone what one is, you are a bad mother. Really? Why must we measure our successes as mothers based on the achievements of our children? This is destructive. There are more Matthews than there are Johnnys which means there are mothers out there who are disappointed in their children and themselves.

I think I am a good mother, but my children may tell you differently. I believe I have given them the skills they need to be good human beings. I have always said that I don’t care what they do, as long as they are happy. And I actually mean this. Would it have been nice if my own son won a four year ride to a prestigious college? Sure. It would have afforded him some advantages in life. But in order for him to have achieved that, I would have had to take away part of his childhood. It would have meant daily tutoring, excessive preparation classes, and hours away from socializing with his peers. To have secured that for him, I would have had to stifle his individuality and enforced in him a disadvantageous set of values. Raised by the same mother in the exact same way, my daughter is academically successful. But I am proud of her because she is an incredibly giving and honest human being. So are you a better mother than I am because your son or daughter is valedictorian? Maybe. But it is not because he/she has achieved that commendable honor.

The small moments in motherhood are the ones that matter: when you need to repair wounds created by others, when you need to wipe away tears, when you need to pause and breathe so that your words, behaviors, and inactions nurture rather than defeat. These make you a good mother.

Jennifer Durando is an essayist, writing coach, and amateur poet. She is an underpaid, yet profoundly gratified adjunct lecturer in the English Department at the College of Staten Island, CUNY where she received both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees. She is currently working on a collection of poems that unapologetically documents the afflictions of girlhood and negotiations of womanhood. When she is not teaching, creating, or pondering her place in this world, she can be found balancing a personal life, raising children, and doing laundry.

2011-04-01T21:00:00.005-06:00

Retrospective
by Amy Saia

The artist says, "I've been exclusively interested in nature and the female form the last couple of years. I also love the idea of the simplicity of line showing movement and feminity without anything complicated getting in the way."

Amy Saia lives in Kansas where she spends her days playing guitar and hanging out with her two kids and long-haired dachshund, Henry. She loves the art of line drawing, but occasionally paints. She also writes fiction as an added insanity. You can check out her music mixed in with a little art and writing at her website, AmySaia.com.

Health & Beauty

2011-04-01T20:00:00.004-06:00

Straight Talk
by Beth McKim

“Oh, you have such pretty curly hair.” I heard that often when I was young and took the observations as compliments. It never occurred to me that it could be any different. That is just the way God had made me. My mother made my hair even curlier by wetting it and pinning bobby pins into it on Saturday nights so that it would look extra cute for church on Sunday.

The only annoyance I had was when I tried to put it into a ponytail or pigtails. The hair did not stay up and curly strands fell to the side of my face. The whole point of wearing it up was to look neat, not messy.

Years later, when I got to college, I suddenly realized that I had borne a terrible burden all along. All of the cute girls there had long hair that was straight as a string. They washed, dried, and brushed their lustrous locks and looked like surfer girls. The brunettes reminded me of Cher. The blondes looked like Michelle Phillips from “The Mamas and the Papas.”

In a concerted effort to help remedy my birth defect, my dorm-mates began to come up with ideas. I grew my hair longer and they rolled it with discarded orange juice cans. This made for a fluffy, straighter look, but one that was still unfashionably wavy. Next, they tried cardboard toilet paper holders to combat the curl. The results were somewhat better, but not much. I was interviewed on television once at the scene of an accident, wearing my hair in these cardboard “rollers.” The lucky viewers that day are still probably shaking their heads at what they saw.

Then they tried Straight Set, a boxed at-home treatment that was the reverse of a permanent wave. This helped some as well. We learned that combining that the treatment with frosting or streaking my hair with a blonde color took some of the dreaded curls away. Years later, when Nature started streaking my hair for me, I looked back with wonder at what we had done.

For special occasions, I received the ironing board treatment. Sections of my wet hair were wrapped in towels as my friends laid them down to be painstakingly ironed, one at a time. It was an improvement, but I still didn’t look like a surfer girl.

And always, there was the “teasing” of my hair. That meant sitting still while my roommate took a few strands of my hair at a time, using a “ratting comb or brush” in an up and down motion, trying to erase any strands of the remaining enemy curls. That made my hair look big and straight in what I consider the Texas style. This worked best when hair was slightly dirty.

In this period of time, I learned to sleep on my right arm, either to keep my pretty ratted hair in place or because I could not sleep on the orange juice cans or toilet paper rolls. Sometimes I still wake at night finding my arm in this protective position.

Then I met Lulu. All of a sudden, during this period of time, wigs for young girls came into fashion. The day I purchased Lulu changed my life. I found her at a local wig store. She was light blond and long, with just a little flip on the ends and, of course, straight and smooth all over. When wearing Lulu, I was the stylish girl I had always dreamed of being. Lulu and I went to classes, parties and dances together and we were bouncy and shiny, like rays of sunshine. To make Lulu more exotic-looking, I began to stuff the top of her with wads of toilet paper. She looked more stylish with the added height, and I looked taller.

One afternoon Lulu and I had a mishap at Astroworld Amusement Park and I lost the trust I had in her. We were on a first date with a cute boy, flying through the air on a wild, spinning ride called the Black Dragon. While my date held onto me, I held onto Lulu. After we came in for a landing, we dizzily walked the pathway between other rides when we suddenly heard, ”Ker-plunk, ker-plunk, ker-plunk.” As we looked behind us, I noticed with horror that Lulu’s toilet paper wads were hitting the ground. The poor young boy, having no idea what he was seeing, asked only, “What the hell?” as he discreetly looked at my bra. Lulu and I never saw him again after that day.

Lulu was put on a shelf shortly after that, but I kept her in my closet for many years, just in case I needed her. Turned out I didn’t, since curly hair finally came into vogue and I found peace.

Beth McKim lives in Bellaire, Texas with her husband and their Labradoodle, Lucy. Beth, a former marathon runner and triathlete, is still an avid exerciser and Yoga enthusiast. She enjoys writing essays, poetry, and short fiction and is currently being published in the Birmingham Arts Journal, Write Place at the Write Time, The Mayo Review, and Cell 2 Soul. Beth still wears her hair short to keep from battling the curls. She can be reached via e-mail.

Lit by Chicks

2011-04-01T16:03:00.004-06:00

Camembert Soup
by Bernie Brown

While not the intended effect, the outcome was surprisingly satisfying. It was just like in the movie, “27 Dresses,” when Jane has to wear those crazy bridesmaid dresses in 27 different weddings, but in the end, those brides wear them in her wedding. And all together, the dresses look better than they did in the weddings for which they were intended. Lila’s party was kind of like that.

Let’s start with the occasion itself.

Lila gave the party for Margo’s birthday. Then Margo changed her mind and didn’t want a birthday party.

“Just call it a fall get together,” Margo suggested, and Lila did what she said. It was easier than arguing. Margo had had many bad relationships and her desperate feelings about the future made her sensitive about her age. So it wasn’t a birthday party.

Then there was the food.

The central dish was supposed to be baked brie. It looked like purple slop. First, Lila couldn’t get brie, and substituted camembert. She topped it with blueberry jam and put it in the oven. Then the guests began to arrive, and she forgot the cheese, and it melted into a puddle. She stood fretting when Zeke, her brother, walked in.

“Let me have a go at that,” he offered.

Lila let him. If anybody could save the dish, he could. He set crackers upright around the edges of it like little soldiers.

“We’ll call it camembert dip,” Zeke improvised.

“Looks more like soup,” Lila cracked.

And then there were the relationships.

Lila had invited Zeke because he never socialized. He only felt secure at work, where he practiced corporate tax law. He bought expensive clothes and liked to cook. That’s how he spent his money and time. Lila wished he would find a girlfriend.

For Margo, Lila invited a new neighbor whose name she couldn’t remember. He looked older. Maybe his age would make Margo feel younger. Maybe they’d hit it off. So, Lila’s intended reason for the party changed from a birthday party to a seasonal one. And a key item on her menu, the baked brie, became camembert dip. Even the people resisted her guidance.

Her nameless neighbor made small talk while helping himself to yet another plateful of camembert. He asked “What is this stuff? It’s good.” Lila didn’t listen. Instead, she plotted how to get him together with Margo.

Zeke interrupted her thoughts. He hoped to escape to the kitchen again. “Let me refill that veggie plate.”

“I didn’t invite you here to work, Zeke. You’re just trying to avoid people, anyway.” Lila accused him.

“Moi?” He feigned innocence.

“Do you speak French?” Margo could be clueless for all her experience.

“Nah, just fooling around with my little sis.” Zeke looked to Lila to rescue him, but she ignored him. “I’ll just go see to those vegetables.” He skittered off like a scared rabbit.

* * *

Margo followed Zeke. “That’s a great sweater. Is that Armani?”

He looked down at his sweater and then realized how stupid that looked. “I can’t remember.”

“Let me have a look,” Margo said, and turned down the back of his neckline to check the tag. “Just as I thought. My friend Giorgio.” She patted Zeke’s back as she repositioned the sweater.

Zeke felt his stomach turn warm and his heart speed up when Margo touched him. He stared at the baby carrots in self defense.

* * *

Lila set again to her match making agenda. She had to get Margo and Neighbor together. She started by asking Neighbor where he worked.

“I work at a bank.” He hoped to escape questions about work.

Lila didn’t listen. She scanned the room for Margo.

“How about you? Where do you work?”

Lila spied Margo’s red blouse in the kitchen and, ignoring his question, asked the banker to wait. “I’ll be right back. There’s somebody I want you to meet.” She walked in to find Zeke and Margo giggling while they arranged grape tomatoes. Lila hesitated to interrupt.

As she watched, Margo popped a tomato in her mouth. “I love these things.”

“So do I.” Zeke ate one too. “I make a great caprese salad with ‘em.” Zeke looked at Margo with the promise of more than a salad in his eyes. Lila backed out quietly.

She returned to Neighbor. “The person I want you to meet is busy right now.”

He changed the subject back to Lila. “That’s okay. I’d rather talk to you. You still didn’t say where you work.”

Lila said she worked as an event planner at a hotel, but she would soon be unemployed. The hotel had been sold. Then his cell phone went off and he excused himself.

While he talked, early arrivals started to leave. Many of them mentioned her camembert dip and even asked for the recipe!

Neighbor came back to her side. “Sorry about that. I hate people who bring cell phones to parties.”

Lila smiled to show her understanding. “Before you get away again, tell me your name.”

“Kyle Whitman.”

“Not the banking Whitmans? Is that the bank where you work?” Lila looked incredulous. The Whitman Bank had just made a big acquisition. The news had been on the front page all week.

“‘Fraid so.” The name was always getting in the way. “And before you get away again, I wanted to tell you to apply at the bank. We use a lot of event planners. I can vouch for you. I especially like this cheese stuff.” He moved to refill his plate. The camembert serving dish was empty. “Too bad. All gone,” he quipped.

* * *

Margo approached carrying the vegetable plate Zeke had refilled, so Lila scuttled off to question Zeke while he was alone. “Did I just see you and Margo making goo goo eyes over the grape tomatoes?”

“What of it?” It was a sophomoric response from a middle aged tax attorney.

“No need to get defensive, big brother. It’s just that I invited Margo for my neighbor. Now what do I do with him?”

“Keep him for yourself, I guess.”

His words gave Lila pause. “But isn’t he too old for me?”

Zeke laid on the sarcasm: “He’s no older than I am.”

“And besides, he’s one of those banking Whitmans.”

“So?”

“So, I can’t go out with somebody like that.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you know, rich.”

Zeke rolled his eyes. “I don’t know much about women, but I never thought rich was a bad thing.” And he left her to rejoin Margo.

“Oh, shut up,” Lila said to his back.

* * *

When the doorbell rang, Lila figured it was some guest who had forgotten something and come back. She swung the door wide with a smile that evaporated when she saw a policeman standing there.

“I’m trying to locate the owner of a red BMW with license plate M-S-M-A-R-G-O. The car’s been hit.”

Lila told Margo about the policeman. Her face dropped. She loved that car; and despite her boldness with men in general, policemen scared her. Zeke followed. Women might frighten him, but law officers did not. He was a lawyer, after all.

The remaining guests all stopped talking. The party had been breaking up anyway and this episode put an end to it.

Zeke returned long enough to say he was leaving with Margo. Lila turned to find that her neighbor Kyle was the only guest left.

“You have a good relationship with your brother,” he commented.

“He’s great. I’m glad he and Margo hit it off. He’s really shy with women.” In an unexpected burst of honesty, Lila admitted, “I invited you for Margo.” She gathered glasses and carried them to the kitchen.

Laughing at Lila’s thwarted matchmaking, Kyle picked up dirty glasses, too. “Let me help you clean up. You have to console me. I lost my chance with Margo,” he teased her from the living room.

* * *

They’d loaded the dish washer to capacity. Then they kicked off their shoes and drank a final glass of wine together on the couch. “Thanks for the tip about the job at your bank. Do me a favor, though. Don’t put in a word for me. If I get it, I’d like to get it on my own.”

This is what Kyle meant when he said his name always got in the way. Lots of people wanted him to use his name. This was the first time anyone asked him to keep it quiet. He liked it better this way. He nodded his agreement and raised his glass to seal the promise.

* * *

Before Kyle left, he offered, “Think we could see a movie next weekend? Just as neighbors, mind you.” His eyes teased her.

Lila teased him back. “Of course, as neighbors. You’re too old for it to be anything else.” Her smile belied her words.

Now Lila sat alone, lost in a post-party fog, evaluating her party in terms of food, guests’ enjoyment, and unplanned events. That’s how she evaluated her work parties, her “events.” The camembert dip had been eaten, proving its tastiness. The noise had reached a certain level, a good measure on the fun meter. But nearly everything came under the heading of unplanned events. That was usually not a good thing; but today, even though a lot of things about this fall get together hadn’t had the intended effect, the outcome had been surprisingly satisfying.

She was certain that Jane from “27 Dresses” would agree.

Bernie Brown is a 62-year-old retiree from Raleigh, North Carolina. Writing is her primary activity, but she also enjoys reading, sewing, watching movies, and traveling. Her stories have appeared in several magazines and e-zines including Punkin House Digest, All Things Girl, Still Crazy, and Death Head Grin.

2011-04-01T12:10:00.005-06:00

Helen of Troy
by Christa Palazzolo

The artist says, "This painting was part of a series of 8 other “Talking Heads” portraying historical women in whimsical manners."

Christa Palazzolo received her BFA from The University of Texas at Austin, with a study in Painting and Printmaking. Currently focused on using portraiture as a vehicle of mockery, isolation, discomfort, and objectification, she strives to confront formal aspects of painting with a contemporary voice and commentary. You can find more of her work at her website, ChristaPalazzolo.com.

Lifestyles

2011-04-01T06:35:00.004-06:00

Finding the Light in the Darkness of Marital Separation
by Denise Falcone

There is a misconception that being separated is a gentler alternative or preview to divorce, but it is often during this time when many powerful emotions take hold. These feelings can cause you to overreact. How can you stay calm and see things clearly when you are thrashing about in a sea of fear and uncertainty, pain and disappointment? In addition, you might feel guilty about disrupting everybody’s lives, especially if there are children.

Tapping into your anger—an inevitable response at the ending of a relationship—will give you some of your power back, but if misdirected and out of control, it can cause the most terrible arguments where no one is listening but the neighbors. And again, bear in mind the children. If you are holding on, fighting can be a way to stay connected. You and your spouse can get back to being close, a sad ritual we see time and time again.

Anger is a strong drug. It is intoxicating and can make you feel important and visible, especially when you feel invisible. It’s not a bad thing that you feel angry or have a need to express it. This is normal, but how you express it is what matters. How has the impact of this emotion affected you in the past? If you have been shamed or hurt by someone’s anger towards you, you might express your anger in a two-fold way: your past and your present. By not allowing yourself to be paralyzed by feelings of rage, you can deal with your own anger now.

Something happens when a woman stands up for herself in a focused and rational way. In losing the fear from her voice, she loses her status as shrew, scold, bitch, hothead, selfish-child, man-eater, and nag.

Meanwhile, feelings of sadness are waiting in the wings…

We often postpone feeling sad, sometimes forever, because this is the emotion that hurts so much and leaves us feeling so desperately lonely. It is so much easier to lash out and stay mad. It keeps the gnawing pain of loss away. Suddenly you find the keepsake trunk in your heart filled not with the realization of anticipated hopes and fantasies but with moth-eaten, shattered dreams. Still, your feelings of sadness are noble. They tell you who you are. Some of the best parts of us are created from our losses.

Breaking through your fury to embrace your feelings of sadness can help you find the courage to accept things for what they are. You can finally be set free from having to control things all the time, lest you fall apart. And then what? There you are!

Separating from someone in this way, instead of setting up camp in their aura and despising them, strengthens the soul and bestows upon you a renewed capacity for life. It sets the right tone for your children. You will have a goal that you will reach intact and you will find that goal is YOU.

Denise Falcone is the author of Void of Moon, The Emotional Journey Through Marital Separation. Her essays and short stories have appeared in Press Pause Moments Anthology, The Virtuous Mimicry, Blood Orange Review, J Journal, Wired Ruby, Kerouac’s Dog, and others.

Winter Issue 2011

2010-12-01T23:59:00.002-06:00

Letter from the Editor

2010-12-01T23:51:00.002-06:00

Welcome to the Winter 2011 Issue of Della Donna! Thank you for your patience. In this issue, you'll read about a remarkable woman who overcame some serious health problems and obstacles to make it as a successful artist and quilter. You'll also read a funny story about lipstick addiction and two simple, yet powerful poems. Don't forget to check out the beautiful works of art!

As you know, Della Donna can only continue through the contributions of women like you. So if you have something to say, let us know! Email us your thoughts, your stories and your artwork at della.donna.zine@gmail.com. We also need your support as readers - check us out quarterly, forward our pieces to your friends, and like us on Facebook!

Happy holidays to you and yours,

- April

Lifestyles

2010-12-01T23:30:00.002-06:00

A Vision To Quilt
by Linda Hixon

Terror.

That is one word that friends would never have expected to hear coming out of V Kingsley’s mouth. V, which is her entire name, does not terrify easily, at least to outside eyes. A vibrant personality with red hair, decked out in a leather biker jacket and go-go boots, V lives a full life. She is a single mother who supports herself and her young son as a quilter and overcomes her struggles with love and laughter.

That is, until she started to go blind -- a devastating fate for an artist and avid quilter.

But V’s story begins in a very visual, colorful world. Born of New England Yankee and Scottish heritage, she learned at the knees of two grandmothers to work with what she had. “I realized that just feeling the fabric of a quilt was a sensory experience, and by using fabric from real life a quilt would become infused with meaning.”

V’s quilting road took a lot of turns along the way. She studied art in college, and began a career in the theater, working as a property master and set designer. She was first introduced to a commercial sewing machine while trying to sew Venetian blinds from yards of chiffon to grace the back of the stage at the American Repertory Theater. “Here was a girl who was used to hand sewing in cotton. I was totally out of my league. But I did it.”

The experience renewed her interest in her childhood love of textile arts. Embroidering since she was eight, V picked up needle and thread and began the first square of a crazy quilt in her early 20s. The quilt would take years to finish, but the rebellious adolescent was coming home to her fiber roots. “There are so many stories in those squares,” she says.

Each square was hand pieced, and the names and birthdates of all the women in her family were included in the project. Each panel marks a milestone in her life, a way of processing the good and bad as each moment passed. One square marks the violent, untimely death of her mother, and is made from her old clothing and buttons. Another square shows the growth of V’s son as he emerges from crawling baby to walking toddler. Another commemorates the celebration of the passing of the millennium, and two squares represent the tragedy of 9/11. Sewn in mourning colors of blacks and grays and deep purples, embroidered towers are engulfed in smoke, and a tiny embroidered dump truck removes debris from the site.

--

While living in this colorful and creative visual world, as her career as a professional quilter was taking off, V began to lose her sight. It was 2003 and she was only 37.

Her body seemed to be falling apart. Her mouth began to fill with painful lesions. She couldn’t eat, for months subsisting on smoothies and losing pound after pound, eventually dropping almost 60 pounds. The skin cells in her eyes disintegrated and her world became a hazy imitation of its previous vibrancy. The doctors were stumped, tossing around various diagnoses. It wasn’t until after her eighth hospitalization that a name could be put to her illness: cancer. There was a lymphoma the size of two bricks growing in her abdomen. However, cancer did not explain the mouth sores or her failing eyesight. Her body was allergic to the cancer and her own immune system was attacking her. She was suffering from Paraneoplastic Pemphigus (PNP), a rare and mostly fatal autoimmune disease, one that destroys the body's own cells. And since her cancer was inoperable, there was little the doctors could do to stop the destruction the PNP was causing.

“We almost rejoiced when we got the news it was cancer because at least we knew what it was. I didn’t have to lay down and die just because they said I was. I had something to rail against.”

Chemotherapy treatment was used to fight the cancer. The PNP was another matter. Immune suppressant drugs didn’t help and only left V vulnerable to infection and fighting for her life. A blood clot and massive infection invaded her lungs, and doctors told her she had three days to live.

V wasn’t ready to give up. She removed herself from all the antibiotics and left the hospital against medical advice. She decided to trust her body. She went home, wrapped herself in a quilt and prepared herself and her family for the worst. Her son, Parker, had just turned seven.

“Every time I said goodnight to him I had to say goodbye. I didn’t know if I would see him again,” V poignantly recalls. She filled out enough birthday cards so Parker would have one from his mother each year until he was 21.

"My battle cry was Remission or Release. And it didn’t look like remission was going to happen for me, so I just wanted release. It was a moral, ethical choice that I was making, to let the chips fall where they may."

And after three days, the chips fell on the side of life, not death. V's body began to rally. Over a year into her ordeal, the cancer began to respond to the chemo. Her online journal, started during the darkest days of her illness to keep her network of friends up-to-date on her struggles, is full of small victories: a day of being able to eat some real food, the kindness of hospital staff during a procedure. The doctors began using intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG), a process that became a lifeline. Yet each treatment was costing almost $10,000 and the insurance wouldn’t cover it all.

So V began to quilt.

She started a yo-yo quilt, picking from her vintage fabric and hand piecing hundreds of bits of cloth to create the piece. Friends and family from across the country sold “tickets” to acquaintances and strangers, and even her father found buyers in foreign ports of call. V enlisted the help of the Unbound Quilters, a local group, to help with the finishing work when she was too sick to bring needle to cloth. The effort raised almost enough money to pay the bills for that first year.

In the midst of these triumphs, V’s eyesight continued to fail. No longer able to drive, read, help her son with homework or even care for her own needs, V reluctantly began “white cane training” in an effort to prepare herself to live as a blind woman.

“The word I have to use to describe losing my sight is terror,” she said. “I didn’t know what I was going to be able to do since my skill set was visual arts, especially quilting. I was not only losing my health and my sight, but I was losing my livelihood.”

V was declared legally blind by the end of 2004. Doctors tried to convince her to allow her eyelids to be sewn shut, a terrible option for a quilter, but one that would have alleviated the tremendous pain of the air crossing her eyes. V, hoping for a final miracle, spoke to a doctor at Stanford who had heard about the Boston Foundation for Sight. The foundation uses grants to help restore the sight of people with damaged or diseased corneas. Skymiles were even donated so V could fly east to have her Boston Scleral Lenses implanted and regain her sight.

“The process was so painful, but it really was miraculous,” she recalls. “Everything was in Technicolor!” But the process has not been without problems. The implants, which are like huge contact lenses the size of quarters, require constant care. “Now I have about 15 hours of pain free time with the prosthetics. It's not perfect. When I take the prosthetics out to clean them or at night, I am graced to be back in pain, reminding me of what life could be like.” She also has to tip a bottle of eyewash up to her eyes every 15 minutes of the day to restore the natural moisture most of us take for granted.

“I started right away on my sewing machine. I was still really quite sick, but I was able to see so I started creating.”

V still quilts on commission. Many of her new pieces are vibrant colors, the hand and machine embroidered embellishments are delicate and invite close scrutiny. Eyes appear in several of her pieces.

“Eye Can See” was created for the Boston Foundation for Sight and its founder, Dr. Perry Rosenthal. A large eye is graced with delicate eyelashes, hand and machine embroidered and embellished with her grandmother’s antique lace and buttons from her grandfather’s work shirts. She embroidered “Merci,” French for “Thank You” on the piece, but found a correlation to that word with the word “mercy,” something she feels she received from the staff at the Foundation. “I wanted to show my excitement at being able to see again,” she wrote about the piece on her web site. The dedication on the quilt reads, “with undying gratitude of a quilter emerged from darkness.”

V believes she is the only known person with non-operable lymphoma to have survived PNP more than two years. It is normally a death sentence. In her online journal, she writes,

“I am who I am as a direct result of the sum total of my experiences. I would not take any one of them away. I am driven to share what I can see, which is still very hard for me. I don’t know many quilters who have had the blessing I have, to go through the process of becoming blind and then to get to see again."

She continues to quilt and she continues to let her quilts go to others who can enjoy them.

"I was blind, but now I see." The lyrics of the beautiful old hymn "Amazing Grace" not only describe V Kingsley's experience and how she dealt with it, but also her miracle.

Linda Hixon is a former newspaper reporter, disc jockey, and radio news reader and writer. A textile artist and photographer, she recently returned to New England to pursue a legal career. Linda can be reached via e-mail.

2010-12-01T23:00:00.003-06:00

"Altar #3"
by Mary O'Malley

The artist says, "My most recent body of work consists of tightly rendered metallic ink drawings on paper. This minimum palette helps to emphasize the complex detail and ornate patterning of the drawing. In the spirit of outsider and visionary artists, each mark is hand drawn using fine-point pens. The Altar series draws inspiration from many sources, including Eastern philosophy and symbolism, textile patterns, and architecture."

Mary O’Malley graduated from the Massachusetts College of Art and Design with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in 1997; she received her Master of Fine Arts Degree in 2005 from the School of Visual Arts in New York. Since completing graduate school, Mary has been exhibiting her work steadily in the U.S, including the DeCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Lincoln, MA. Her work has been included twice in the juried publication, New American Paintings. Most recently, her work was purchased for display at the U.S. Embassy in Saudi Arabia. She has been the recipient of several grants, including two Massachusetts Cultural Council grants, in 2006 and 2009. She lives in works in the Boston area. You can find more of her work at her website, and she can be reached via e-mail.

Lit by Chicks

2010-12-01T22:30:00.002-06:00

A Walk in the Clouds
by A.J. Huffman

"I have spread my dreams
under your feet;"
- William Butler Yeats

Soft white possibilities
pale beneath the pressure.
Your soul forces them,
all weepy red
and flat,
into past depressions.

And at night,
I gather them.
The black and blue bits.
Laying them,
end to end,
on the kitchen counter.

And I try
to draw
their technicolored life
back
with permanent markers
and scotched tape.

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. A.J. can be reached via Facebook.

Health and Beauty

2010-12-01T21:00:00.003-06:00

Lip Service
by Charlotte Jones

I’d rather be caught naked than without lipstick. Yes, my particular eccentricity involves an absolute addiction to ruby red lips. It’s not so much devotion to style as the feel. I can’t stand chapped lips and my lips feel chapped if they aren’t smeared with lipstick. Some might wonder why a $1 tube of chapstick won’t do the trick, but somehow I feel I need the color. I’ll go out of the house with dirty hair and no eye makeup, provided I have on lipstick. I got that idea from Cher who once said, while batting her fake eyelashes, that she would go without eye makeup but never without lipstick. Try to imagine her with pouty lips and little squinty eyes.

Someone recently gave me a lipstick personality quiz. Apparently, the shape of your lipstick reveals what kind of person you are. If it wears to a flat top, you have high moral standards. Sharp-angled, but curved means you fall in love easily (implied is that you have loose morals.) A round, smooth tip means you’re even-tempered, but a sharp-angled slant means you’re a real bitch. This news upset me because I clearly have multiple-personality disorder. Every single tube of lipstick goes through all of these personalities with me, sometimes all on the same day. Each of the three faces of Eve, --I mean me--are wearing a different color of lipstick.

Like an addiction to drugs, I’m sorry I ever got started and I rue the day, back in 1968, when I was entering 7th grade and I bought my first lipstick. My mother was against makeup in general, but since I had just gotten braces and was already taller than all the boys in my school, she acquiesced on the lipstick. I remember it came in a green case, Revlon I believe, and it was some color called Moonlight Glow, or Moonlight Death, or Death Warmed Over, something like that. It was a ghostly shade of shimmering, well, moonlight, that, even though the rest of me looked alive and well, gave my lips that pasty-gray dead look that morticians try so hard to cover up. This was “in” when I was a teen, so that’s what I wore. Thank God I came along before the shades got really inventive, like blue.

One time I tried to calculate how many tubes of lipstick I’ve purchased and how much money I’ve spent on it. Judging from the number of lipstick cases in my drawer—some are so worn down, they can’t be used in public, but I can still eke a little more color out of them; some are color mistakes that I won’t wear in public, but I wear downstairs in the morning to read the paper and have coffee with my husband—I’d guess I’ve spent approximately a million dollars on lipstick.

Which is why I recently decided I needed to learn how to buy things on eBay. Why pay $22 for an Estée Lauder lipstick at Neiman’s, when I can buy the same exact lipstick on eBay for $8.50? Especially when Estée Lauder discontinued my favorite color, Watermelon Fizz, which I’ve worn continuously (even while asleep) for the last five years.

I was careful in my eBay research to make sure I was buying the right thing. For example, an Estée Lauder lipstick BOX was up to $9.95 in the bidding process, but I was too smart for that. Who would pay $9.95 for an empty box? They can trick you like that.

But then I found it. There it was, a full color photo of Watermelon Fizz fully extended (so I could see it had not been used) – that perfect shade of red with a slight shimmery peach cast. It was propped up on a little white block to better display it. I placed my bid and waited expectantly for the results of the bidding. I won! In fact, mine was the only bid, and $8.50 was charged to my PayPal account. Three days later, it arrived and yes, it was the right color. Yes, it was unused. It just didn’t have a lid!

Who sells lipsticks without a lid? I got my purse and quickly took the lid off my very last complete tube of Watermelon Fizz and chiseled it down to a severe angled bitch-point while I contemplated the question. Probably someone whose own lipstick is sculpted to a sharp point centered in the middle. The lipstick personality profile says those people are prone to exaggeration.

Lesson learned, I’m headed back to Neiman’s in search of a new color. Does anybody know a good shade of red?

Charlotte Jones promised herself she would do something more creative with her life after a twenty year career as a computer scientist and management consultant, and began writing and taking pictures. Her work has appeared in over 70 literary and commercial magazines, most recently in an anthology devoted to Chopin–Chopin with Cherries: A Tribute in Verse. She is currently at work on her first novel about a teen accused of arson. You can reach Charlotte via e-mail.

2010-12-01T20:00:00.002-06:00

"The Fox Fur"
by Alison Cherry

The artist says, "Created primarily using oil paint and pastels, mywork is an amalgamation of the more formal and direct qualities used in traditional portraiture and the bold, sexualized themes often found in contemporary fashion photography. The fusion of these styles allows mywork to convey a feeling that is both classic and modern, while my use of underlying narratives add depth and a more progressive approach to each piece.

My most recent work focuses on personal themes of passion, desire and strength. These paintings are dynamic studies of the beauty and the frivolity of physical ornamentation, which serve as a contrast to my more intimate and powerful depictions of the nude figure."

Alison Cherry is a Toronto-based artist who specializes in figurative painting and portraiture. Born and raised in London, ON, she studied studio art and art history at H.B. Beal's BealArt vocational school before going on to achieve a Bachelor's Degree in Illustration from the Ontario College of Art and Design in Toronto, ON. After receiving her degree she dabbled in the world of design, but found that painting remained her true passion. She has since been pursuing her painting and illustration practice, showing in small galleries and group exhibits, and producing commissions for private collections.

Alison currently lives and works in Toronto, Canada. You can find more of her work at her website, and she can be reached via e-mail.

Lit by Chicks

2010-12-01T16:37:00.001-06:00

Plath's Pop Culture
by Jen Schneider

Princess-

Where is your knight in shining armor?
He has not yet rescued you from the storm.
The fairy tales they read you,
while you, pigtails and "My Little Ponies"
imagined "Prince Charming."
I was twelve once too;
preteen years blooming.
I was a faded rose;
my stringy, long hair. . .
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel. . ."
Could there be more than just fairy tales and sugar coated lullabies?

And then Plath haunted my mind with her poetic voice. . .

"When on tiptoe schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But heavy-footed, stood aside."

Sylvia, alas, where did my fairytale go?
I began to paint my nails black,
listen to Alanis before she was "pop"
and The Cure before they were cured.
What we called gothic was just a trend.
The year prior we were
Nirvana grunge,
devoted to Kurt's Teen Spirit.
What am I today? Highlights in my hair,
Express clothes,
and stilettos. . .
a professional victim of body image obsession.
What would Sylvia think now,
masking my depression with MAC makeup
and glittery eyeshadow?

Well, Screw you Plath.

I want to be happy,
whether I am masked or naked.
No longer blackened and bruised
with fractured fairy tales
of spoiled dreams
and poisonous apples.

My nails are naked,
a clear gloss defining the creation I have made.
I am nothing without my writer's voice.
I am empty without a summer psalm.
I look in the mirror and see an image,
ten then 13 years prior.
Grunge to goth to pigtails and daffodils.
What a plethora of being she was-
this little girl.
I remembered falling in love with the mere idea of being rescued-
when all it took was poetry
of a faceless victim
and the lyrics of a generation,
but most of all,
myself.

Jen Schneider is a writer and middle school English teacher living in Nebraska. Her flash fiction and short stories have been published in print anthologies and online at Six Sentences, Thinking Ten, Chicklitshorties.com, the NOT, 50-to-1 and JM Prescott's blog. You can read more of Jen's writing at her blog, Life on Shuffle, and follow her on Twitter.

Announcement

2010-10-27T19:59:00.003-05:00

We apologize, but due to personal circumstances, Della Donna's next issue will be pushed back to Winter. We appreciate your patience! (In the meantime, you can still get those last minute pieces in ;)

Summer Issue 2010

2010-07-01T23:12:00.003-05:00

Letter from the Editor

Interview with a Fabulous Female: Barbara J. Berg

Lifestyles: "A Common Language"

Lit by Chicks: "Self-Reflection"

Health/Beauty: "Because Delta Burke Said So"

Anecdotes: "Things That Make You Go 'Hmm'"

Lit by Chicks: "Bonnie"

Letter from the Editor

2010-07-01T22:45:00.001-05:00

Welcome back. Here's hoping that you are enjoying your summer and getting some much needed rest from the hustle and bustle of the year. We have a great issue for you, packed with quality writing and artwork from some of the best female minds today. First, we were able to get an interview with Barbara J. Berg, an activist for women's rights and prolific author. Beyond that, we have articles about communication between men and women, bad dates and finding a Delta Burke-approved thong!

Don't forget that you can "like" Della Donna on Facebook for updates, fun news for women and even some giveaways coming up... And tell your friends!

- April

Interview with a Fabulous Female

2010-07-01T22:00:00.003-05:00

Barbara J. Berg is an award-winning teacher, writer, activist, consultant and working mother. She is the author of five groundbreaking books on women's issues, the latest of which, Sexism in America: Alive, Well, and Ruining Our Future, has received rave reviews. Ms. Berg took time out of her busy schedule to answer our questions about her career, her beliefs, and her hopes for the future of America.

AB: Tell us a bit about your career so far.

BJB: When I was working on my doctoral dissertation in history, I came across records of female voluntary associations formed in the early 1800s in all of the major US cities. These were groups of middle and upper class women who, against the wishes of their husbands, pastors, and indeed the whole weight of “proper society,” joined together to assist the destitute of their sex. They insisted on their right to do this work, even helping prostitutes and women convicted of crimes, without male chaperones or guidance. This was totally unheard of back then. These women forged an early and profound “feminist” ideology before the word was in use. They even signed their letters, “Thine in the bonds of sisterhood.” My male dissertation sponsors said “Go with it,” and this became the focus not only of my thesis, but my first book.

I’ve taught women’s studies at all levels and written five books and innumerable articles, all dealing with different aspects of women’s lives. Now, I’ve turned to blogging, both at A Blog of Our Own and other sites.

I’ve also been fortunate to have the opportunity to speak about various aspects of women’s lives in different venues all over the country and to participate in numerous organizations that work on behalf of women’s well-being and future.

AB: What got you into women's issues? Was there one defining moment or experience that made you feel it was an important cause?

BJB: There actually was a defining moment that in many ways charted my career. When I was quite young, my father, a college professor, was stricken with Parkinson’s disease. He was only 43 years old at the time. When my mother told me, she started to cry, “I wish it were me, I wish it were me.”

When I asked her why, and this I remember so clearly, she said, “Because if I were sick, Daddy would be able to support the family, to see that I had everything I needed. What will I be able to do?” Then she looked at me and said gravely, “You must always be able to work, do you understand?” At the time, I didn’t understand. I thought my mom was amazing. She’d gotten a scholarship to Barnard College and earned the rest of tuition by working at Macy’s department store. I was certain that she’d be able to get a wonderful, well-paying job. Back then I didn’t understand the cultural noose cutting off women from professional employment.

AB: What inspired you to write Sexism in America? What was your hope for the book?

BJB: My inspiration came from a group of women of differing backgrounds and ages, watching Katie Couric on TV and waiting for my son’s Halloween Party to begin. This was 3 ½ years ago, before the game-changing interviews with Sarah Palin, and Couric was still getting a lot of criticism about her appearance and mannerisms. One young woman commented how unfairly Couric was being treated and told us that a CBS reporter had accused the network of “tarting up” with her. That started the conversation…it went from the hypersexualization of Halloween costumes for adults, to those available for children, to the way women were being demeaned in popular culture and in work. As I listened to this eclectic group of women, many of whom were meeting each other for the first time, pour out their stories, all I could think of were the Consciousness Raising Groups of the 1970s. I decided to do research to find out how prevalent these concerns were. Unfortunately, I discovered the persistent reality of sexism in America, Often subtle, but so pervasive and dangerous, that I began to think of it as the Sexism of Mass Destruction.

I hope that the book will serve as a wake up call that we are not living in a post-feminist society and that, in fact, we have actually lost rights and opportunities over the past decade. The book also provides a brief history of the women’s movement in this country as well as a blueprint for change. One of my messages that I care deeply about is for women, young women especially, to transcend the media myth that we are naturally competitive and enemies of one another. Much more unites women than divides us. I’d like to see us discard the message of popular culture, especially reality shows, and go from looking at each other as adversaries to allies. Most of all, I want to start the conversation going again about how we can bring about a more equitable society for our daughters and our sons.

AB: What results have you seen from your book? Have you heard any stories about how it has affected people?

BJB: I’ve been extremely gratified by the reception the book has gotten. And yes, I receive emails, letters, comments on my website about how the book has impacted individual women—everything from women taking on sexual discrimination at work to starting an organization for young women on a college campus to repairing a broken relationships with mothers and friends.

AB: What would you recommend women do to make a change in their communities and lives, even if they aren't activists?

BJB: Today it’s possible to be involved is so many ways. A good starting point is to sign up for a Google Alert for a topic in which you’re interested: domestic violence, for example. You’ll receive all kinds of information about what’s being done nationally and locally. There are petitions to sign and letters to write.

I suggest that anyone with young people in their lives should make a point of seeing what children are being taught in school about the contributions, struggles, and successes of more than half the population. Is women’s history being taught? Do young women see examples of female scientists? Engineers?

Ask local hospitals to sponsor Women’s Health Day or Week; ask libraries to stock books on women; include books by and about women in book club readings; donate gently used clothes to organizations like Dress for Success which help women reenter the workplace; become a Big Sister, a mentor, a tutor. Use our power as consumers to resist buying products that have advertisements that demean women and let the company know about your boycott. Refuse to see movies that exalt violence against women or belittle us. Support and check in with the women’s news media: Women’s Media Center; Women's eNews, Women in Media and News, etc. so you’ll have a fuller picture of women’s lives. And most of all, look upon other women with kindness and understanding.

AB: Is there one specific issue that you think is of tantamount importance to women today, or should be?

BJB: Whatever is important to individual women…that’s where they should/could put their energies. I personally believe that keeping and extending reproductive justice is crucial because if we can’t control our own bodies and the decisions about having children, we truly can’t control our lives or our futures. Beyond that, I’m terribly worried about the health and lack of affordable, accessible healthcare for women in America. For the first time since 1918, we are actually dying at younger ages than our mothers did…so that is another area in which I work as part of Mount Sinai’s Community Board. I’m also a Vice President of the Board of the New York Correctional Association, involved in prison reform especially for women who are perhaps the most invisible sector of our population. Another area that is important is government supported, sponsored childcare is absolutely vital to maintaining the wellbeing of working families.

AB: Do you have a motto that you live by?

BJB: With apologies to Robert Browning, I’ve always been inspired by a line in his poem, Andrea del Sarto: “A [wo]man’s reach should exceed… [her] grasp…” as well as by a motto of the second wave women’s movement, “Sisterhood is Powerful.” All of the great movements for social justice in this country have achieved successes by groups of like-minded people uniting and fighting for a common cause. And in support of the late Dr. George Tiller whose favorite motto was “Trust Women,” I now wear a bracelet from NARAL with that inscription.

AB: What are you currently working on?

BJB: I’m spending much of my time traveling and talking about sexism in this country and what we can do to bring about gender equity. I’m also working on another book...this time, a novel.

Lifestyles

2010-07-01T21:30:00.002-05:00

A Common Language

by Dallas Woodburn

“Why is it so hard for men and women to communicate with each other?”

This question was recently posed to my human studies class, and our assignment was to write a paper on the topic using our own personal knowledge and observation of relationships around us. I knew from the start what I would write about. My parents get along well enough, but my dad is from Mars and my mom is from Venus, and they have visibly different ways of communicating. My dad, while he will listen to others’ feelings, hardly ever talks about his own. The only time I remember seeing him cry was when my grandmother – his mother – died over a decade ago. Instead of relating to what you are saying, my dad usually responds by thinking of ways to solve your problem or make you feel better – often by pointing out that there are people worse off than you and that you should be grateful for your blessings.

My mom, on the other hand, connects to what others are saying by sharing similar experiences of her own and assuring you that she understands what you’re going through. Conversation is a way for her to bond and express agreement and support with other people. It isn’t as important to my mom to find an immediate solution to your problem as it is for you to let your feelings out and realize that you’re not alone.

My thesis was simple: men and women grow up in different social surroundings and have contrasting ideas about communication, and thus it is often hard for them to talk to each other. I left class with an outline for my paper already written in my mind. After all, it is easy in everyday life to see the dissimilarities between men and women – the different ways they deal with issues, the problems they have communicating, the contrasting ways they relate to one another.

But sometimes it takes a crisis to make you realize that for all our differences, we really are very much the same.

* * *

“We lost the baby.”

I looked at my parents’ tear-stained faces, at my mom’s just-starting-to-swell belly, at the book of baby names sitting on the kitchen counter, filled with post-it notes marking possibilities, and I was flooded with the overwhelming impossibility of speech. Yes, we had known there were risks – my mom was forty-five, and doctors warned her that there was an increased chance of something going wrong. But my mom was healthy, her check-ups were going great, she had gotten through the first trimester, which everyone said was the most precarious...

There I stood – a woman, just like her, who is supposed to be easier for her to communicate with, who is supposed to understand what she is experiencing, who is supposed to relate to her and make her feel better – and I had no idea what to say. How could I tell her I knew what she was going through? I had never experienced a miscarriage. I had never lost a child when I was just beginning to believe that I made it through the worst times and everything was going to be okay, when I had let myself imagine what it would be like to have another child in the house and had just started dreaming up names and planning how to share the news with my friends, when I had just bought my first pair of maternity pants two days ago because my jeans were beginning to get awfully tight and you were starting to see the growth of the baby inside me. How could I ever tell her I know what it feels like to lose all that? Because I don’t. And she knows I don’t.

My dad – a man, who is supposed to have trouble communicating with her, who is supposed to not listen to what she is saying, who is supposed to have difficulty understanding her emotions and making her feel better – he didn’t hesitate at all. He wrapped her up in a big hug and just let her cry.

My parents, a man and woman who are supposed to have trouble communicating, stood there in the kitchen holding each other. I realized that it doesn’t matter that my dad sometimes doesn’t connect to what she is saying, or that my mom sometimes jumps in and interrupts him. After twenty-two years of marriage, they understand each other. When words are hardest to come by, they know what to say (or what not say.)

They love each other. And, when you really get down to it, that’s the common language that matters.

Dallas Woodburn, 23, is the author of two collections of short stories (There's a Huge Pimple on My Nose and 3 a.m.) and a forthcoming novel. Her essays have appeared in numerous publications including Family Circle, The Los Angeles Times, Motherwords, and eight Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies. She is the founder of Write On! For Literacy, a nonprofit organization that encourages youth to discover confidence, joy and connection through reading and writing. Dancing With The Pen, the first Write On! Books anthology of essays, poetry and short stories written entirely by kids and teens, will be released this fall. Read more of Dallas' work at her blog, Dallas Woodburn's Writing Life.

2010-07-01T21:01:00.002-05:00

Daphne

by Kate MacDowell

The artist says, "I created Daphne in part as a response to my experiences hiking through the backwoods of Oregon and Washington and stumbling across vast areas of clear-cut forest. In this piece, Bernini’s sculpture of Daphne pursued by Apollo is transformed by one additional step from woman to tree to clear-cut slash pile. The nymph’s distress now reflects a different kind of “rape.” Whether the piece is seen as an eco-feminist analogy, a deconstruction of an iconic artwork, a meditation on growth and death, or simply an alluring play of organic line and form, I invite viewers to think about what is lost from environmental degradation, what sensory delights of texture and form are removed as we allow part of our body to be cut away. With species destruction, is it not just biodiversity we lose, but visual imagery and symbolism as well? How does this erode our understanding of ourselves and the ability of artists to communicate?"

Kate MacDowell lives in Portland, Oregon. Her hand-built porcelain sculptures have been shown throughout the US, and in Japan, the U.K. and Europe. Her work has been featured in The New York Times Sunday Magazine, Calle20, Ceramics Monthly, and Hi-Fructose, and online at NOTCOT.org, Street Anatomy, Sprayblog, FormFiftyFive, Abduzeedo, TreeHugger, JUXTAPOZ and more. You can find more of her work at her website, KateMacDowell.com.

Lit by Chicks

2010-07-01T20:34:00.003-05:00

Self-Reflection

by Dorla Moorhouse

For you, I will
     learn once again to
     love my body
     the way I instinctively
     love the mole on your
     back and your universe
     of freckles and freckle-toasted skin

By now I've collected
     an album of images
     capturing my reflection
     as each relevant
     person sees it.

But inevitably, these pictures
     fade and I forget
     and the panic returns.

And so again begins the work
     of finding someone reliable
     and loading the camera
     and crawling into your skull
     and positioning the lens perfectly
     behind your eyes
     and remembering how
     to see myself.

Dorla Moorehouse is a writer and dancer living in Austin, Texas. She primarily writes feminist-oriented erotica, and her stories have appeared at Black Heart Magazine,Oysters and Chocolate, Mainstream Erotica, Pink Flamingo, Sliptongue, and For the Girls, with work forthcoming at The Erotic Woman. In addition, she serves as the poetry editor of Gloom Cupboard. You can find more of her work at her blog, Lusty Literati.

Health & Beauty

2010-07-01T20:00:00.002-05:00

Because Delta Burke Said So

by Becky Liendo

“If there’s one thing my mother always told me, it was to always wear clean underwear. You never know when you’ll end up in a car accident.”

There is a dilemma that I still face at the age of 24: are thongs really that much more comfortable than my plain-Jane-cotton “getting what I paid for” panties? While growing up, my younger sister promised me a few things—one of those promises being that she wouldn’t go to the dark side. The dark side of rectal floss. Well, I’ve been betrayed, and of course, like a scorned woman who has lost a friend to a better version of myself, I had to investigate the lure of the thong.

Mistake 1:

Wearing a black sweater, black jeans, hair down and sunglasses, I made my first stakeout at a Ross department store. Arms crossed, I casually walked to the silver, tiered racks, seizing the moment when the aisle was clear of onlookers. I skimmed and scanned the little pieces of material on those impossible, tiny hangers, gingerly at first. After taking hold of a possible pair that “looked cute on the hanger,” I placed my fingers under the elastic and stretched the fabric as far as I could. Still alone in the aisle, I stretched and twisted the elastic—not as a test of dexterity or strength but merely to stretch it in disgust. A silver cart with blue bumpers on the corners turned into the aisle and I freaked out. Should I ever need a sling shot, I could find a cheap one at Ross for $1.99. The thong slapped against my chin and fell onto my purse, which I had put down on the floor between my feet. The intruder, a pregnant woman, smiled and began to browse the bras at the end of the aisle. I tried to put the thong back onto the hanger but like I said, those hangers are impossible and ridiculously tiny. I slung the elastic over the neck of the hanger and put it back onto the cold rack. I turned around and walked to the other side, seemingly browsing the bras like any other woman would, yet eyeballing the thongs on the opposite side.

When the coast was clear, I made my way back and started to slam the hangers from right to left fast enough to get a glimpse of the size. Extra small, extra small, medium, medium, medium, medium, medium, medium, small. The first large I found was fucking huge—I guess that’s why it was at Ross being sold with a tag stamped “defect product.” The pattern was sensible, a nude color with a teeny-tiny white ribbon rosette centered on the waist line. Again, I stretched and closely examined the back of the garment, trying to imagine the elastic. I couldn’t imagine it; I shuddered at the thought of the elastic. Did I forget to mention that this Ross has, for remodeling purposes, relocated their lingerie “aisle” next to the men’s department? I guess I did. Well, there was this one man who was standing in the aisle across from me. He was on the men’s side so it wasn’t exactly that creepy but I experienced such a feeling of dread. There was a knot in my stomach as he stared at me—this thong was also stubborn, refusing to get back onto the hanger and only prolonging my discomfort as I stood there with a thong and a 40-something man staring at me the entire time. He had this smile on his face when I finally walked away, a smile that just stabbed past and through me. I imagine that smile is seen at every strip bar, street corner, bed of a truck all over town. Yeah—I felt right at home, again.

Mistake 2:

The next day, in hopes of concluding my research, I took the plunge and made the great trudge to the mall. After experiencing the very low end of self esteem, I decided to try the high end: Victoria’s Secret. I met the very nice Monica, who wanted to measure my bust to make sure that my breasts were getting the correct support. By the looks of the merchandise and the especially large ads, I was sure that someone could pick up the support I didn’t want.

“What can I help you with today if I can’t assist you with your bra size?” She spoke with that retail voice, too sweet and not giving a shit.

“Well, I was curious about the thong.”

“Curious?”

“Oh shit,” was all I could think as we started to walk.

She smiled at me, and led me toward the back of the store. I felt as if I she was going to tap on the wall a few cryptic times and the dressing rooms would turn dramatically, with a fog machine somewhere, leading me into a dungeon where I would be tortured with thongs, thus fulfilling my curiosity.

“These are special thongs. They can tuck in your tummy,” she says, looking down at my tummy. “And they stay in place.”

“Stay in place—because that’s called riding. And, well, it’s a piece of elastic that is nestled…”

“Well, if you put it that way, of course. But it hides your tummy. That’s a bonus.”

“Oh Jesus,” I sigh and walk out of the red room into the pink room and out of the store.

Not feeling very well about that visit, I walked to Dillard’s and made my way to the lingerie department. There were sensible slips and red, black, white, and pink silky ribbony things hanging everywhere, and then there was a table. A table surrounded by four white, 14 year old girls wearing miniskirts, halter tops, flip flops and that curled hair that seems to be very popular—you know, the just got out of bed look. They were browsing the “thong” table, giggling and answering cell phones. I slipped behind a circular rack of bras that were marked 75% off and waited for them to finish. I haphazardly started to move a few hangers right to left, looking at the bras and underwear on sale. Of course I was looking at the wrong size: 34A. I circled the rack and found the 38B marker. Slim pickings for me.

The second row on the rack had the larger sizes and from there I could see the unisex haircut, white face, huge blue eyes and sly smile glaring at me. Delta Burke was looking up my skirt, mocking me for being such a prude about the situation. I looked at the bras and underwear hanging with her tags—40D, 38DD—holy shit, there was a Delta Burke-approved thong dangling on a hanger. It was very pretty—black lace, demure yet sexy. It was a huge thong that wouldn’t fit me but there was hope when I saw that the rest of the rack was nothing but Delta Burke thongs. The girls had left and I walked over to the table ready to just grab a reject thong and slam it onto the counter. I opened my hands and picked up a simple lime green triangular contraption and it was a size large. Perfect.

Two dollars and fifteen cents later, I walked to the bus stop holding my purse, waiting for a purse snatcher to rob me and humiliate me or worse. I hoped and prayed that the bus wouldn’t crash and all that they would find of my identification, when I was passed out somewhere on a gurney, would be a red wallet, change at the bottom of the purse, lip gloss, pen and paper and… a lime green, large thong.

Becky Liendo was born and raised in Laredo, TX. She currently writes for and about her culture, family, and life (so far). She has a degree in English and Art History from the University of Texas and her work has been published in The Rio Review and Hothouse Journal.

Anecdotes

2010-07-01T19:56:00.002-05:00

Things That Make You Go “Hmm”

by Carolyn Johnson

There were early warning signs, big red caution flags. His mouth kept moving. I knew I should just get up from the table, excuse myself to the ladies’ room and head out the front door. But did I listen to that little voice inside my head?

It all started with my blind date, or should I say my missing-in-action date, at Boulevard Bistro. The bartender refilled my glass of Pinot Grigio as I sat like a waif at the bar. He was twenty-five minutes late.

The hostess walked over and tapped me on the shoulder. My blind date wanted to speak with me on the phone. His lame excuse for being late was that he had gone to the wrong restaurant. Way to make a gal feel special. He was going to finish his margarita and join me soon. At that point, I should have gone home, but I figured bad company was better than no company, so I stayed put. The “hmm” was barely perceptible.

A dating service had fixed me up with Mike. They said he was a six-foot-one, blonde, blue-eyed TV journalist who loved golf, cooking and volunteer work. He sounded promising until he swaggered through the door. His hair, what was left of it, was blonde, but he wasn’t anything like the picture I had painted in my mind. He was tall, but he looked rode hard and put up wet for forty-six years old.

I guess I didn’t score any points when I didn’t immediately recognize him, but I was new to town and hadn’t surfed the evening news channels. My account fell further into the red when I asked him what he did for a living. He puffed up and said he was a sportscaster personality for a local TV station. Obviously I didn’t watch that channel. Warning “hmms” were going off in my head, but I was a glutton for punishment. Maybe his ego would deflate just a smidge so we could actually have a nice evening.

He suggested we dine at a nearby Mexican restaurant and allowed me time to clear my tab while he chatted with the door hostess. I assumed we were taking separate cars until the passenger’s side door of my car swung open and he plopped down. Oh well, what would one dinner hurt? The choir was now “hmming,” but once again I ignored it.

At the restaurant, he topped off his margarita level while he unloaded all his dirty laundry on the table. His daughter was nineteen, pregnant, unwed, unemployed and living with him. The sperm donor was a one-night-stand and was nowhere to be found. Thanks for sharing, but that was more than I needed to know at this point in our relationship.

Mike proceeded to swill margaritas and lament about the TV news business while frequently checking out his camera-ready smile in the reflection of the window. Younger upcoming sportscasters were nipping at his heels, jockeying for his time slot on the ten o’clock news. He had already been relegated to field reporting and was threatening an age discrimination suit against the station. The “hmm” was blasting in Dolby stereo now.

As if listening to his woe-is-me life story with feigned interest wasn’t enough, he offered to split the dinner tab. What a hero. I felt like a psychiatrist who was grateful when the hour was finally up.

Afterwards, he wanted to go see a movie. It’s not like I had anything better to do, so away we went. He bought his ticket then kindly stood aside to let me purchase mine. What a gentleman. I wondered if he would offer to reimburse me for his half of the gasoline. “Hmm” finally broke the sound barrier in my head.

I can’t remember what movie we went to see, but I’m sure he enjoyed it. I drove him back to the Bistro at warp speed while listening to his review of the less than spectacular parts of the feature. He was lucky I didn’t make him pony up for a cab to take his happy hide home.

I debated slowing to thirty-five and shoving him out on the fly, but decided he wasn’t worth the jail time. As I came to a stop in front of the Bistro, the “hmm” finally subsided. The curtain closed, the show was over.

His parting words, “Don’t forget to watch me on the evening news and enjoy the city,” bounced in one ear and out the other as he watched the tail end of my car make a fast getaway.

Carolyn Johnson, a former banker and now freelance writer from Houston, Texas, draws on her colorful life experiences in the US, Europe and South Africa as sustenance for her poetry, essays and fiction. Her subject matter comes from the heart, the hurt, the heavenly and sometimes the hilarious. She has been published in The Houston Chronicle, The Austin American-Statesman, Hope Whispers, The Shine Journal, Zygote in My Coffee and Tower Notes. She has two essays appearing in this fall’s Living Lessons anthology, and her work will be included in June Cotner’s upcoming Earth Blessings anthology. Carolyn be reached via e-mail.

2010-07-01T12:47:00.003-05:00

"Que Dios me las bendiga, mija!"
(Girl, may God bless you!)

by Sofia Maldonado

Sofia Maldonado is a mural painter who mixes interdisciplinary art practice with street culture. She studied at both the School of Visual Arts and La Escuela de Artes Plasticas, and in 2006 she received an MFA in Painting from Pratt Institute. In 2009, she was selected by the Cuban Artists Fund to participate in the Vermont Studios Residency Program. Maldonado's most recent public projects have been presented by Real Art Ways, Graphopoli, The 10th Havana Biennale, The Times Square Alliance and The Rockefeller Brothers. She has given lectures and workshops at La Universidad de Puerto Rico, Rollin College and Taller Puertorriqueño, and has exhibited her work in in California, Florida, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Colombia, France, and New York.

As an artist, Maldonado admires her country's rural landscapes, as well as the chaos of the city and the abandoned structures within them. During her undergraduate studies she painted numerous murals, with or without permission, in abandoned buildings, barrios and indoor spaces as a way to bring beauty to each site. She received recognition throughout her country by creating her own visual language with bright colors and flowing brush strokes that simulate nature. Sofia's artwork is a blend of fashion trends, the Latina female aesthetic and various street culture elements such as skateboarding, graffiti, public art, reggaeton and punk music. You can find more of her work at her website, SofiaMaldonado.com.

Lit by Chicks

2010-07-01T10:00:00.005-05:00

Bonnie

by Caroline Taylor

Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong. Mine’s Bonnie. Why they did it, I’ll never fathom. I don’t look like a Bonnie, and no one thinks I’m nice, let alone cheerful. Bonnie is so not me that some people can’t help snickering when they discover it really is my name.

Oh, I know what it means—even before looking it up in the dictionary, which said, “Attractive. Fair. Fine. Excellent.”

Maybe they were hoping I’d be all those things when they saddled me with the name. And maybe I despised it so much that I did everything in my power not to live up to it.

You could say I’m a real head-turner—if by that you mean that people tend to turn their heads away whenever they see me. I have mousy brown hair, as limp as a dirty dishrag and just about the same color. Only one eye matches my hair. The other decided to be yellow. And both of them are small and squinty and too close to my over-large nose, which makes those people who do look at me think I must be cross-eyed.

Of course, most of the time, they’re staring at my mouth. Not for me the plump, bee-stung lips of a budding starlet or fashion model. I was born with a harelip, and no amount of lipstick or makeup masks the scars from a botched attempt to make me look normal back when I was a kid.

So, forget attractive—or fair, in either sense of the word.

As for fine, I stopped trying to be fine back in grade school when Mrs. Hardesty put me in the retard class because of the way I looked. Which brings me to excellent.

Now that depends. Sometimes I think I’m excellent, but I’m also smart enough to know that hardly anyone would agree. You see, I’m a professional bitch. I get paid not to play fair. I write letters to businesses for nice, bonnie folks who’ve never had to be nasty to get someone’s attention. I’m successful at what I do, but I seldom get thanked—except monetarily, which is fine, considering how it’s just about the only expression of gratitude that you can be sure isn’t insincere.

So, yeah, Bonnie is a bit of a joke for most folks who require my services. I picture them, after I’ve been hired, high-fiving their Significant Other, both of them enjoying a laugh at my expense:

“Imagine a person with a name like that in her line of work.”

“You’re kidding, of course.”

“No way. That’s her name. Not Bonita either—which would be even funnier, considering her face could stop a clock.”

Then, of course, hypocrites that they are, they’ll reassure each other that they don’t really mean the things they’ve just said, that they’re such nice, fair-minded folk. The honest ones will pause momentarily before once again giving way to guffaws.

Well screw ’em. Sticks and stones, after all…

And screw Roger and Victoria too. They’re the ones who thought the stupid name would prevail over the reality of the child they’d adopted, sight unseen, from an orphanage in some godforsaken place they refused to name, except to assure me that I was much better off being an American.

The records are sealed, not that I have any interest in tracing my ancestry, let alone trying to track down my so-called “real” mother.

The only thing I care about right now is Gordon Addison.

Wait, that came out wrong. I do not care for the jerk in the sense of feeling any shred of emotion, especially affection, for the guy. No, I care that Gordon is wrecking my business. He’s trying to compete, and he’s a lawyer, which gives him a huge advantage.

I discovered his existence when one of my customers told me she didn’t think I could handle her problem with the cable company. Like most of the other problems I deal with, it began with her growing increasingly frustrated that she could not explain her particular situation to a human being over there. I gave her some tips on trying to get past the automated troll, but none of them worked. She kept getting recycled back through the system, rejecting each of the options it offered because they didn’t apply. She finally reached the limits of her sanity and ended up throwing the telephone across the room, where it shattered her brand-new flat screen HDTV. Now she wanted to collect damages from the cable company.

I told her a simple letter to the head of the company might solve her cable problem—a letter I could produce in about two clicks of the mouse, I’d written it so often. But when I cautioned her that she probably didn’t have much chance of collecting money to replace the TV, she said, “Okaaaaaay. I guess I’ll call Gordon Addison.”

“Who’s he?” I asked.

“Somebody I heard about from my neighbor. He’s a lawyer, so he knows just how to approach these a— these unresponsive people.”

“So do I,” I reminded her.

“But you’re not a lawyer.”

I’m no math whiz, but I figured too many more calls like that one, and I’d be out on the streets.

I set the wheels in motion to assess Aggravating Addison’s weak points. Like, for example, why he wasn’t working for some high-end fancy shmancy law firm. Was there something he was hiding—something he’d done, perhaps just a smidge short of disbarment proceedings, but enough to have him toiling at the sewer end of the practice of law? Was he lazy?

Unfair, you say? I just told you that I may be Bonnie, but I’m most assuredly not fair. Besides, all is fair when it comes to survival.

Maybe Addison had some other problems—an unhealthy interest in young children, for example, or two or more wives, none of whom realized he was a bigamist. Or maybe he was just not very bright. It happens. Some of the dumbest people I know are Ph.D.’s.

I Googled him. If his mug shot could be believed, he, too, was no prize catch. His ears stuck out like silver dollars on either side of a long narrow face with a receding chin. He was wearing glasses that made his eyes appear to be bulging out of their sockets. Acne scars. The photo was grainy and washed out, but the light color of his thinning hair suggested it could be blond or gray. He was fifty-one. Graduated in 1984 from some mediocre law school in the Midwest.

The whole thing might have made me yawn except for it being a matter of life and death. I weighed my options carefully. If there was not a spec of dirt to be found and exploited, what would I do? Take him out?

What, you say? Surely I didn’t imagine I could seduce him. Or did I mean “take him out” as in murdering the guy?

Of course not. That would be stupid. After all, I would be a logical suspect as his only (I hope!) competitor. But there were other ways…

Which was why I checked him out so carefully. It’s far easier to expose the dirt in someone’s background than to invent it, if you get my drift.

I learned that Addison wasn’t married. If he was a con artist or a pedophile, those proclivities hadn’t yet been exposed. He had worked for a low-end ambulance-chasing law firm in Philly before he came here. But, as is typical of most businesses these days, they refused to divulge anything of interest, such as why he left and whether it was voluntary or not.

I discovered that his office was no better—and no worse—than mine. He too leased space in an over-the-hill professional building on the fringe of the downtown area, the only difference being that my building has a pharmacy on the ground floor. This got me thinking if drugs might be the ticket. What if he had a secret habit, and that’s why he ended up bottom-feeding?

He might have had a secretary, but I doubted it. The answering service at his number sounded just like the one I use—the kind that pretends to be your personal staff when, in fact, they service hundreds of sole proprietorships like mine—and Gordon Addison’s.

Not too long after the first of my customers defected, a couple of my other regulars—who tend to be older people who just aren’t comfortable on the Internet or punching numbers into a phone—said they’d heard great things about this new fellow, Gordon Addison, who’d successfully sued a cable outfit for damages incurred when an irate customer lost patience with the company’s automated phone service.

Ring a bell? I didn’t even need to check the court records to make sure that the rumors were true. The story was all over the morning paper, along with a head-and shoulders shot of a smiling Addison and, right next to him, my former client. This was definitely bad for business.

I thought about visiting the jerk, telling him that I had been there first and to keep his filthy paws off my customers, but I know what I’d do if somebody came whining to me with the same complaint.

Instead, I turned to the Internet, a truly marvelous invention. For reasons known only to the gods of cyberspace, people will believe anything you say on the Web. I posted a few thoughts about Addison and his secrets to some lawyer blogs and settled back to enjoy the show.

It took about three months for the stuff to grow to the magnitude that had other people in town beginning to whisper—and then talk—about Gordon Addison’s drug problem. A local columnist wrote a piece claiming that Addison had been kicked out of a law firm in Philly for attempting to bribe prosecutors in a drug trial—a charge that could never be proved and which he vehemently denied. Only nobody would listen, let alone believe him.

You see how it works? Try to prove you didn’t do something when everyone around you believes you did. Gordon Addison threatened to sue the paper for defamation, but I (and presumably the paper’s legal counsel) knew he couldn’t possibly afford it. He produced and posted to the Internet a letter written by a partner in the Philadelphia law firm where he’d worked, denying the “false and scurrilous rumors” and claiming that Mr. Addison had been a model associate defense counsel until he resigned due to a decision to relocate to our fine town.
Very cleverly worded, except whose decision was it? I couldn’t help thinking it ranked right up there next to resigning “to spend more time with my family.”

Soon enough, the blogosphere was full of “knowledgeable” claims (some drafted by moi under an alias) that the partner’s letter was a forgery. Gordon Addison was toast.

One by one, his clients showed their gratitude to him, their faith in his innocence, by returning to me. On their behalf, once again I wrote letters withholding payment on disputed invoices, castigating airlines for not forking over a decent amount of money when they had to bump passengers, pointing out to errant ex-spouses serious breaches in custody and support agreements, and—in one very involved case—demanding that the president of a large national home mortgage lender inform the three credit bureaus that the “past sixty days” notation on the mortgage in question was the fault of the lender, not the borrower. That one tested even my patience, I’ll confess.

All in all, I was back in business big time, as happy as someone in my situation can possibly be. Until Gordon Addison showed up. He’d Googled me, you see. Found my address, figured out I was in the same line of work, and came to offer his services.

Now he’s sitting here in my office. “I figured better to join ’em,” he says with a lopsided grin. He’s got a funny accent like he isn’t American, and I can’t help staring as a tiny trickle of drool creeps down his chin and his head lolls against the back of his wheelchair.

“You think I—”

“Let’s say I hope. Hope. I don’t suppose you’re making any more than I was before all those damned rumors about me got circulated. But maybe two can do better?”

Smothering a sigh, I lean back in my chair, but before I can open my mouth, he jumps in.

“I assure you I am completely functional. I do take drugs, though. I have to. Otherwise …” He shrugs with his eyebrows.

“I understand.” If only he knew. “It’s just that I—”

“Oh. You don’t have to worry about me being able to do the work. It’s all by voice-aided computer. Research. Typing. You name it, I can do it.”

Addison doesn’t have a clue. “You want a job? Here? With me?”

He’s laughing now, but not at my expense, more like a kid on a lark. “Why not?”

Normally at about this stage I’d be saying, “What’s in it for me?” or “You think I’m made of money?” Instead, I find myself woolgathering at the most inopportune time, wondering what color his eyes are, noticing that he hasn’t looked away from me once, castigating myself for thinking it might be because he can’t control the movement of his head. His eyes follow me as I come around the side of my desk and stand before him, arms crossed, so he can get a good hard look at just how bonnie Bonnie is.

“I can’t pay you.”

“I figured that might be the case.”

“Then why…?”

“I need the work.” He grins sheepishly. “All this gear is expensive to maintain, as you might expect. Of course, the settlement covers pretty much everything except—”

“Let me guess. Boredom.”

His head drops forward, which I interpret to be a nod. And that’s when I completely lose it. Is it pity that propels my decision? Of course not. I am a professional bitch.

I wind up offering him a partnership, fifty-fifty, as though that can ever begin to erase the blogs and their damage. We shake on it, which, under the circumstances, has me putting my right hand on top of his lifeless one and giving it a gentle squeeze.

That’s when I think I catch one gigantic eye winking behind the coke-bottle glasses, and he says, “There’s a bonnie lass.”

Caroline Taylor’s short stories have appeared in The Chick Lit Review, The Dan River Anthology 2009, The First Line, A Fly in Amber, The Greensilk Journal, Long Story Short, The Oddville Press, Orchard Press Mysteries, Strange Mysteries 2, and Workers Write! Her first novel, What Are Friends For?, is forthcoming from Five Star Mysteries in March 2011. Caroline can be reached via e-mail.

Spring Issue 2010

2010-04-01T23:59:00.003-06:00

Letter from the Editor

Politics & Social Issues: "Lonely Female Soldiers"

Lit by Chicks: "To Margo, My First Grade Classmate in Chicago, 1963-64 – on the election of U.S. President Barack Obama, November 2008"

Lifestyles: "The Marriage Game"

Lit by Chicks: "The Departure"

Letter from the Editor

2010-04-01T22:29:00.004-06:00

Welcome to the Spring Issue of Della Donna! May 2010 will mark our 3 year anniversary. Thank you so much for sticking with us.

This issue contains a powerful true story of one woman's experience with sexual harassment and assault within the armed forces. We also have stories and poems focusing on love, relationships, race relations and more. I sincerely hope you enjoy the talented work in these pages.

In conjunction with this new issue and our 3rd birthday, I am doing a special promotion for Della Donna readers. Simply tweet about this new issue or post about it in your Facebook status and you will be entered in a drawing to win a $50 gift certificate for 302designs, a fabulous clothing label that offers poetic, inspirational t-shirts that are both organic and sweatshop-free. They've got some excellent designs, so I hope you will enter for a chance to win. (If you tweet about us, please mention @aprilbd, and if you post on Facebook, please leave a comment on the Della Donna fan page so you can be counted.)

- April

Politics & Social Issues

2010-04-01T19:54:00.006-06:00

Lonely Female Soldiers

by Marti D. Ribeiro

I wish I could say that my story is unique, but it isn’t. Unfortunately, thousands of other females in the military have had to endure the same thing I did.

People support the troops and worry about their loved one’s encounters with the enemy. For the small percentage of females in the areas of operation, sometimes the enemy eats, sleeps, and works right next to them.

There’s an overwhelming sense that you’re in a “man’s world” when you step off the plane in countries like Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s not just the Muslim laws that keep women at bay; our fellow Americans also give us the feeling that we are inferior. To prove that we’re not, many U.S. females stationed over there have to over-compensate for their skills and abilities. What would be considered an outstanding job stateside is mediocre for a female in the AOR (Area of Operations). Even those of us who are secure in who we are find ourselves going to great strides to try and fit in as “one of the boys.” If you’re able to do so, you’re protected. They will still make jokes at your expense and tease you from time to time, but the imaginary line won’t be crossed – you’re a “little sister” to them.

As a female soldier, you have a personal war going on inside of you. You want to maintain your personality, but it’s not possible. Your survival instincts kick into overdrive and you do whatever it takes to make it through the experience, even if it means losing who you are.

When I was younger someone told me that the Armed Forces don’t train service members to fight for their country, their family or their freedom – they teach them to fight for the person standing next to them. Unfortunately for females, the person they’re supposed to fight for is sometimes just as horrible as the person they’re supposed to be fighting against.

I was active duty for a little over eight years. I was a public affairs specialist, otherwise known as a journalist or combat correspondent. I loved my job, and just like with any job in this world you had the basic stresses of deadlines, grouchy bosses and stringent requirements. Yet as a woman, I had to deal with additional problems on a regular basis. At my first duty location, I had a senior non-commissioned officer harass me on a regular basis. He would constantly quiz me about my sex life, show up at the barracks at odd hours of the night and ask personal questions that no supervisor should ever have the right to ask. I went to my leadership and explained the situation. I was told to write a “memo for record” every time he said or did something that made me feel uncomfortable. I did that. After months of writing everything down, I had a binder full of MFRs and took it straight to senior leadership. Did he get punished? No. He went on to make E-9, which is the highest enlisted rank in the Armed Forces.

I had a few other small instances after that, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. Obviously it wasn’t worth it to say anything. Nobody got punished and it made you look bad in front of senior leadership that you had squealed on a fellow service member.

Fast forward to my first deployment in 2003 – it was my first time away from my family and I was scared to death. Luckily, I wasn’t anywhere near the fighting, but I ended up waging my own war against an enemy dressed in the same uniform I wore.

I had a colonel sexually harass me in ways I’m too embarrassed to explain. I didn’t tell my boss, because I didn’t think it would matter. After this went on for awhile, the colonel tried to talk my boss into letting me go with him to another location to visit his son. He wanted me to write a father-son deployment article. I knew what was going to happen, so I told my boss about the harassment. Did anything happen? Well, sort of. I got removed from his proposed trip, but the colonel never even got a slap on the hand.

I was a hard worker who loved her country and her service, and this is not what I deserved. Yet like so many other females in the military, I put up with it for the good of my family, my beliefs and my country.

Fast forward again to 2006, when I went to Afghanistan. At this point in my career I was a professionally accomplished NCO with years of dealing with sexual harassment under my belt. I decided this time was going to be different. I decided not to let anyone in and not to joke around with those around me. I was going to prove I knew what I was doing and that I was a credible service member doing her part in the war on terror.

I stepped off the plane into my own personal hell. Yes, I was able to put up a wall, but at a price. I’m tall, slender and blonde, commonly referred to as “Combat Barbie.” I stuck out like a sore thumb. I couldn’t go anywhere without being watched by a million eyes. My wall became thicker and thicker. I’m normally a very bubbly person, but that disappeared behind the wall and to this day, I don’t know if I’ve ever really regained that part of my personality.

I had things said to me by co-workers and strangers that should never be said, especially not to a fellow service member. I never felt like I belonged anywhere. I never felt like I was protected or part of the group. I’m sure some of it was the wall I put up, but some of it was the acceptance that harassing a pretty female service member was common practice in the AOR. I was supposed to “deal with it.”

A few months into my deployment, I was directed to pull night guard duty. I never asked for special treatment and made myself do everything my fellow soldiers did, so working all day and then pulling night guard duty wasn’t new.I smoked like a chimney while I was in Afghanistan and this night was no exception. I put my weapon and my radio in the guard shack and walked 20 feet to the closest “smoke deck.” If prior military members are reading this, they’re screaming right about now. You don’t ever leave your weapon anywhere while you’re in a combat zone – especially not while on guard duty. I had a momentarily lapse and let the wall down. I thought I would be okay 20 feet from my weapon.

I was wrong.

After a few drags off my cigarette, I found myself placed in a chokehold and dragged behind some power generators by a male figure much larger than me, but wearing an Armed Forces uniform. I had loud generators on one side of me and the prison holding the Taliban members on the other side. I didn’t have my weapon or my radio. All I had was what little strength was left in my body after struggling to get free while he dragged me to his “spot.”

I’m sure you can imagine what happened then. I tried my hardest to fight him off and actually got a few good kicks in, but it wasn’t enough. He finished his deed and left.

I didn’t know what to do. Do I wake someone up and tell them what just happened? Do I alert the authorities?

I pulled myself together and finished out my guard duty. I did what every CSI and Law & Order program tells you to do – I refrained from taking a shower. After some discreet searching, I thought I ended up in the correct office to report my assault. Yet after about 10 minutes into my story and a million tears, I realized I was in the wrong country to report a rape. I was told that I could report it, but that I needed to understand that I would also be in trouble for dereliction of duty. I left my weapon and my radio in a combat zone – you don’t do that.

I left the office and went back to my tent and showered…the evidence was gone.

I felt ashamed. I let this happen to me because I didn’t have my weapon. But even if I had had it, would I have used it?

I was so embarrassed and ashamed that I couldn’t tell anyone. I was back in the states for more than six months before I started talking about it. I thought if I didn’t talk about it, then it didn’t happen and then maybe, just maybe, I could look back on a shining eight-year active-duty career.

It’s taken years for me to realize that this wasn’t my fault. Yes, I made some bad decisions, but the guilt lies in the predator’s actions. The military has a way of making females believe like they brought this upon themselves. That’s wrong.

If this happened to me and nobody knew about it, I know it’s happening to other females as well. There’s an unwritten code of silence when it comes to sexual harassment in the military. We get annual training about the consequences of sexual harassment, but I know I’m not the only one in the room during those training sessions who zone out because I know from experience that there really aren’t any consequences for those perpetrators. What’s scary is that there’s even an unwritten code of silence between fellow female service members.

It’s not fair that I had to be millions of miles from my family and thrown into a situation in which I could potentially lose my life. It’s not fair that not only did I have to worry about the enemy outside the gates, I had to worry about the enemy inside the gates as well.

What’s even worse is that it’s still going on, and nobody is doing anything about it.

We’re grooming a generation of women who have served honorably, fought bravely and given back to the community. Yet in return, we’re taking their self-esteem and dignity. I don’t know if they ever really get it back.

Marti Ribeiro grew up in a military family, following her father around the globe during his 28 years of active-duty service. She enlisted in the U.S. Air Force in 1998 and became a public affairs specialist, otherwise known as a combat correspondent. She served in both Operation Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom during two deployments overseas. After eight years on active duty, Marti finished her enlistment and went on to pursue a public relations career in the civilian world. Marti finished her undergraduate degree in marketing while in the military and is currently working on her graduate degree. She lives in Oklahoma City with her 8-year-old daughter and fiancé. She is affiliated with the Service Women's Action Network and can be reached via e-mail.

2010-04-01T19:40:00.002-06:00

Peter Red and the Wolf

by Chelsea Greene Lewyta

The artist says, "This drawing is part of a triptych series based on the coming of age stories of Red Riding Hood and Peter and the Wolf. This section features an older Red and the cat from Peter's story. This is the moment their eyes meet Peter's in the first panel (which is being reworked). I'm aiming for a quiet fear, shock, and uncertainty as she's lowering the instrument and the cat is hissing (cats being an erotic symbol). All three pieces are full of foliage, meant to give a hidden, shifting feeling—unsure sexuality, emotions, fears. I use characters from fairy tales that people viewing my work can identify. They are clues. I think about the placement and meaning of everything in my work, and I like to ask the viewer questions. The pieces can be interpreted in many different ways."

Chelsea Greene Lewyta is a freelance illustrator living in New York City. She has participated in gallery shows and exhibitions internationally. Chelsea recently graduated from The Pratt Institute in May 2009 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Communications Design, Emphasis in Illustration. While at Pratt she also studied oil painting, silk screening, lithography, paper and book making. You can find more of her work at her website.

Lit by Chicks

2010-04-01T19:00:00.002-06:00

To Margo, My First Grade Classmate in Chicago, 1963-64
– on the election of U.S. President Barack Obama, November 2008

by Barbara Dreier

The world changed a moment ago
It made me think of you
I wonder where you are
I wonder how you are
I knew you so long ago
When racism was a way of life
When prejudice was a daily habit
When everyone knew
White folks were better than black folks
When we were just little girls going to school

I saw you tormented
I watched in silence
I saw you alone
I was afraid to approach
I understood so little
Except adults were always strong and good:
Surely you deserved your torment
Surely I deserved my privilege
Because you were black and I was white
When we were just little girls going to school

Now we’re grown women, our schoolwork is done
The lessons etched deep in our souls
We know the pain of understanding
We know the sharp knife of unseen evil
We both have scars from the blindness
Only a thin crust covers the wounds
Still sore, and sometimes bleeding
I pray this moment helps you to heal
And makes the world a different place
For all little girls going to school

Barbara Dreier teaches music in the Shoreline School District in Washington State. She lives and writes in Seattle. She thanks the Shoreline Writing Institute and the Puget Sound Writing Project for their guidance, support and inspiration. She lives and writes in Seattle, and can be reached via e-mail.

Lifestyles

2010-04-01T18:42:00.001-06:00

The Marriage Game

by Deirdre Sinnott

If my parents’ relationship was a pool game, my mother was a low ball hit straight and fast into the corner pocket and Dad was a banking ball that rolled from one cushion to the other until it finally slipped behind one of it’s fellows and dropped into place. For two people who barely touched each other in public (we kids were proof of at least three sexual encounters), they were engaged in an intense life-long contest.

We noticed that they weren’t affectionate. So my sister Alison insisted one Christmas that my parents pose for a picture kissing.

“Just take the picture,” said Mom. She was dressed in a long plaid skirt of the same colors as her Scottish Glengarry cap. It hugged her head and sported two ribbons dangling all the way to the middle of her back.

“No,” said Alison, “you’ve got to be kissing.” Dad leaned in and puckered.

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” said Mom, not moving.

“Well,” said Dad, straightening and pulling the sides of his dinner jacket down in hurt irritation.
“Oh, come on,” she said flapping her hands to motion him forward. He obeyed. Their lips met as they stood in front of the Christmas tree. Alison lingered for a minute.

“Take it already,” mumbled Mom, her lips still pressed to Dad’s. Poof went the flash cube and my parents pulled away from each other.

That was the only time I remember seeing them together with even the veneer of affection. I knew that we were no “My Three Sons” kind of family, the kind that were always involved, always engaging in fraught, but funny, situations. Yet I never really grasped how locked together they were or how superfluous we three kids were to the arrangement until I was home from college on a visit and went shopping with Dad.

We stopped by a farm stand. Hanging baskets of flowers, bushels of apples, squashes, plums, and pears decorated the small wooden structure.

“Get some gladiolus for your mother,” Dad told me as he poked through the rest of the store.
Two barrels brimmed with tall spikes of flowers. I chose some purple ones, my favorite color. Carrying the bunch, I found him deep in conversation with one of the farmers about an old car rusting near the barn.

“Not those,” he said as I approached. Disappointed, I returned to the barrel. I chose a neatly tied bouquet of yellow stalks and approached him again, interrupting him in mid-sentence.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said, waving me away.

He had something in mind, but I couldn’t tell what. I stood before the barrel for the third time staring uncertainly into the mass of colors. I grabbed a grouping of different colors, red, purple, yellow, white, and pink. Dad now stood with one food balanced on the bumper by the rusted car, discussing it with the farmer.

He glanced up and saw the mixed up bundle of gladiolus.

“That’s perfect. Your mother hates when I buy the multicolor ones.” He handed me money to pay the cashier. “Keep the change,” he told me when we got back into his car. I looked at his profile and noticed a small smile on his lips.

At home I carried the gladiolus into the house, found a vase and put them in water, carefully arranging so that all the blooms faced out. Mom sat in the library reading a book. When I put the flowers on the end table, she looked up.

“Oh, God. Look at that,” she said, sounding like I just put a pile of moldy cheese on the table. “I swear he knows I hate the mixed bunches, but that’s all he’ll buy.”

“They smell nice,” I said, trying to smooth it all over.

“So does deadly nightshade,” she said and returned to reading.

Suddenly I understood their connection. She pushed, he complained, she grudgingly obliged. He bought a gift with a screw you undertone, she rejected it and he got to feel unappreciated. My parents were cue and ball, chasing each other around, striking and missing, and scattering the rest of us around the table. Sometimes we were the instruments of the game because it was probably more fun to play with several balls on the table. We were not the center of the family, as we had believed. They could get along just fine on their own in an endless game of snooker.

Deirdre Sinnott is a memoirist, essayist, writing coach, and literary critic. She graduated from Syracuse University and lives in New York City. Through her writing Ms. Sinnott reveals the disturbing truths, outrageous behavior, and humbling circumstances that populate her off-kilter life. Her works have appeared in ForeWord Magazine, Blue Collar Holler and Workers.org. You can find more of her work at her website.

2010-04-01T17:28:00.008-06:00

"Thrice"

by Ali Cavanaugh

The artist says, “This work emerged from a painting series of little hands and feet. A two year old girl was the model for this set. She was at my house one day and needed help washing her hands. As I lifted her up and scrubbed her two hands together under the running water, I was drawn into the tinyness of her fingers in my hands. Most toddlers have chubby hands, but this one had skinny little fingers which made them extra special. I glanced at her feet and found the same sweetness. Most of my work portrays an exploration into the depth of contemplation and the mystery of the unseen in human existence, but every once in a while I like to take a break from the heavy emotions that I find in the older female model and work with the lighthearted energy of younger children and animals."

Ali Cavanaugh was born in St. Louis in 1973 and has worked as a professional artist for 15 years. Her compositions are strong and intuitive, thanks not only to being a wife and mother but also to the variations in her experience—such as hearing loss—that made her adapt to and recreate the world around her.

Cavanaugh was awarded the prestigious Presidential Scholarship from the David Wolcott Kendall Foundation, allowing her to study at Parsons School of Design in New York City and Kendall College of Art and Design in Grand Rapids, Michigan. In 1996, she co-founded the New School Academy of Fine Art in Grand Rapids.

Cavanaugh has had solo and group exhibitions in more than 40 galleries, and her art has been featured in publications such as American Artist Watercolor, Watercolor Artist, Southwest Art magazine, Art Calendar magazine, International Artist Magazine, and The Daniel Smith Art Supply Catalogue. Cavanaugh can be reached via e-mail and you can find more of her work at her website.

Lit by Chicks

2010-04-01T05:27:00.003-06:00

The Departure

by Ash Krafton

Margaret Omah heard the flap on the mail slot bang shut. Tucking a graying stand of hair back into place, she turned off the kitchen television. The home show had been a re-run; after a lengthy career as a mother and homemaker, there wasn’t much left to learn, anyway. Turning on the television had simply become part of her daily routine.

She bent to retrieve the mail and shuffled through it. The big envelope had been on the bottom of the stack, saving its news for last.

YOU MAY ALREADY HAVE WON! It proclaimed its message in large stark letters that seemed to leap from the official-looking envelope.

"Didn’t expect that." She sat down in the formal parlor to read the letter. The room was meant for company and wasn’t furnished to be very comfortable. It was lovely, though; she always kept fresh flowers in a beautiful urn, forcing cheer into an otherwise cheerless room. She only came in here when she had to do so.

The letter didn’t reveal much. YOU MAY HAVE WON A MAJOR PRIZE. CALL OUR TOLL-FREE NUMBER FOR VERIFICATION. Now, why would they send a letter if they weren’t going to give details? Looking at the logo for the prize headquarters, she recognized the sender as a popular sweepstakes company. She’d never entered any of their contests and couldn’t understand what they’d want with her.

She dialed the number, and after hesitantly giving her name and making a vague reference to the letter, the low soothing voice of the operator took on a personal tone.

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Omah, of course. You need to make an appointment right away. Mr. Malachi will give you all the details then. No need to worry, this is big news indeed."

"Do--do you--any idea of what the prize is?" Mrs. Omah’s voice was a scant whisper. The pulse in her throat pounded, chopping her breath, fluttering her voice, scattering her concentration. This seemed to be the real deal. Her brain couldn’t catch up.

"I’m afraid I don’t have details, ma’am. I’m sure it will all be explained when you get here."

Mrs. Omah thanked her and hung up.

She spent the rest of the morning staring at the letter, too stunned for tears.

***

Mr. Omah came home for lunch, stepping through the kitchen door and pausing mid-whistle as he noticed the untouched cup of tea beside a letter on the table. The morning dishes still lay in the sink and if lunch was ready, it was hiding.

That’s odd, he thought; in the twenty-seven years he’s worked at the machine shop in town, she’s only once not had lunch ready. That was the day she’d broken her arm; she slipped from a ladder while painting the lattice on the back porch. Even then, it was only one day, as she was quite inventive in working around obstacles. A broken arm was a trifle.

She came out of the bathroom, her eyes tight with apprehension. "You’re home."

He took off his hat and jacket and hung them next to the door. "Sure I am. It’s eleven forty-five, same time I come home everyday. You all right, Madge?"

"I’m fine." Nothing in her voice gave anything away. Her expression was still and porcelain. "I guess I lost track of the time. Let me get your lunch. Sit."

She cleared away the letter and the neglected teacup, wiping the table as he sat down. With a clatter of efficiency, she organized a sandwich and salad, pouring fresh coffee and setting the cup down with the skill and ease of a professional waitress. He always admired the grace with which she moved, even when performing such an automatic task.

Wiping her hands several times on her spotless apron, she pulled out the chair across from him. He looked up in surprise; she didn’t usually sit down during lunch.

"This letter…it came today." She pulled it free of her apron pocket and smoothed it out on the table. "It says I might have won an award."

"Have you, now?" He raised his eyebrows, pushing creases of surprise onto his forehead. "I didn’t think you entered those kinds of lotteries."

"I don’t. I put my name in for the drawing at the grocery store and I’ve tried the big one at the shopping mall once or twice." She shrugged. "Maybe they forwarded my name."

"Could be. What did the letter say?"

"No details, just a phone number. I called already. I have an appointment on Monday."

Monday was an eternal three days away.

***

The sweepstakes offices, which were located in a large metropolis a two-hour drive away, were housed within a tremendous impersonal concrete building. It had a parking garage built right along side, and inside, a full food-court. It seemed to be a miniature world of its own.

Mr. and Mrs. Omah rode the elevator with a group of professional-looking people, who cut off their conversations as they boarded the car. The passengers held clipboards and handheld computers and paid little attention to the bewildered couple, who tried their best to remain apart from this strange world. They were just visiting and would not be staying long.

Once inside the office, a woman in a sanitary white suit whisked the Omahs back to a private room at the back of the suite. Mr. Malachi distributed warm sincere handshakes and expressed his heartfelt congratulations. "You’ve won a grand prize in our giveaway, Mrs. Omah, an extensive trip package for an all-inclusive woman’s getaway. I’m afraid it doesn’t get any better than this."

She stared up at him, mouth working but no sound emerging. "But…"

"I know," he answered for her. "You didn’t enter. Sometimes we get references. Many times it’s random, like picking names out of the phone book. There is no way to tell for sure. The important thing is that you’ve really won. It’s indisputable. We need to make your travel plans right away."

"Don’t I get time to think about it?" The bewilderment had worn off. Mrs. Omah twisted her hands upon her lap, kneading her knuckles, and her voice had developed a brittle edge.

Mr. Malachi smiled with sincere compassion and shook his head. She seemed to think that the prize was optional. They always thought they had options when, in fact, they didn’t. No matter what she chose, she’d be departing on schedule.

"Let’s discuss your itinerary." He flipped open a folder and kindly removed their disillusions.

The ride home was long and quiet.

"I can’t believe you’re taking a trip without me." Mr. Omah kept his eyes on the road. "Will we tell the kids?"

She shook her head, lips pressed into a firm, convinced line. "I’m not going anywhere. I still don’t believe it. There’s got to be a mistake. They’ll figure it out."

"That place seems like a pretty big outfit. Mr. Malachi didn’t seem like a snake oil salesman, giving away phony trips from the back of a carnival wagon. They seem very professional."

"People make mistakes." She reached over to pat his leg. "You’ll see."

***

Mr. Omah took the week off from work. His supervisor was an understanding man who considered Mr. Omah a dependable and good employee. He assured him his wages would continue to be paid under sick leave.

"But she’s not sick. We’re just thinking about getting her ready for a trip. I only wanted some free time."

"I said, don’t worry about it. Sick time is only a label we use in payroll. It doesn’t imply anything."

Mr. Omah still didn’t like the label but pay was pay. He provided their only income. It wouldn’t matter what they called it.

At home, Mrs. Omah seemed irritated about having her husband underfoot. She chased him from room to room as she cleaned furiously, taking cardboard boxes out of the closet and lining them up on the couch and chairs, making it impossible to sit comfortably. Over the course of the week, the kitchen counter became crowded with bottles. By the time supper was over, she was exhausted.

"I think we should shop for luggage," she said one day.

He made no reply. Did he have a choice?

***

After much correspondence with Mr. Malachi, it was forecast that her trip would most likely take place within the following six months. Three, perhaps, depending on the results of her physical exam.

"Three months!" She gasped. "Why, that’s hardly any time! I have to pack, I have to make sure my husband is prepared for my absence…I have--have…"

"I have people to assist you in all these things," Mr. Malachi said gently. "It’s what we do. My staff includes some of the best travel agents in the world. We are very detailed-oriented."

"But the paperwork. The passport, the travel insurance--I don’t know how to do any of this."

"I know."

"No, you don’t!" Her voice rose in anger. "How could you know? Did you ever win a trip like this? I’ve never gone anywhere by myself before."

"Mrs. Omah, you won’t be alone."

"Yes," she said. "When it comes time to leave, I will be all alone." She pushed up to her feet, her side cramping from sitting so long. Sitting in the car, sitting in the waiting room of the office, sitting in front of his desk. She seemed to always be sitting and the pain rarely left her now. "I’m not going."

Mr. Malachi watched her as she paced in front of his desk. "You said yourself you’re tired. You need to rest. This trip will give you rest."

"I don’t care if I’m tired. I’ve been tired before."

"Not like this."

No, not like this. Stubbornly, she insisted. "I can deal with the tiredness. I work a lot. I take care of my family. Who will do it if I don’t? I can’t go away now. My daughter is pregnant. I have to be here to help when the baby comes."

"Margaret, your daughter will be fine. Everyone will be fine. You need to conserve your strength, and prepare for the trip."

"Conserve my strength?" She barked a harsh laugh of derision. "Why? So I can rest?"

Nothing about this trip made any sense. Nothing made sense anymore.

***

The day of departure arrived unexpectedly. Her passage was booked and her travel packet arrived by normal post during the night. She’d expected a ticket but the envelope contained a shiny brass token instead. She couldn’t speak as she held it.

Mr. Omah stood uncomfortably in the parlor. Her new luggage, shiny and blue with a quilted interior, had been packed and waited for their ride. Mr. Omah tried to smile at his wife but she didn’t see it. She looked different, he thought; she'd lost some weight to prepare for the voyage and that shade of blush didn't suit her.

"I’ll see you to the ferry," he said. "You have your token, right? Everything is squared away. The kids are here to see you off. They’ll miss you. I’ll--" He took out his damp handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "You’ll be home soon. I wish…I wish you never won this trip. But I’ll win one too, someday."

It was the last time she'd leave without him. Her departure was the easiest to execute and the most difficult to endure. In the end, despite all the preparation, she left without saying goodbye.

Pushcart Prize nominee Ash Krafton is a speculative fiction writer whose work has appeared in several journals, including Niteblade, 42 Magazine, and Silver Blade. Ms. Krafton resides in the heart of the Pennsylvania coal region and is an active member of Pennwriters, a national writers group. She's co-editor of the Pennwriters Area 6 blog and also maintains her own blog, where you can find more of her writing.

Winter Issue 2009/2010

2009-12-01T12:35:00.002-06:00

Letter from the Editor

2009-12-01T12:00:00.002-06:00

Happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas or Winter Solstice, readers! Here’s hoping that you enjoy your time off from work (if you have it) with family and friends. Whether your traditions consist of gift giving, lighting candles, trimming a tree, shoveling snow or baking cookies (or some combination of these!), we at Della Donna wish you the very best.

This issue features an excerpt on Buddhist practice from a new book called The High Heeled Guide to Enlightenment, as well as a feature on working moms and the kids who love them. We also have some fabulous additions from poets and artists. So sit back with your mug of egg nog or hot chocolate and enjoy!

- April

Lifestyles

2009-12-01T11:38:00.002-06:00

Mommy Writer

by KJ Greenberg

Most kids have moms who work. Some working moms are writers, a percentage of whom even write about their children. For moms, writing about “the kids” is ideal; we already spend the greater portion of our lives focused on our subject matter and our mommy readers find our work to be relevant, interesting, and dynamic.

For the kids, though, being written about can be horrible. According to my offspring, it is no fun knowing that your life is constantly being scrutinized, paraphrased, and, “well rounded at the corners,” just to make your experiences palatable for public consumption.

Even worse for the kids is a writing mom who doesn’t keep them in mind while she is creating. Whereas teens could not care less if their mom’s work has the publication longevity of the average web page, or the social status of the average pamphlet, they do seem to be concerned with whether or not their needs are “taken into consideration” in their mommy’s writing.

In my home, for instance, my adolescents manifest an almost perverse indifference toward the lifespan of my electronic postings and the name power of certain of my print outlets. My kids seem more interested in my jottings for select, short-lived niche sites than in my contributions to big, internationally-recognized distributors. Accordingly, they could not care less about any of the awards attached to my research findings or about the respect attributed to some of my literary achievements.

What my kids want is to rock their socks on my descriptions of their dad’s diaper duties and my paragraphs about their spilled cottage cheese. They are also happy when grooving on accounts of my own adolescent urban adventures, claiming that my “understanding” of their own “remarkable” actions should be enhanced by my reviewing such work.

Meanwhile, because they understand that they are powerless to: protest their mother’s exploitation of their experiences, make me generate more “tales from the crib,” or cause me to become more lenient because I documented, in the public domain, my own teenage capers, my young lawyers have chosen to invest their adolescent angst into critiquing my “voice.” It matters to them that my words are given over in a familiar, compassionate way. Despite the fact that these children parade bravado when confronted with media that I find frightening, they complain about any of my discourse that strays from who they need me to be.

Specifically, my flesh and blood editors yelp when they discover writing that is not, in their minds, child-friendly. The other day, for instance, I showed one of my teens a portion of a dark speculative novel, which I was just getting around to editing. My otherwise tough reviewer, a son who concentrates on take down moves and choke holds in martial arts and who adores reading fantasies robust with marauding armies, gasped at the pages in front of him. It was wrong, in his eyes, for his mother to be turning out graphic descriptions of malevolent human deeds.

He reproached me for my errant ways and reminded me not to overcompensate by writing fluffy stuff centered on the verities of “sweetness and light.” I smiled and nodded; he still is young.

I felt chastened, though. When I returned to my desk, having been thus cautioned, I felt less inclined to work on that particular piece of fiction than on other projects. My child had reified for me that my rationale for writing about my teens is less important, to them, than is my rationale for writing for them.

KJ Hannah Greenberg’s layered narratives have been published/accepted in an eclectic mix of dozens of venues worldwide, including Australia’s Language and Culture Magazine, and Antipodean SF, Israel’s Mishpacha Magazine, The Jerusalem Post, and The Shiur Times, the UK’s Morpheus Tales, The Mother Magazine, and Winamop, and the USA’s AlienSkin Magazine, The American Journal of Semiotics, and The Externalist. KJ Hannah Greenberg is a former National Endowment for the Humanities scholar, the mother of adolescent sons and daughters, and the caretaker of an entire hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs.

2009-12-01T10:48:00.002-06:00

Oh Me, Oh My

by Laura Galbraith

Originally from Miami, Florida, Laura Galbraith's work mixes traditional and digital art, combining the textures of a hand-drawn line with the bright colors and atmosphere of digital work. She is currently creating and conceptualizing artwork in her Brooklyn, New York apartment.

Galbraith is a big fan of color and shape, and uses these two elements as the basis for all of her works. Her drawings often convey a strong emotive power, which are very distinct in each of the lines used to create each work. Her love of graphic design, urban vinyl toys, and Asian Ball-Jointed Dolls, come together in each powerfully expressionistic piece. Each drawing explores the creation of abstract dimensions, combining both 2D and 3D into one reality.

The artist also connects with the female figure in her work. Coming from a family of independent women, she re-creates symbolic struggles relative to these people in her life. These interpretations show both the strengths and weaknesses of women, in different stages of their lives.

You can find more of Laura's work at her website, LauraGalbraith.com.

Lit by Chicks

2009-12-01T10:00:00.001-06:00

The Clinic

by Erin Lynch

Standing there with your holier than thou cardboard posters,
Flashing brighter than a NO VACANCY sign at a dive motel.
With your Psalm Sunday ripped dresses and wine stained teeth
Sitting high upon your pulpit you preach to me
about what I should do.

You love all, just as God wants you to,
But the devil,
Seen on your naked skin,
Under your Sunday best,
In your black as night eyes,
Heard in your shrieking voice,
Says differently.

The burden is mine and no one else’s.
I, just as he, will have to walk down this hard pavement alone.
Your shouting and screaming, in this hot August heat,
Is as heavy as the crosses on your back.

Erin Lynch is a junior at the University of Bridgeport, majoring in creative writing. She is an accomplished, award-winning journalist who has been published in various newspapers throughout the states of Connecticut and Montana. Her poetry has also been published in the University of Bridgeport’s literary magazine, “Groundswell.” Lynch is a writer at heart and a lover of the gritty, dirty and off the beaten path works from those within the “Beat” generation such as Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs and the forgotten Elise Cowen.

Spirituality

2009-12-01T08:04:00.002-06:00

Delusion
Excerpted from the book, The High Heeled Guide to Enlightenment

by Alice Grist

Buddhism is anger management with bells on! Many of us are used to living on an emotional tightrope. Even the calmest people may be covering for a great deal of turmoil that they simply do not outwardly display. Buddha, like any good counselor, wants you to let go of all negative emotions and attachments that are disturbing you and standing in your way to accomplishing inner peace. It may be you are too attached to your material objects, unhealthy relationship or business-like reputation. Your blockage to inner peace may be damaging events from the past that still trouble you, or events yet to happen that may distress you in the future. You may worry unnecessarily, fear the worst or desire new things that you believe will make everything better. Many of us are craving the next thing to make us happy, always believing that things external to us will make the difference. When life does not get better or the façade of material objects breaks down we get sad, angry, frustrated and depressed. Delusion is seen to exclude inner peace. If you allow delusions into your mind, no matter what shape or form they take, you will not experience inner peace and your life will be characterised by negativity and foul emotions. Buddha taught that much of our misery is visited on us by our own mind, and its delusions. Delusion is a Buddhist’s foe, so let’s get to know the enemy so we can see who or what it is we are avoiding….

All human suffering is viewed as coming from a deluded state of mind. This refers to the day-to-day rubbish that we all get mired in. A delusion might be something that you attribute significance to that does not really deserve such a high standing. For example, ‘If I purchase a lipstick in the ‘Pussycat Bows’ shade of red, then Friday night will be perfect,’ or the belief we have all encountered that another piece of cheesecake is definitely, without a doubt, the right way to go.

Delusion informs you that you will be happy when you have your next car, holiday, man, job, kitchen, etc. These material things, however, only make us happy temporarily. An example of this could be the person we fell in love with who one year down the line cannot live up to our expectations, but we blame that person rather than looking at our unrealistic perception of them. It could be our vivid imagination that imagines goodness where there is none, only to be let down time and time again. It rears its head when we mistake lust for love, alcohol for confidence and jealousy for caring.

Delusion is a tricky scoundrel and often we use/abuse our minds to justify our behaviour. In doing so, we mire ourselves down in negativity and immoral actions. We lose our sense of self and our perceptions become warped and unreliable. We suffer a broken heart constantly as nothing makes us as happy as we think we deserve to be. We do not realise that our own feral and abandoned selves cause all of the misery we are suffering. All things that lurk and stagnate around the fringes of our society are likely to result from somebody’s delusions. Greed, intolerance, addiction, prejudice, crime, cruelty and violence can all be attributed to delusions gone crazy. Whatever form it appears in, delusion is ultimately destructive and something that Buddhists aim to purge from their lives.

Before you can fully eliminate these emotions or attachments you have to recognise them, as well as how they specifically affect you or where they might catch you unawares. It may be that a sexy body or delicious ice cream is in your grasp. Your mind might desire these things, and you may feel that you need them, one or both, even simultaneously! In some instances this desire may be harmless, but for the married woman or obese dieter this delusion becomes a form of self-sabotage. To believe that these things will give us the happiness we crave is liable to lead to abstract misery. Delusion is a drug and alas, we are our own dealers!

In today’s world we do tend to look for happiness in other people, objects, possessions and achievements. If someone writes off your brand new car or you catch your boyfriend in bed with the neighbour, it is natural to react badly. A Buddhist temperament would require you to attempt to rise above the hurt, forgive them and offer unconditional love to them and all beings. Realistically, I am sure you can do your forgiving from a distance, and nobody is saying you have to take the womanising scoundrel back!

It is fair to say that Buddha never married Mick Jagger nor did he have his brand new VW Beetle totaled by a drunken idiot. And do not for a second think that if I caught my man in bed with another lady I would not go anything other than completely crazy. Quite frankly, I am not convinced that I will always be able to say no to that last piece of pizza, or refuse to listen to the remarkable gossip about Posh and Becks. However, given a few lifetimes of Buddhist practice, you and I may just about be getting there! If you can control your delusions, you are certainly well on your way to Enlightenment.

Alice Grist is the young and glamorous author of The High Heeled Guide to Enlightenment, a practicing Intuitive Tarot Card Advisor and Reiki Practitioner. She is also a freelance writer whose work has been published in Chic Today, Kindred Spirit and 69 Magazine, amongst others. Alice was recently featured as a 'top psychic' in Fate and Fortune Magazine in relation to her Tarot Reading. She is currently collating ideas and research for her second book. You can find more information at her website, AliceGrist.co.uk.

2009-12-01T08:00:00.004-06:00

Nursing mother, Metsiamanong, Central Kalahari Game Reserve

by Lottie Davis

The artist says, "In 2005 I visited the Bushmen of the Central Kalahari in Botswana, in conjunction with Survival International, a charity which supports tribal peoples in their struggle to hold onto their ancestral way of life. Many people across the world are finding it difficult to determine their own futures in the face of increasing interest from ‘the outside world’, and the Bushmen are just one of these groups. Since these photographs were taken, many of the 250 Bushmen living in the Central Kalahari have been relocated outside the reserve, and although they did eventually win their case against their government and are legally allowed to return to the reserve, only a few have been able to return. The battle against the authorities and the interests of the diamond mining industry continues."

Lottie Davies was born in Guildford, UK and has worked as a professional photographer since 2000. Her unique style has been employed in a variety of contexts, including newspapers, glossy magazines, books and advertising. She has won recognition in numerous awards, including the Association of Photographers’ Awards, the International Color Awards, the Schweppes Photographic Portrait Awards, and the Foto8 Summer Show 2008. Recently she has garnered international acclaim with her image Quints, which won First Prize at the Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait Awards 2008 at the National Portrait Gallery in London.

As a photojournalist, she focuses on lesser-known communities and on ethno-political issues, putting forward a sharply critical view of contemporary Western complacency, with a desire to illuminate the lives of those often overlooked.

You can find more of Lottie's work at her website, LottieDavies.com.

Lit by Chicks

2009-12-01T08:00:00.003-06:00

Barbie's One-Night Stand Cafe

by Kaye Branch

There really wasn’t anything else I could do without making a drastic change. Aside from the money I got from my husband as an allowance, I had no form of independence. Romance novels failed me. The last one I bought was just as vapid as my other ones and it failed to hold my interest for long. The protagonist was a woman who was stuck in a boring secretarial job until a much older man whisked her away, provided her with a fairy tale wedding and a mansion where she lived as a lady of leisure. Soon after, she completely lost interest in him and was beginning to suspect that he also had a deep, dark secret. The secret remained unrevealed through most of the novel because if she probed too deep and they got divorced, she’d have to go back to her old job. Eventually she had an affair with the gardener, a British man with a sexy accent. She was supposedly an “every woman” who’d just happened to marry rich. Before my wedding, I was an “every woman” and I married rich, but the gardeners (who weren’t nearly as sexy as the one in the book) were off-limits. All of the house staff was scared to death of Hal, my husband, and I wasn’t worth the aggravation, especially when there were so many other women.

So, I did something desperate.

Ainsley was the one who told me about it. Since we were married sisters, we were supposed to give advice on recipes and other things as equals. She had to stop being my superior when she married rich. Her entire life had to be about her husband, and she said I was lucky to have Hal because he was such an amazing provider and better than her husband. It went without saying that one day I would have to convince my younger sister, Chloe to stay married. Or maybe she wouldn’t need convincing and once again, I’d be useless. There were three girls in my family, named in alphabetical order. Ainsley and Chloe had family names, but there were no family names that started with the letter “B”. I got Blissany. “I think Barbie would have been more appropriate,” my ex-girlfriend told me, before she disappeared and became independent. “In public, you’re always somebody’s toy.” In private, I had a conversation about paid sex with my sister and then she explained the café. The café had a real name, but we never said it. It was supposed to be a cafe and nothing else.

“Does everyone who goes there realize it?” I asked her.

“Not everyone,” Ainsley said. “Brothels are completely illegal, so they have a front.”

“But it’s not really a brothel.”

“It’s two strangers paying for sex. Just because it’s with each other doesn’t make it any different.”

There were flaws with the front. They had a hostess, unusual considering how many people just dropped by for coffee and pastries. No matter what time you came in, even if it was after the café section had closed, you were confronted by a female hostess, which functioned to throw people off. The café itself was also run by two women, who did most of their advertising through word-of-mouth from one desperate, degraded woman with lots of disposable income to another. The hostess’ main function was to separate people into two groups. She asked what you were coming in for. Anyone who was coming in for sex had to use the word “éclair” because the café didn’t carry them. The reward for that answer was a red wristband and a pamphlet, which she initialed after watching a person read it. Anyone who refused was denied a red wristband. Blue wristbands were much easier to obtain. You’d just say you wanted coffee or something and you were allowed to go in. People with blue wristbands didn’t have to question whether what they were doing was right or even legal. They could also keep to themselves.

Those of us with red wrist bands were up for grabs and made the business plenty of extra money by staying for hours until the right person showed up, because according to the pamphlet, we’d have to buy something or get kicked out. People with red wristbands chatted with each other systematically. No one with a red wristband could refuse to talk to someone else with a red wristband. It was in the pamphlet. You’d get kicked out for that and my sister warned me that there were some incredibly creepy people who walked in the door. But you were safe because there were limits on what we could say to each other and the questions we could ask. We had to disclose our professions, income brackets, sexual orientation and marital status, if asked. Offering reasons for coming was voluntary and confidential. You could not tell the person anything more than your first name, even if it was made up. Condoms were also required. The goal, the pamphlet explained, was to leave no lasting impression.

After entering, I ordered a cup of coffee and sat down on a couch next to the first respectable-looking red wristband I saw. To make sure he was clear on what I wanted, I stretched out my arm.

“Hello,” he said. His tone seemed too formal for what we were about to do.

“Hello,” I said.

“Seeing anyone?”

“I’m married.”

“Me too.”

There was an awkward silence.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked.

“Bike courier. I’ve been here forever. Most women think it’s repulsive to sleep with a guy who makes less than their husbands.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me. I’d have a hard time finding someone who made more than my husband anyway.”

He elicited no response. I was used to getting a response when I told people I married rich.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

I knew I didn’t have to answer the question. But I did. “We’re intimate sporadically and I never enjoy it.”

“Not at all?”

“Not at all. You?”

“My wife,” he sighed. “She came of faith a few years ago. She’s refusing to do it until it’s time to conceive and we can’t afford a kid yet.”

“You want to be a father?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. She doesn’t believe in divorce and there’s no way we’re going to get more money any time soon. And I don’t have to worry about running into her here.”

“What does she do?”

As if in shock, he slammed his coffee mug onto the table in front of us. “Never gotten that one. She ladles soup at a soup kitchen.”

“Gets paid?”

“Barely.”

Ladling soup. I could do that - but it would mean changes and sacrifices.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Pleasure.”

“You sure you don’t want to work the room? I’ve got a hotel room and a girl all set up for tonight. Told my wife I’m fishing with my brother. I can wait.”

I looked at some of the women with red wristbands. None of them were as pretty as my ex-girlfriend and I wouldn’t get a second chance like that, anyway. She left and became independent. She succeeded, proving that I could, but I stayed, getting cheaper for jewelry and designer clothes.

“I’m sure,” I said.

“Let’s get our key,” he said.

The desk for keys was in the back, behind a door with an “employees only” sign. The uninitiated never seemed to notice that there was something off about it. The decoy sign was orange with black lettering, while the real sign was black with orange lettering. Or maybe they just didn’t care. These things happened everywhere and it was safer here because of their hygiene policy.

“Room please,” my three-hour lover said to the woman behind the counter.

“Here are the keys to room fifteen,” she said, resting them on the counter where they remained as she told us a second set of rules in a dry monotone. “You have the room for three hours. If you do not vacate the room in this time frame, security will be alerted immediately and you will be charged with trespassing. You are required to split the room fifty-fifty, no exceptions, and will be under surveillance to make sure our hygiene policy is enforced. We take no responsibility and the chances of you ever seeing each other again are slim.”

“Got it,” he said, forking over his half in cash. With one eye on the entrance, I did likewise.

She gave us the key. “Enjoy,” she said.

He led me up a flight of stairs and unlocked the door to our room.

I noticed the security camera before any other part of the room when I walked in. Again, they were watching me and I was just a toy. The only difference was that this time I was entitled to a certain amount of pleasure.

“First time?” my partner in crime asked.

I nodded.

“Like a virgin. You’ll love it.”

In the next three hours, I loved it sometimes and hated it other times.

***

He left after we returned the key, explaining, like a real boyfriend who could be held accountable, that he had to check into his hotel room by six. I wondered where he found the money. Did his wife see their bank account get drained? She had to believe that prostitution leads to damnation, but she kept the cycle going by keeping herself clean.

I was confronted by the middle class when I re-entered the restaurant portion of the coffee shop. People came just to chat about things like school and work over coffee while I rode the roller coaster of sex with strangers. I heard some women discuss dieting, but they could eat pastries because they weren’t trophy wives.

I walked up to the counter and ordered a scone. The barista gave it to me without comment. Our chef was under orders not to give me any form of dessert or junk food. No one ever taught me how to cook. I couldn’t even boil water.

As I sat down, I took my wristband off to keep anyone from talking to me. Without a wristband, I could get kicked out, but no one said anything. While devouring my first scone in months, I listened in on a conversation a divorced woman was having with a friend. The divorce was so recent that she kept mentioning her ex-husband and musing over whether or not they could have somehow made it work. Otherwise, her life was pretty good and she knew it. She had gotten a promotion at work and was awarded a large settlement in court, although she did not qualify for alimony with her income. She’d also save money because there was no longer any reason for her to help with payments on her husband’s Mercedes. He tricked her into paying by saying it was for both of them and that he bought it to “liven up their marriage,” but her friend thought she was just a compulsive spender.

Even with all that, she dreamed of more money so she could buy more shoes.

“Maybe your next husband will be a billionaire,” her friend said.

The divorced woman was drinking what looked like a latte and a pastry. She’d have to kiss that stuff good-bye to get the shoes she wanted.

I looked down at my feet. My shoes cost close to eight hundred dollars and the divorced woman would go to her grave thinking that she was deprived of something because her ex-husband wouldn’t buy those shoes for her. On his deathbed, he would regret, silently, that he couldn’t provide the shoes for her. They’d never see what they really had.

If I kept going, my regrets would be so much bigger than a pair of shoes.

Kaye Branch lives in Oregon and Massachusetts. Her work has previously been published in The Legendary.

Summer/Fall Issue 2009

2009-09-07T17:00:00.001-05:00

Letter from the Editor

2009-09-07T16:30:00.000-05:00

Dear readers,

First off, I must offer my sincere apologies that this issue is late. It is so late, in fact, that it is now the Summer/Fall Issue rather than simply the Summer one. This could not be avoided as some contributor work fell through, and also because I am traveling quite far from home for several months. I hope you will understand.

The issue is, however, quite spectacular, compiling work from some very talented women. The Summer/Fall Issue offers views on infertility, homesteading, empowerment and compassion, combined with fabulous works of art and literature.

Enjoy,

- April

Politics & Social Issues

2009-09-07T16:00:00.000-05:00

Confetti Love

by Miriam Zoll

At the red light I jumped out of the car into the cold December night. We had been fighting these last few weeks. Quibbling was really the right word. Putting our fingers on the small pulses of our life together and offering polite critiques like rabid political pundits during the presidential season.

This evening Michael was pointing out the negative ways I continued to frame the disappointments of my life. He wanted desperately to have a glass half full but I was still half empty.

“I will not paint a smile on my face where one does not exist,” I told him angrily as I slammed the car door.

It was just turning cold enough to see your own breath and he watched as small puffs of white air trailed behind me like the trail of breadcrumbs Hansel left for the woodcutter. But he decided not to follow me. I turned right at the intersection and he turned left.

I watched him drive away then stood still for a moment in my thin leather jacket, looking up at the tops of tall sugar maples lit by the streetlights.

“What am I doing here?” I wondered. We had been so warm and affectionate that morning and now I was standing alone in the cold in the middle of an unknown town. It was truly like a Star Trek episode where Spock, Bones and the Captain are beamed down to some distant planet that is completely alien to them. All of my physical readings looked normal: I could breathe the air, stand on solid ground, place one foot in front of the other and walk all the way to Timbuktu if I wanted to. But inside, my emotional compass had lost all of its bearings. I was no longer capable of steering my life or his on an even keel. Now here I was, unsure of whether our marriage would make it through to the morning. Over the last few years our love had been shredded like a letter. What we were now experiencing was the confetti of our love -- the little bits and pieces that comprise the whole, the little bits that are so disjointed you can’t really tell where we fit together anymore. In the middle of that intersection I realized I could head north, south, east or west. One path could lead to motherhood. One path could lead to divorce. One path could lead to a life of asceticism, like the gaunt and bony holy homeless of India. Which path would I take?

It took me a few moments to decide but I chose the route he had taken, hoping in my very dramatic way that he would come looking for me so I would not turn into a frozen martyr. After five minutes Michael phoned me and I pretended not to hear. His natural inclination was to make peace, to easily admit his role in a battle. I hated his inbred diplomacy. It never allowed for enough stewing or cold shoulder treatment. He couldn’t bear that kind of thing, and neither could I except that sometimes the anger of a human soul is just what you need to carve out a new space in your own heart, or in the heart of a relationship that has been dragged through the mud. I would apologize, but just not yet. Right now this fire needed to burn.

* * *

We had searched for our Holy Grail for six years and had come up empty handed. We had spent most of our savings and all of our emotional reserves trying to become pregnant through the grace of God and science. Neither approach had worked. Now when he looks at his reflection in the mirror he admits, as he first did after his father died, that he is a genetic dead end. “It stops right here,” he told me one night as his throat closed up in grief. “When we die it will really be the end of the line.” I had just stood in the bathroom doorway watching him. It was impossible to say something like, “Well, look on the bright side. At least we still have each other,” because by that point it was not clear that we did. It was not clear that the love that had once been so palpable to us and the rest of the world was strong enough to survive this gauntlet.

I had spent most of the past winter in bed with a hat pulled down over my eyes to keep the glare of the white landscape to a minimum. We were living in the country then and the open fields and mountains were truly beautiful against the gray skies and purple clouds. But day in and day out the barren terrain overwhelmed me. Winter was the gestation period for spring, the season for hunkering down. I had spent five years hunkering in a state of focused family planning and it had not paid off. I was tired. My womb was empty.

All through January and February he worried about me and I assured him that my bronchitis was the real reason I couldn’t go outside and frolic in the snow. Every morning he invited me to get out of bed and go with him to the café for coffee. Every morning I gently refused. “Please just leave me alone,” I prayed silently as I watched him harness all his confetti love with the hope of resurrecting my shriveled spirit. “Doesn’t he realize that because of me he’ll never be a father?”

Everyone said it wasn’t my fault, of course, and on some level, I knew that they were right. But I was the one who lacked the courage and the faith to believe that I would not relive the abuses of my past or perpetrate them against an innocent. By the time I manifested my own compassionate heart, the overpaid doctors told us it might be too late. It was an expensive game of Russian roulette that we played with the fertility clinic. We had gambled all our faith and money on them because in America we thought that if Mother Nature can’t make you pregnant, the drug companies and the doctors certainly could. People Magazine and articles in the Sunday New York Times reinforced that message weekly and we swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. We bowed down to science as though it were a God.

One time out of six we did get pregnant. One time we experienced the euphoria of impending parenthood, that sense of wonder about the miracle of life. Seven weeks later, that life disintegrated and the depths of despair began to strangle us. It had never dawned on us that our high-tech pregnancy would not last. We had not, until then, understood the difference between the meanings of “lives births” and “pregnancies” in the fertility literature. We learned the hard way that pregnancies were a dime-a-dozen in the fertility business. Lives births were not.

Neither were fertile egg donors. We had chosen two egg donors to work with. One was a lovely blonde-haired girl of 21 who wore a cowgirl hat and looked like Annie Oakley. A month before the procedure a cruel, dull witted clinic nurse told us in a monotone voice that tests had revealed that she was also infertile. Our donor was infertile? How could they advertise and expect a $10K payment for an infertile donor? Turns out there are no laws regulating that industry either. It was a crap shoot with the donors as much as it was with my own eggs. Our second donor came highly recommended until the day the doctor called and told us that of the dozen eggs they had retrieved, none had fertilized in the Petri dish.

“We wouldn’t recommend using this donor again,” he told us. “There is obviously something wrong with her. She should have produced at least two or three dozen eggs given the potent drugs she took. I’m very sorry.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone as we realized that this $50K gamble had really been a house of cards. It had never dawned on us that the donors would not be screened by the agency or the clinic prior to the emotional and dollar price being paid.

* * *

I was beginning to get cold. My t-shirt and thin sweater did nothing to keep the night air from climbing up beneath the waistband of my coat, floating along my belly like the cold fingertips of a lover. Not wanting to risk hypothermia, I finally called Michael on my cell.

“Where are you?” he asked in his I-love-you-why-are-we-fighting-again voice.

“I’m on the road you sped down after I got out of the car.”

“Oh, God. I’m miles away. I turned around right away and drove in the direction I thought you went.”

“Well, when you didn’t pull over I decided I should follow you. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“Nothing makes sense,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

I clicked my phone off feeling badly that I hadn’t the wherewithal to apologize right then and there. I was angry that while our world and our bliss continued to erode Michael was still able to muster a calmness that I could not. I was prickly and mad and couldn’t keep it inside. He was sad and lonely and couldn’t let it out. And so we clashed. He tried to keep my pain at bay by asking me not to talk about it quite so boldly. I reacted to his censorship as though it was the Politburo clamping down on my right to free speech.

I was tired of feeling pressured to bounce back to the way life was before fertility treatments. Never in my life did I feel so unable to bounce back. I was like a tennis ball that had lost its air. Once I hit the ground I just sat there like a fat sphere of felt. It isn’t so much the absence of a child that hurts me. I know I will become a mother through adoption and I know I will love that child. It is the absence of my old optimism and faith that hurts me. I now look at the world with a lens of skepticism that did not exist before.

The phone rang again. I was shivering when I answered.

“Where are you?” he asked, almost in tears. “I can’t find you. I’ve driven up and down the street.”

“I’m on the right side of the road, near a white wooden church gleaming bright, bright white in the moonlight.”

“Stop walking,” Michael said. “Stay still. I’ll drive back that way again. Didn’t you see me before?”

“No,” I said dreamily. “I didn’t. But I’ll wait right here.”

I couldn’t move then, not just because Michael asked me not to but because I realized how much I loved him, even though there were days recently when I didn’t recognize him. In the process of becoming Fertility Refugees we had both shed skins and donned new colors and our constant quibbling was the give and take of our new learning curves with each other. I instinctively know that we have reached a crucial point in our marriage: we are standing at an evolutionary crossroad. There are so many options and while I stood there waiting for him I couldn’t help but think about hiding in the bushes so that when he did drive by he would not see. I could just disappear. I could vanish in a flash and hitchhike out to New Mexico and camp in the desert. I could join a commune and smoke pot every day and forget about miscarriages and the scars they leave behind.

These are options that I know really aren’t options. They are illusions. But what isn’t an illusion? You create your own reality. Wasn’t that Michael’s point to begin with? “Make your life good again,” was what he was trying to say to me when I decided to jump out of the car. It’s just that he said it with such frustrated irritation I couldn’t hear it. I heard that I wasn’t good enough; I heard that I wasn’t trying. Didn’t he know that getting through the day with a half smile on my face was hard enough at the moment? I wanted to be patted on the back for my miniscule efforts to function, not reprimanded for not having reached the summit in six hours. I was in that tricky no-man's-land of wanting to be left alone and simultaneously smothered with love. I needed Michael’s enthusiasm for life at the same time I tried to smear it, like an artist smearing reds and yellows to make a sun. I needed his joy in my veins. I needed the heat of his cheek on mine. I needed his eyes so that I could see and understand his view of a world still filled with optimism and goodness.

Finally I took out my phone and dialed his number.

“Where are you now?” I asked. My voice had softened.

“I see the church steeple,” Michael said. “I’m almost there.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I know. Me too.”

“I love you.”

“I see you.”

Author Miriam Zoll spent six years trying various reproductive technologies to build her family. She is currently waiting to adopt a child from within the United States. Specializing in reproductive and public health policy, Miriam has worked for such institutions as the United Nations and the Planned Parenthood Federation of America. She is a member of the board of Our Bodies Ourselves. Miriam can be reached via e-mail or her website, MiriamZoll.net.

2009-09-07T15:30:00.000-05:00

Nyanda BP Portrait Awards 2004

by Helen Masacz

Helen Masacz is a painter from London with a growing reputation, having been selected for exhibition in the BP Award at the National Portrait Gallery in 2004. In 2005, Helen was asked by the National Portrait Gallery to contribute work for their 150th anniversary exhibition. Helen works to commission and has lately been compiling a body of work (Transition) for exhibition in 2009. She concerns herself with the issues of transition; from childhood to adulthood, from the changes in relationships over a lifetime and to the meaning that the passage of time imprints on all our lives. You can find more of her work at her website, HelenMasacz.com.

Lit by Chicks

2009-09-07T15:00:00.000-05:00

The New Age

by Stacy Lynn Mar

The ladies dorm in 2003
Underwent quite an enlightening,
Pretty girls in chic pink,
Fancy in their posh jeans,
Would loiter the campus café,
Cigarettes dripping ash,
Quick to their clean cars
After class, never remembering
Equations of college algebra,
Reminiscing the store-racks
At Goodies and the discounts at Macy's,
Scruples for designer everything.

Then there were the girls like me,
Fast to jump the quickest cab,
Left side of the street, bookstore please.
Suburban emblems of the great mind
Hidden behind a silk curtain veil
Of hair, mouse brown, blue eyes.
We were the dream machines of fine poetry,
Literati growing beneath our fingernails,
The eccentrics of the hallway,
Up-scaled editions of the new English Lit,
Writing lab tutor, literary critic,
Dreaming, reading, editing, believing.

We painted the pink of their lips,
Phantoms beneath the bookcase,
The modern Van Goghs and Mozarts
Swimming a campus of ‘plain Jane,’
Swatting the lone stare of lust
Like a fly, we needn’t an elbow
Of guidance to the aisle of doom,
To the sacrificial embrace of matrimony.
We were the Anne Sextons of society,
The spinning orbit of feminism meets
The call of a new-age campus democracy.

We were more than storefronts
And modern mannequins on display,
Glitzy girls in pearl earrings,
The epitome of easy, a good time, perchance.
Rather, we were pizza boxes and late nights,
The breath of life in café mundane,
We were the modern day feminist lib,
An applause, tip of the martini glass
To all the unheard voices of the xx sex,
Poetry readings at afternoon brunch,
Backstage drama after the play,
Arms linking a wall against the mainstream,
Uninhibited, undaunted, brave, unshaken
Against the un-intellectually-bred dawning
Of our often un-modern civilization.

Stacy Lynn Mar is a twenty-something graduate school student who writes confessional and feminist poetry. She has been published in e-zines and journals across the web, including All Things Girl, Mastodon Dentist, and The Beat, to name a few. She has one book in publication, Anonymous Confessions, and currently has two more books in the production process, one of which will be published from JTT Publishing and the other from Leaf Garden Press. Stacy is also the editor-in-chief of the online magazine Muse Cafe Quarterly. You can visit Stacy and submit your work to her at her website, StacyLynnMar.com. She can also be reached via e-mail.

Spirituality

2009-09-07T14:30:00.000-05:00

Mirror Instinct Technique
excerpted from the book, Choose Power

by Pammyla Brooks

This technique can help you to rise above a situation or conflict, and also to figure out why you are having difficulty with a certain person.

We tend to attract people that mirror us so that we can learn about ourselves. Although it is often hard to be objective about ourselves, we can usually be objective about other people and see them more critically. That is why other people’s faults appear very obvious to us, and we often have blind spots about our own faults.

Here is how the Mirror Instinct Technique works: if I have a specific criticism of someone else, it is because I have the same criticism about myself. If I stop and ask myself how this criticism applies to me, sometimes, it is like a curtain being pulled back and I can see it from a completely new perspective.

For example, I have been secretly amused when I have witnessed disagreements between people, and Person A is accusing Person B of something that Person A does frequently. Of course I can see it, because it is not my blind spot. Although I can see other people’s blind spots, I cannot see it when I am accusing someone else of doing something that I also do.

Here is a great visual explanation. Perhaps you have heard the saying, “When you point a finger at someone, there are three fingers pointing back at you.”

Test it out right now. Look at your hand when you point at someone as if you are scolding him or her. Notice the other three fingers are curled back towards you.

Tone of Voice Example

Here is an example of how I used this. One of my biggest issues with a former supervisor was the tone of voice she used with me. It really bothered me. I would describe it to others that she talked to me like I was a dog.

Her tone of voice seemed to imply that she was frustrated with me, that I was stupid to be saying what I was saying, or asking what I was asking. It felt like I was bothering her when she could be doing something else that was more interesting or more important.

One day, out of the blue, I got off the phone with a customer service representative who I considered to be inept and inefficient. That night, I kept thinking about the conversation and hearing bits of it played back in my head. I was left with a really bad feeling about the experience. In fact, every time I thought about it, the bad feeling returned. I slowly realized why that conversation bothered me: my tone of voice. It felt as if someone else had used it with me, instead of me using it with someone else.

This was the insight that I needed. Just like my complaints about my supervisor, I realized that sometimes I use a tone of voice on the phone when I am feeling impatient, or like I am wasting my time when I could be doing something more important. (Notice how this is all repeated from above.)

This revelation is an example of how to use the Mirror Instinct Technique to work for us instead of against us. I experience someone else’s behavior as an issue or a “pet peeve” and when I dig deeply, I discover how I do the same thing, and how it secretly bothers me.

Because of this tremendous insight and link back to my own behavior, I am more conscious about the tone of voice that I use. It has also helped me in several other interpersonal situations. Finding out the truth set me free.

Technique – Mirror Instinct or “Pet Peeve” Technique

Purpose: To get to the root of understanding why someone else’s behavior bothers us.

This technique requires some inner work. Pick a time when you know that you will not be disturbed so that you can get to the core and the truth for yourself.

1) Find a quiet place and get into a relaxed state.

2) Think about a pet peeve. Write down what bothers you the most about it. Use these questions to help prompt your mind.

Describe the pet peeve in as much detail as you can. What is your experience of it?
Use sensory terms. What does it look like, sound like, feel like, smell like, taste like?
What bothers you the most about it?
Does it bother you in all situations or only during specific times?
Does it ever NOT bother you? If so, when?

3) After you are done, remain in your quiet space and ask yourself the following questions.:

Has someone else ever said the same thing about me?
How can this criticism also apply to me?

The answer might come to you immediately or it might not. If no answer appears, then send out an intention such as, “I want to find out why this bothers me so much so that I can be free of it.” Hold the intention in the back of your mind over the next week. An insight might occur to you. You might see a movie or something else might happen that reveals the answer. Perhaps someone may make a comment that shows how the situation can be applied to you.

Once you discover the answer, forgive yourself for the behavior. Then, congratulate yourself!

When we know how a pet peeve applies to us, it no longer has power over us. Perhaps we are more forgiving about it now, so it bothers us less to notice it in other people. It is as if our blind spot used to have unconscious control over us, and now we are free.

Pammyla Brooks has a BA in Psychology and an MS in Clinical and Health Psychology. She is a Certified Toastmaster (CTM) and is certified in Neuro-Linguistic Programming (NLP). She has taught and consulted for over a decade for the University of Texas at Austin, DeVry University, Dell Computers, Dell Financial Services, the Texas Comptroller’s Office and more. In her book, Choose Power: Tools and Techniques for Home and Work, she gathers Power Principles from a variety of traditions, and then clearly explains and applies them to everyday life. Step-by-step exercises are included that can be practiced today and used tomorrow. Visit Pammyla's website, Pammyla.com, for more information. You can also reach Pammyla via e-mail, Facebook or Twitter.

2009-09-07T14:00:00.000-05:00

Shelby

by Mercedes Helnwein

Mercedes Helnwein is an artist and writer who was born in Vienna, Austria. Daughter to celebrated artist Gottfried Helnwein, Mercedes spent her teen years in Ireland, recently adding Los Angeles as a second home. Her detailed drawings have been described by the press as "photo-realistic delicacies," "lucid fairy-tales," "haunting," "southern Gothic," "evocative" and "unexpected." Her self-portraits have been compared to Cindy Sherman and her sense of quiet drama to Alfred Hitchcock and Edgar Allen Poe. Helnwein's debut novel, The Potential Hazards of Hester Day, was published by Simon & Schuster in 2008. You can find more of her work at her website, MercedesHelnwein.com, and on MySpace.

Lifestyles

2009-09-07T13:30:00.000-05:00

The Little Voice

by Dori Mondon

It’s time to stop.

Some call it a Saturn Return. It has also been called a “mid-twenties crisis,” angst, depression, and over-privilege. Looking back, I also realize it was simply the loud, loud yell of the universe.

In my late teens, I fell into the rave scene. I dreamed of driving west to join all the cyber-visionaries in San Francisco. Though I really wasn’t clear as to what I’d do after that, what I did know is that the suburbs of Atlanta were doing me no good. It was time to go.

I went, but I landed in New York. In my early twenties, the city was everything I hoped it would be – vibrant, huge, crazy, weird, hectic, sexy, dirty, fashionable and intense. It was a place where the energy I possessed matched up perfectly with the energy required to be there.

By age 28, however, my candle ends were getting close. Doctors offered pills but I declined. I knew exactly what was going on. I was living in a Brooklyn loft with a beautiful view of the city, a sophisticated and funky lifestyle and a serious partner. I’d apparently arrived, but underneath it all, I was unhappy. It was time to go. Just to make sure I didn’t ignore the message, my cat fell off our 9th story window ledge to his death, breaking my heart while simultaneously relieving me from the one real responsibility I had.

Around that time I met an artist from Portland, Oregon. She attempted to convince me that I should move there. For an East Coast kid like me, this was unfathomable. There was nothing in Oregon but trees and rain. Surely, people did not live there.

Still, she planted a seed. “I have to go,” I told my partner. As I suspected, he had no plans to leave.

“Where are you going to go?” he asked me, and I heard a little voice answer, “Portland.”

I learned, then, what happens when you listen to the universe. Things fell into place: a high-paying, short-term freelance gig. The perfect person to take over my lease. An airline with a special.

I bought a one-way ticket. After three months I lost my job and collected unemployment, launching into a campaign of personal growth and education. Over those six months I discovered how wonderful it was to fully express the person I was becoming.

At the end of the year, however, I heard a familiar little whisper. Ah, yes.

“It’s time to go.”

I was 33 when I tore myself away from a community I’d grown to love immensely and headed off to Mexico. Though I ran out of money after three months, I had no intention of going home (and no clear idea where “home” was, anyway). Eventually, and with the assistance of my family, I ventured into ownership of a small backpacker hostel in Guatemala, but this was not home, either. I’d been at it a year when there it was again, my little friend.

“It’s time to go.”

With the sale of the hostel I bought myself a plane ticket “home” – to mother’s. At 34, I moved into her finished basement for some time to rest and think in English again until work appeared in California.

I bought a car, the first I’d owned in over a decade, and headed west, passing through New Mexico on the way. True to its title as the Land of Enchantment, I cried when I left, and when my friend Michael, following a couple of weeks behind me on motorcycle, arrived, it took him a month and a half to break away.

“I think I’m going to go back there after this,” he told me one afternoon while we sat and smoked in the fall California sunshine. He wanted to set up a “home base” that we could use between travels – somewhere to come back to.

By the time we got back to New Mexico, Michael and I had become lovers and our shared dream of a patch of land with a structure on it had turned into visions of organic food, sustainability and permaculture, yoga and meditation practice and a relationship defined, mostly, by giving each other wide open space to be.

Within three days we found our spot – three acres, a river, fertile soil and a little adobe house, invisible from the nearest road. It was everything we needed at a price I couldn’t even rent a bedroom for back in a Brooklyn ghetto.

We moved into our house on January 1, 2009. A week later we got our first dog, a rescue whose poster I’d seen in town. By March, we’d started food plots and added fifteen chickens and two ducks. A week ago, we added another dog to the mix – another poster I’d spotted in town.

These days I wake up with purpose. I snuggle my lover, kiss the dogs and do yoga on the deck while I look out over the foothills of the Black Range. I feed the birds, collect the eggs and grow flowers, food and herbs. I have the time and space for creativity and reflection. We don’t have any money but we’re not poor, by any means. We make our own toothpaste, grow our own food, find creative ways to entertain ourselves. We are mostly oblivious to media saturation and don’t read the news or fill our heads with the insanity of the human condition. Mine is now a simple life - there is, at this point, very little that I can do to help the world and its gazillions of problems, except to pray. Except to wake up and thank the forces that be that my eyes are open for another day. Except to be the change I want to see, and do the thing I can do to change the world.

Now that it’s quiet, I hear that little voice all the time now. It keeps saying the same thing. It’s time to stop. You’re here.

As you've probably figured out, Dori Mondon homesteads (the ultimate in DIY!) in a beautiful river valley just outside the Gila National Forest with a partner, a couple of mutts, a bunch of birds and lots and lots of plants, promoting organic farming, sustainability and permaculture. When she's not trying to stumble her way through the daily operations of a small farm, she can generally be found writing, knitting, hiking with the dogs, making the toothpaste or pretzeling herself into strange positions on the deck. She reads her work regularly in Silver City, New Mexico and is working on her first book, a memoir she hopes will inspire others to find happiness, live dreams and seek out sustainable, simple ways of being. You can read more of Dori's work at her blog, Squeezing Time, and she can be reached via e-mail.

Lit by Chicks

2009-09-07T13:00:00.000-05:00

A Thought Before Suicide

by Kimberly Thompson

In the depths of my mind
I am screaming for freedom
as if caught in a dream
from which there is no
escape...
The burdens are upon me
like a plague.
It came like a thief in
the night and has stolen
my soul...I am weeping
Help me! I'm trapped like
a claustrophobic stuck in
an elevator and I can't breathe.
I am frozen in the coldness of
the night with no one to keep
me warm, no one to save me
from my own thoughts
I am going insane!

I jump...

Kimberly Thompson is a single mother of a 4 year old boy who has been writing poetry since her early teens. She finds that it is very therapeutic, as well as an enjoyable escape. Writing was something that she fell into even before becoming the avid reader that she is today. You can read more of her work at her poetry blog.

Spring Issue 2009

2009-05-02T23:50:00.002-05:00

Letter from the Editor

2009-05-02T23:45:00.003-05:00

Hello everyone,

Welcome to the Spring issue of Della Donna. I have to admit, I am very excited about this one. Excellent articles, poems and pieces of artwork lend themselves to a fabulous issue. Not only that, but Susan Campbell, an author whose work I was recently introduced to and really admire, accepted an interview with us. She is a fascinating (and funny!) woman and I am sure you will enjoy getting to know her.

We also have a new addition to the 'zine - our brand new "Share This" button! You can find it at the bottom of every post, and it allows you to share your favorite pieces with others through Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, or the social networking tool of your choice. I hope that if you read something worthwhile, you will consider sharing it.

Thanks again for your support and loyalty,

- April

Interview with a Fabulous Female

2009-05-02T23:40:00.003-05:00

Susan Campbell is an award-winning columnist at the Hartford Courant, where her work has been recognized by the National Women's Political Caucus, New England Associated Press News Executives, the Society for Professional Journalists, the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, and the Sunday Magazine Editors Association. She is also the author of Dating Jesus: A Story of Fundamentalism, Feminism and the American Girl. Susan was kind enough to take the time to discuss her work, her faith and her outlook with Della Donna editor April Boland.

--

AB: What prompted you to write Dating Jesus?

SC: I was moved to write Dating Jesus on several fronts, not the least of which I felt like I'd been arm-wrestling with God for decades, and She kept winning. I had this mad scriptural memorization thing going, but couldn't tell you the context of all the verses I knew. I felt and feel like religion is an important motivator for some (for good or ill) and decided I needed to figure out my own theology and how it motivates me. That's my spiritual motivation, I guess. My temporal motivation was I was in a writing group and hadn't taken anything to read in weeks and weeks, so one night before my writers' group met the next day, I whipped off a three-page essay on my baptism, and the other members of the group were so encouraging, I kept writing.

AB: Your memoir is controversial because it criticizes a certain Christian paradigm. What has the general reaction been?

SC: I have to say it's been pretty gracious. I have heard from people who've left the church and people who are still in there, and I think of those who contact me, many of them do see the need to shift our attention from the rule and letter of the law to the spirit of it. As for people who might adamantly disagree with me and send me to hell over it, I really haven't heard from them. Maybe they've given me up for lost. Or maybe they know I was raised and trained as they were raised and trained, and I will stay in an argument on just about any topic until I'm dead. As my brother said, we argue thus: Hit 'em early, hit 'em hard and leave 'em to bleed out on the floor. That's not very Christ-like but then, neither am I.

AB: Do you have any advice for other women who struggle within a patriarchal religion?

SC: I would advise anyone (man or woman) in a patriarchal religion to really stop and listen to that still small voice, the one that pokes at them when they hear something they know is wrong. We know how women suffer in a patriarchal religion, but men suffer too, because their spiritual training sets them up to think life's going to treat them a particular way simply because of their genitalia, and the world really isn't like that. What a disappointment that must be to reach an age in a secular world and realize your genitalia can only get you so far. I'm not even being snotty here. God didn't make a segregated world. We all benefit from sharing the weight and the pleasure of an egalitarian one.

AB: How has your faith background played into your career as a journalist?

SC: My religion was excellent training ground for my work as a journalist. It taught me to look at things for reasons, for motivation. It taught me as an outsider (and a fundamentalist is definitely an outsider in the real world) to view people different from myself with a little bit of compassion. It doesn't work that way for everyone, but it did for me, and I shall be forever grateful.

AB: Do you believe there is such a thing as Christian feminism? What does it look like to you?

SC: Though there are plenty of people who disagree with me, I do think there is such a thing as Christian feminism. I believe it's called "Christianity," the real kind, the kind found in the Bible and created by Jesus. Jesus never intended there to be second-class citizens, not based on gender or sexual orientation or anything else.

AB: What are you currently working on?

SC: I'm currently working on putting off starting my second book, and I am quite skilled at that - turns out I'm better at that than I am at writing. But it's on my list of things to do, I promise.

AB: Who are your writing influences?

SC: I have a lot of writing influences, and wouldn't want to leave anyone out, but I am heavily influenced by the classic novels I read growing up (like Little Women) because the stories in there are so finely told. I am not comparing my work to Louisa May Alcott's, but she's a fabulous storyteller.

AB: Do you have a favorite quote that sums up your philosophy on life?

SC: My favorite quote is from Philippians 4:13: "I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me." Corny, but there you are. It's that or "Bite me." I like that one, too. Did I mention I'm not terribly Christ-like? But I know a lot of scriptures.

Politics & Social Issues

2009-05-02T23:30:00.002-05:00

What Does it Really Take to Make Someone Happy?

by EJH

A few weeks ago, I was driving around town running some errands. In my city, we seem to have an excessive number of panhandlers, or at least more than I’ve witnessed living in other cities. Sometimes it feels like they are at every street corner. So while driving, I spotted a woman on the corner at a stoplight. She was fairly young – perhaps in her early 40’s – and she had a crutch. She was wearing old jeans and a few layers of shirts, and her hair was pulled back. As I approached the red light, she was directly to my left holding a sign. I thought for a few moments and quickly realized I had no cash, so I rolled down my window and asked her how she was doing. I explained that I didn’t have any cash on me but asked if she might like something to eat.
Her face lit up. I asked her what she wanted, and she looked around for a moment before letting me know that I could just go to the Church’s Fried Chicken restaurant across the street. I asked her what she would like to eat – I’m not going to spend money on food for someone unless it’s what they really want to eat – and she said anything as long as the chicken was not spicy. I zipped over to Church’s, got some random combo meal and walked it over to her.

I was expecting sort of a quick exchange, yet I was amazed by how truly thankful she was. You could see it in her face – her whole demeanor and expression changed. When she saw I had also purchased her a drink with the combo, she exclaimed, “Oh! I was praying you’d get me a drink. Oh I’m so glad!” I had never seen someone so happy to get a medium-sized Pepsi in my life. She thanked me again and we parted ways.

The entire bill for her combo meal came to $6.27. I was overwhelmed by how very little it had taken to make someone so happy. It’s so easy these days not to be satisfied. Our minds tend to latch on to what we don’t have or wish we had. God knows, I spend a lot of time wallowing in negative thought myself, which is probably why it was so surprising to me to witness firsthand how a $6 buck combo meal could totally make someone’s day. I was jealous in many ways because it had been a while since something so simple had made me so happy.

As a social worker, I am often amazed at the sheer cruelty of others. In my experience, most of this cruelty is what I once heard referred to as “accidental cruelty” – in other words, people don’t intentionally mean to hurt or mistreat others. They act out of their own needs and let the chips fall where they may. I believe that accidental cruelty can also occur out of ignorance and misunderstandings about situations. I have experienced a lot of accidental cruelty displayed to panhandlers and it is something I’ve never gotten used to. I don’t want to get used to it.

A lot of people might think I was foolish to give that woman a meal. I’m wasting my money, she should really get a job, she’s being lazy – if she just tried hard enough she could get it together. I wonder if the people who say that have ever been unemployed or disabled. I have also heard people theorize that panhandlers aren’t really in need, but that they secretly have apartments and cars. I wonder if these people realize that you can have enough money to pay for rent but not enough for food or that people sleep in the cars they own because they can’t afford a place to live. I wonder if they know what’s like to live on a job that pays $6 an hour and offers no benefits. Maybe this woman did have an apartment and a job, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need help. It doesn’t mean she has enough to pay for rent and bills and food and medical care. I barely have enough to cover all that and I have a Master’s degree and work at a good job.

The most common complaint I hear is that all panhandlers are actually addicts. This could be true, though I doubt literally every homeless person has a drug issue. My opinion has always been, who the hell cares? Drug addicts need to eat too. I understand that they could use my money for drugs, but they could also be using it to buy their kids something to eat. Throwing around the phrase, “They’re all just a bunch of addicts,” enables people who think they have it together to emotionally distance themselves from those in need. What you’re really saying when you label a panhandler as “just an addict” is, “I am better than this person because I am not an addict. They deserve to be where they are because they use drugs/alcohol.” Maybe I’m just a silly 'kumbaya' social worker, but I believe that no one deserves to be without basic needs.

I don’t kid myself. I know that my actions do nothing to resolve the obvious serious and long term issues these folks are facing. I know that the woman I bought the chicken for was probably back panhandling within minutes of finishing her meal. For long term change to happen, I would need to consistently give money to organizations that help the homeless, vote for political candidates who are willing to pass laws and bills that support social service programs, and volunteer more of my time on an ongoing basis. But in the moment when something simple is needed, stepping up and saying, “Sure, I’ll help with that,” does make a difference. I have always felt that small changes lead to big changes.

In my opinion, a large part of life is living within a community. These panhandlers are my neighbors, and isn’t it really our duty to help folks out when they need it? Haven't there been times when all of us have needed help? The only difference is that some of us have parents, siblings, friends or spouses who will lend us a few bucks when we’re short or give us a ride when our car is broken down, and others do not. What would we do if we didn’t have those people? What might any of us be forced to do if our need was desperate enough?

EJH has been writing poetry since she was 12 years old. She is originally from the Northeast but has lived in Austin, Texas for 7 years. She currently works as a licensed social worker for a large non-profit organization. You can find more of her poetry at her blog.

2009-05-02T23:00:00.001-05:00

Untitled, from the Night Series

by Elise Rasmussen

The artist says, "The Night Series presents photographs of deep night where images of plant life are caught in the glare of brilliant lights. The work infers psychological states such as vulnerability and isolation."

Elise Rasmussen received her BFA from Ryerson University in 2004 and her MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2007. She has exhibited her work in galleries in North America and Europe and will be traveling to Newfoundland this fall to work as an artist-in-residence at the Pouch Cove Foundation. She currently resides in Brooklyn, NY. You can find more of her work at her website, EliseRasmussen.com.

Lit by Chicks

2009-05-02T22:30:00.004-05:00

Where I Am From

by Mary Moss

I am from newspaper women
and farmer's wives
spines of steel
wisdom beyond imagining
no dreams of fame and fortune
just ordinary lives

I am from hard work and ancient wounds
never forgotten nor spoken of
nor exposed to light of day
survival of the fittest
overcoming struggle
manifesting deep love

I am from the ocean and the sand
eternal horizon expanding
waves crash and roar
undertow pulls and releases
shells and skeletons from the deep
a million grains of understanding

I am from ancient earth mothers
sisters of magic and mystery
creators of hope and beauty
vessels of future dreams
dutifully bearing children
changing the course of history

I am from spirit and flesh and bone
made to wonder "why?"
seeking ever after truth
needing only the next question
asking always for the answer
looking ever to God in the sky

I am from the earth and sky
thriving where nothing should grow
dirt and clouds, sun and rain
blooming where I'm planted
desiring only air and water
sometimes reaping more than I sow

I am from woman and man
destiny, desire and chance
created in an image and likeness
struggling to be different
resigned to be who I am
rising above my circumstance

I am from saints and angels
wings of gossamer and gold
seen from the corner of my eye
whispers and quiet breezes
in my head and on my skin
heavenly secrets in dreams unfold

I am from the eternal source of life
created for a purpose and a reason
perfectly and divinely designed
journeying toward heaven
offering up my future and my past
each twist and turn in time and season

Mary Moss is called to create opportunities where people can experience how their stories interconnect with God's story. She lives this out through writing, speaking and storytelling. Mary is a columnist at Take Root and Write and a regular contributor to numerous online journals. She is the author of Woman At The Well, her first book of poetry and devotionals, and maintains three blogs. You can find Mary's work at her website, Divinely Designed.

Lifestyles

2009-05-02T22:00:00.001-05:00

Amidst Recession, Dream

by Nicole Molino

There is a roller coaster ahead of us. Collectively, we take this ride together. I've been in preparations all my life. This moment here, right now. It's like nothing I ever imagined yet somehow I expected because I know the truth. Thus, I have a utility belt of sorts. The most important is my family. Through them my dreams are coming true. Dreams that naturally, progressively fine tune. An orchestration of movement and sounds. I have found solace in the peaceful quiet. And yet I am now keenly aware that communication is key. All the math problems I pushed myself to work have my brain wired for this. There are so many ways for my mind to be influenced. My trust to be gained and too often broken. There are no tears left to cry. Just the drive to keep going and the exhaustion to recharge.

I made a chart tonight. The painting was on the back side of last month's calendar; we keep green in this house like some keep kosher. I am in track mode currently. Tracking my childrens' behavior. Let me backtrack--my neighbor and I were discussing the kids as we drove home, her from work, I from shopping. The little boys are both still toddlers whom are fast paced towards pre-k. They are so well behaved and even better together! They keep each other busy and I can actually get things done. The older too-smart-for-their-own-good pre-pre-teens are quite the characters. I mentioned how I have done charts with my boys for rewards and works in progress. But life happens and these charts go without from time to time. The boys are flourishing and mama's gotta prepare them to be great men. So, there's always a lot of talking going on. So much information to process, so little time. I accept and embrace my role with every fiber of my being. This is a dream come true! I remember the old days of carrying around a baby that was so realistic that everyone must have thought I was such a good mommy. I communicate with myself on the things I want in life, the things I need to change. So, the chart lists Good Manners, to which I gave each boy a smiley face to start. Below the boys names I dedicated a spot to list Mom's specials. These will be the rewards the boys will work towards--the good things in life. I then melted into the moment of sharing a meal and collectively painting "a masterpiece" my three year old captioned. That's when I walked over to the chart and added Patience and below the boys I wrote Mom. Tracking my own.

My sons deserve a patient mom. I sometimes figured if I asked for patience, God would test it, thus increasing my threshold for pain. So I stopped asking for it. It is my challenge.

Dear Husfriend and I dialogue often. This did not come easily. There have been many growing pains to endure. The conversations are more fluid now. Being surrounded by testosterone all day has given me courage to speak my mind. I am my only advocate. I am my children's advocate. And that of husfriend too. Although you can fill in the blank of my job description. I am personal assistant to 3 men and slave to my abode. Wasn't I supposed to have a robot to do all of this by now? Funny how life takes us forward in time, but things stay the same.

Humanity. Maybe the most important, although, believe me, communication is a close second. Humanity. Not race, color, creed. Humanity. This truth levels the playing field. Who made you more important than me? Than her, than he, than any of us? Each one of us human beings have the same common denominator: Potential. That's what it all boils down to. Fulfill or implode. So for me and my house, we coexist. History teaches us things that reveal the predictable aspects of humanity, but I won't fill the mold. I won't curse myself for someone else's mistakes. I may not even identify with you. While I'm here on this precious planet I will talk to you, console you, educate and learn from you. Peace be with us. Peace be still. Now go talk about it.

Nicole Molino is work at home momma where she runs a successful household while raising two brilliant young men ages 7 and 3. Now that Nicole's sons are both out of diapers (woohoo!), she is finding time for her first love, writing. Nicole lives in sunny south Florida and keeps a busy schedule of play dates and sports. Her creative interests include writing fiction, non-fiction and poetry, singing, arts and crafts, photography and daydreaming. Nicole is co-founder of a grassroots movement of peaceful coexistence and may be reached via MySpace.

2009-05-02T21:30:00.001-05:00

Let's All Pull Together to Save Water

by Laura Smith

The artist says, "The client I did this piece for was Southern Nevada Water Authority. The job description was to convey various aspects of Water Conservation through a series of illustrations that would be used in print advertising and as a calendar. This project was to be instructional to children and adults in the Southern Nevada area.

Ron Lopez was the art director on this job and he had a lot of great ideas and yet was very receptive when I would contribute my own ideas to the project. This particular image was based on one of his ideas. In his original rough layout, there was a guy at the opposite end (instead of the dog you see here) helping a woman in the foreground with the pool cover. It was very formal and almost demonstrational, but I was able to convince him that instead of taking a very serious and straightforward approach with this project, that we should keep it light – especially considering the audience. He and I are both fans of Mary Blair’s work, and while I’m not exactly aping her style, I feel it pays homage to her spirit. In the end it all paid off. I was told that children were clipping the art from the paper and doing their versions of the images I painted."

Laura Smith's graphic approach to illustration has been inspired by some of the great poster artists of the first half of the 20th century. Those who have most influenced her have done so because of the simplicity and directness of their work in terms of graphic elements, as well as their ability to communicate an idea quickly and efficiently. She has produced illustrations from advertisements to billboards for such companies as HBO, Microsoft, Capitol Records, Japan Airlines, Heinekin, Time and Newsweek. Her work is featured in the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and most recently three of her posters were added to the collection London’s Victoria & Albert Museum. You can find more of Laura's work at her website, LauraSmithArt.com.

Lit by Chicks

2009-05-02T21:00:00.002-05:00

Where I Was, 1995

by Holly Day

when my son was born, I threw away
all the photographs taken of my life from before
I was so determined to become somebody else
that I pretended that I was brand new
just like him

when my husband refused to work, I got a temp job
where I could work a week, then be home a week
so I could spend time with my son
there was no extra money, but I didn’t care
I was so in love with that baby
nothing else mattered

I sold all my records to pay for groceries and rent
I threw away all my clothes that couldn’t be used for work
everything I owned could fit in a backpack
a few pieces of jewelry I could sell in a pinch
enough to take me and my son
somewhere safe

Holly Day’s most recent books are Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities. She lives in Minneapolis with her husband and their two children. You can find more of her work at her blog.

Winter Issue 2009

2009-02-01T13:00:00.003-06:00

Letter from the Editor

2009-02-01T12:00:00.001-06:00

Happy winter everyone! In some parts of the United States, such as the Northeast where I hail from, it still feels like winter. In other parts, such as where I currently live in the Southwest, winter is long gone. Then there are all of you out there in other parts of the world with all kinds of different climates.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy this "Winter" issue of Della Donna. It is filled with impressive artwork, poetry, fiction and non-fiction pieces on what really matters to women today. In "Rituals," we meet a fictitious character who goes through a dieting experience many of us will immediately recognize. In "What Do You Look Like?" we will take a step back to examine the icon on the ladies' room door a bit more closely.

I hope this issue finds all of you blessed and thriving. And don't forget, as always, anything you like, don't like, want to see or want to say, send it my way!

Enjoy!

- April

Lit by Chicks

2009-02-01T09:00:00.003-06:00

Joyeaux Noel

by Heather Ann Schmidt

Celine stands behind the counter
at Le Petit Prince, a patisserie,
on the corner
of 14 Mile and Pierce
in the old neighborhood
where I make my yearly trek
to buy gateaux and cookies
for Christmas.

Men and women come in
and speak to her in French
like they have for the past 40 years
ordering brioche and buche de noel
for parties.
“Joyeaux Noel,” she says
as they leave.
My son touches the glass display

She smiles
and I try to distract him.
I ask for the delicately painted snowmen
for the childrenʼs stockings on
Christmas morning,
trying to put pieces of my past
into their lives.

I remember walking six blocks
from home
to the corner to get mille feuille,
many layers to cover
my school dress,
something to do
while I waited for Dad
to come home.

I would sneak it in my room
and hide it in my closet
because it had alcohol in it
and good Presbyterian girls
didnʼt drink or write poetry
about making love to their boyfriends
by the duck pond
on a blanket under ash trees.

The only evidence that remained-
calligraphy ink on my ﬁngers
and a burning in my throat.

Heather Ann Schmidt is on staff at Oakland Community College where she tutors students in writing and ESL. She is also the editor of tinfoildresses, a poetry journal. Her poetry has been featured in publications such as Word Catalyst Magazine, The Shine Journal, The Orange Room Review, Pennsylvania English and Hanging Moss Journal, among others. Heather lives in Waterford, Michigan and can be reached via MySpace. Her chapbook, Chasing Lou Hoover, is now available from recycled karma press.

Politics & Social Issues

2009-02-01T07:45:00.001-06:00

What Do You Look Like?

by Christine Stoddard

See that black icon standing stiffly outside of the public restroom? The one with the round head teetering over an inverted triangle meant to resemble a dowdy dress? She---yes, that is what she supposedly represents, a she---sports two stubby legs. Underneath her strangely geometric figure lies a single word: WOMEN. Printed exactly like that. All capital letters.

As a small child, I thought nothing of this figure. She served only one purpose: to show me which restroom was for those who squat and which one was for those who simply unzip their pants. I saw the word “WOMEN” and knew that that bathroom was designed for me and anyone else who wore a skirt or dress or sometimes pants. There was no confusion.

Yet now, at the age of twenty, I am confused. This seemingly plain and simple icon baffles me. She, without realizing it, prompts a series of questions within my head (which is not as perfectly round as a soccer ball, mind you): Why does she look the way she does? Why is she wearing a dress? Why does she look so nondescript? Why does she look like me any more than the icon designating the men’s restroom? At what point should I be offended?

I mull over these questions again and again. Each time, slightly revised answers flood back. After my most current reflection on the topic, my responses were as follows:

She looks that way because she represents the Western female ideal: a pear or hourglass shape in feminine clothing that may not be practical but surely distinguishes her from men---which is far more important in the eyes of the patriarchy.
She wears a dress because the patriarchy wants women to wear dresses. Dresses are less comfortable and often more confining than pants or trousers. Dresses and women’s general interest in fashion play up what the patriarchy would describe as women’s natural weaknesses.
She looks so nondescript because she is an Every Woman. She does not represent any particular woman but rather Western woman as idealized by the patriarchy.
She doesn’t really look any more like me than the icon designating the men’s restroom. The main difference lies in her broader hips, which her skirt accentuates. I could and should just as easily be wearing pants as a skirt. Yet I cannot so easily walk into a men’s bathroom without complaints or stares.
In the grand scheme of things, this little icon is trivial. She, herself, should not offend me. But the ideas and social norms that have essentially dictated her form should concern me.

None of these answers, however, are as complete as I would like them to be. None of these answers provide solutions. This frustrates me because I tend to be pro-active. When I encounter problems in my life, I’m eager to solve them. Yet solving the problem of this icon representing so many expectations for my physical being and my behavior is much more complicated than simply changing the icon to something else. A re-design alone won’t achieve much. First, Western society must change the way it regards women’s bodies and their responsibilities as citizens of the world. Not in part but entirely, from Hollywood to housewives.

But if I sat on the toilet waiting for that kind of change to occur, I’d likely need enough toilet paper to last me a lifetime.

Christine Stoddard is a writer and interdisciplinary artist from the Washington, D.C. area. Her creative interests including writing fiction, creative non-fiction, poetry, and fashion articles in addition to acting/modeling and making collages. Her work has appeared in a wide variety in venues, both online and in print, such as George Mason University's So to Speak, The Grinnell Review, The Louisville Review, and over 20 issues of Teen Ink. You can learn more about Christine and her work at her website, ChristineStoddard.com.

2009-02-01T02:30:00.001-06:00

Intimately Oppressed

by Jeaneen Carlino

The artist says, "This piece is a response to an underlying fascination I have with the industrial city and the dynamic shapes that it inhabits. At the time of this creation, I was especially attracted to the power lines that run throughout the highways surrounding Los Angeles. Fusing this visual together with my adoration of the female subject, along with my obsession of layered imagery, I produced this mixed media collage on paper. It was made with graphite, colored pencils, acrylic inks and postal envelope scraps that I collect."

Jeaneen Carlino is a Los Angeles based artist who graduated from Art Center College of Design in 2007. Her artwork effortlessly harmonizes fantastical daydreams conjured through personal experiences intriguing to her. The female figure is an integral re-occurring subject in her work. These women deeply resonate with their audience via their strong enigmatic yet simultaneously serene attributes, which challenge the mind through their inner and ideal beauty. Jeaneen attempts to present an environment that will visually stimulate and excite the viewer through her self expression and love for bringing beautiful imagery to life. She is also inspired by Mexican motifs, traditional Indian and African art, mosaic textiles, geometric patterns and vibrant colors. Her work is influenced by the juxtaposition of natural images occurring within the urban landscape. She also enjoys creating stencils and incorporating them into her work, along with collaging scraps ranging from incense packaging to trash that she collects at random.

You can find more of Jeaneen's work at her website, JeaneenCarlino.com.

Health & Beauty

2009-02-01T01:30:00.001-06:00

Rituals

by KJ Hannah Greenberg

Lila carefully trimmed around the mosquito bite. She smoothed soap over her thigh and calf, using her razor to wipe away aisles of lather. Thereafter, she shaved her other leg, rubbing soap into curls, rinsed her shampoo, applied conditioner, and sheared under her arms. Gingerly, she cut.

Next, Lila rubbed over her belly’s rounded fullness, and swabbed her breasts, her shoulders, her neck and her face. She lifted her chin to the faucet, rinsed, checked for lingering soap and then turned off the water.

Lila stepped onto the mat where the droplets ran off of her. She leaned naked, over the sink, to brush and to floss. An oral surgeon had said that Lila’s mouth was exceptionally healthy.

The bathroom door opened a few inches. The fat, grey walked in, back arched, whiskers protruding. It rubbed against Lila's calves, turned around and rubbed again, singing as it caressed.

Lila wrapped a towel around her head, walked to the bedroom and dressed. Marty was still sleeping. The tan and brown lay curled by his feet, purring at Lila, who was donning underwear.

The black, curled around Marty’s head, meowed. Lila petted him while opening her sock drawer.

After securing her shirt and sweats, Lila plodded into the kitchen. She pulled milk, and whole grain bread, yogurt and a banana from the refrigerator. She put everything, except for the bread, into the blender. Adding vanilla and cinnamon, Lila frowned her forehead into creases. The doctor wanted her to lose fifty pounds. Soon, she would have to tell her friends that she was on a diet.

She would have to publicly declare "no thank you" and maybe even cart special food to picnics and parties. Ordering in restaurants would elicit comments. Entertaining would become nightmarish. “Proper” people did not need diets.

“Proper” people exercised regularly, drank moderately, and swallowed their tranquilizers in private. Such persons ate salads with their steaks and ordered decaffeinated coffee with their cream pie. Marty drank diet cola alongside of his jumbo sundaes.

Lila stared at the food plan. Exchanges. Free foods. Tofu.

Lila liked tofu, but had forgotten to buy it. Upon discovering her omission, Lila had meekly raised the point with Marty. He reminded Lila that they had agreed to shop only once a week, kitty litter and white bread, excepted. The doctor had asked if Marty sabotaged Lila’s eating or exercising. Lila had meant to say “no,” but was interrupted by the doctor, who answered for her that “men are insecure.”

In truth, Marty had scoffed at the doctor’s vision. Lila had answered him with declarations of love.

Some of Lila’s corpulence had come from Thomas Jefferson College’s cafeteria--one faculty benefit had been free chow. Lila, who had been resentful about salary, had exploited the school’s dessert line.

Other pounds were attributable to the lawsuit. Doughnuts, chocolates, and corn chips eased the process. Lila stopped nightly, en route from lecturing, at convenience stores. An older woman who managed one of those small town stands had begun to recognize Lila as “the snack lady.” Subsequently, Lila stopped for treats at the gas station in the next village. Lila bought three chocolate bars each time she stopped.

Although Lila had rung up the miracle place in Florida, she and Marty lacked the requisite twenty thousand dollar payment. Besides, Marty had argued that Lila’s pathology warranted no rehab. Lila’s doctor, too, had countermanded against committing Lila; Lila was not obese, just overweight. The doctor, however, had insisted that Lila pay to see her twice weekly. In the end, Lila stayed home and measured yogurt smoothies. She weighed cherries and leveled off cups of oatmeal.

Silently, but expectantly, the cats padded to the kitchen. Noiselessly, they waited for their kibble and clean water. It was their morning ritual.

KJ Hannah Greenberg’s layered narratives have been published/accepted in an eclectic mix of dozens of venues worldwide, including Australia’s Language and Culture Magazine, and Antipodean SF, Israel’s Mishpacha Magazine, The Jerusalem Post, and The Shiur Times, the UK’s Morpheus Tales, The Mother Magazine, and Winamop, and the USA’s AlienSkin Magazine, The American Journal of Semiotics, and The Externalist. KJ Hannah Greenberg is a former National Endowment for the Humanities scholar, the mother of adolescent sons and daughters, and the caretaker of an entire hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs.

Lit by Chicks

2009-02-01T00:30:00.007-06:00

Self-Portrait as a Tehuana

by Lena Judith Drake

I pluck my eyebrows every morning,

squinting
in the magnified side of my ex-roommate's hand mirror;
the pinching out hairs make me sneeze,

and sometimes when I do this,
I think about Frida Kahlo.

I ride the bus in half-hour increments, on tiptoe,
gripping the metal railings above my head,
backpacks and purses pressed into my stomach, underarms,
grocery bags with half gallons of milk
and boxes of microwave noodles tapping the backs of my thighs.

Frida, you rode the bus in Coyoacán.
A steel pole, sharding, took your virginity, you said,
your knees bumping the passenger in front of you, gold powder
on your bleeding tongue.
I tugged my hymen with my fingers impatiently,
my knee denting his thigh.

You painted, cast still damp around your body, boned wrist sore,
your spine flailing around your implanted metal brace.
The curve of my spine traced by my mother's cold fingers,
plastic padded corset, dirt stuck in velcro,
metal buckles snapping under my baggy shirt
and skidding down the high school hallway.

My plastic Boston back brace.
Well, at least it'll make your waist smaller, the doctor said
(pinching and diarrhea acid)
and push up your breasts, make them look bigger
(malformed rib bones).

From inside your rib bones, you wanted a baby,
but only sometimes.
I vomited oranges and milk into a wastebasket,
bleeding into my parents' toilet.

I was young so I was too gentle, I touched
the insides of my lips to the soft smooth of her areolas,
almost as light as the rest of her skin,
afraid to use my tongue too much.
I kept mostly to the line of her sternum, sweat trapped from all day.
I didn't want to stop tasting it.

You had a girl who painted flowers,
swore they were only flowers.
I had a boy who bought me an orchid plant, and I swore
I saw in between a woman's legs on each blossom.
My roommate and I tossed the plant in the dumpster when I moved out,
into old Papa John's pizza boxes
and crunched-up packing tape.

I dream I'm in a parking lot, lit by fires
and my brace is too small now,
they told me I wouldn't have to put it on again.
It feels like someone is
hard plastic and holding me,
spine muscles atrophy, but I wake up,
just bare back,
skin peeling off in Saran wrap strips.
A woman, undressing, tattooed next to the curve, instead.

Frida, you came to my city, once, before I was born.
You birthed yourself in Detroit,
step on the cracks and break your mother's back.

Diego is on your forehead, querida, but you alone are in your mind.
Let me be there, too.

Lena Judith Drake is currently a creative writing student at Grand Valley State University. She is Puerto Rican, a poet, and a feminist activist. She is also the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs Magazine. You can find more of her work at her website, luminous//misjudgment.

Fall Issue 2008

2008-10-22T23:55:00.002-05:00

*Letter from the Editor

*Lit by Chicks: "Atonement, Robbie and Cecilia"

*Lifestyles: "Knitting as a Feminist Act"

*Lit by Chicks: "Nightly Reading"

Letter from the Editor

2008-10-22T23:50:00.001-05:00

Now that we are back, I confess that I have a bit of explaining to do. I told you that I was changing the magazine's publication schedule from monthly to quarterly without much of an explanation of why. The astute among you have probably already realized that one woman maintaining a monthly magazine in addition to full-time work, freelance work, personal writing and a social life that she likes to consider somewhat active, is a bad idea. Unfortunately, it has taken me over a year to come to the same conclusion :) What can I say? I love Della Donna. I love reading and experiencing your work, I love sharing it with others who might not have seen it otherwise, and I love feeling that at the end of the day, my efforts have given women a leg up in sharing their thoughts, opinions and deepest feelings with whoever will listen.

For that reason, I will continue to do so, just on a new schedule. I know that all of you - especially the Wonder Woman of the modern world, with your jobs, your families, your responsibilities and your dreams - will understand.

That being said, here is the Fall Issue. Don't let the Table of Contents fool you - it is a long one. This is because of a great short story that was brought to my attention. It is much longer than our typical stories, but I thought that you would enjoy "Nightly Reading," especially just before Halloween. In addition, there are some dark works of art, a poem based on a work of literature and an article about how knitting can be viewed as a feminist act. Enjoy!

- April

2008-10-22T23:40:00.003-05:00

"Susannah, Liberia, Resettled in Phoenix in 2004"

by Eliza Gregory

Eliza Gregory grew up in San Francisco, but has also lived in southern California, New Jersey, and New York before moving to Phoenix in 2005. She is the recipient of a 2008 Arizona Commission on the Arts Project Grant to support her work in creating portraits of resettled refugees in Phoenix. Thanks to a public art commission from the City of Phoenix, she currently has a photograph on display at the bus stop installation at 7th Avenue and Glenrosa. She joined the eye lounge gallery and artists’ cooperative in 2007, and her next show there will take place in April 2009. Her work is also going to be showcased at the Arizona Historical Society in late October. You can find more of her work at her website, ElizaGregory.com.

Lit by Chicks

2008-10-22T23:00:00.002-05:00

"Atonement, Robbie and Cecilia"

by Jennifer LeBlanc

he lounges behind his desk and
holds a cigarette nonchalantly in his hand.

occasionally, he puts the cigarette to his mouth,
letting thick smoke cover the room.

opera plays, while across the estate,
in the larger house,

she stands in front of the mirror.
she checks her reflection and

sprays perfume on her slender neck,
just enough for him to notice.

Jennifer LeBlanc is an English major at Regis College, with a concentration in secondary education. She serves on the editorial board for Hemetera, Regis College’s literary magazine. Her chapbook, unrestrained, is forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press, and her work has also been published in Wilderness House Literary Review, Bolts of Silk, The Orange Room Review, and others.

Lifestyles

2008-10-22T22:00:00.002-05:00

"Knitting as a Feminist Act"

by Jess Byron

Recently, I mentioned my knitting to a new acquaintance and his response surprised me. Instead of thinking it was an interesting, current hobby, he told me how nice it was that I can do something so traditional which few women are able to do anymore. To me, knitting has never been a traditional act, but something that has been completely my own while also providing a connection to others like my grandmother, who taught me how to knit. I would describe my grandmother as more of a feminist than most women, although I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her describe herself that way. She worked her whole life while raising her children, and at nearly 80 years old, she is still vibrant and active. I also don’t consider knitting to be traditional because it was never forced on me. Rather, it was something I wanted to learn, which prompted me to approach my grandmother at the age of eight.

Perhaps the reason why I see knitting as a feminist act instead of a traditional tool of the patriarchy is because of the women in my life who knit. For example, I once met a professor who designs sweaters and mittens to protest the war and support political causes. She takes her art in a different direction than most, but it expresses her sentiments and gains attention in a way that perhaps writing or speaking could not. She exposes her feelings, opinions, and beliefs through knitting and wearing sweaters as others choose political t-shirts. I also think about my roommate from college, a woman who would never be seen as traditionally feminine, but who loved knitting once I taught her how. She knit for herself and others in a fearless way that I love to see among knitters. She knew that with a little help she could do whatever projects she wanted, and she succeeded in a way that made me proud.

To me, knitting is not just a feminist act because of the women involved. Knitting can be viewed as an act of opting out of the system of patriarchy because it gives knitters complete control over their creations. It is not an act done to please men or make a profit (as most knitters know that would be nearly impossible), but is a way to take control of an important aspect of our lives - our clothing and the way we are perceived. To knit is to be taken seriously in a way that, for me, is different from anything else. Though my intellectual creations are not necessarily appreciated by the general public, when I am able to create something from a string and two sticks, people pay attention. They see that there is value in what I make to keep someone warm.

Feminism is not something I can separate from my knitting because both are a part of who I am and how I perceive myself. Both allow me to examine and reflect on my views as a human being and to express those views through words and actions or through fabric. When I knit I am able to opt out of patriarchy by asserting that I do not wish to have someone else decide what I should wear, what I should create, or what I should be. I am able to fully express my individuality through the creation of something unique. Even if 1,000 others have followed the same pattern, no one else will create it in exactly the same way that I do. In my view, that is the essence of feminism - speaking with a unique voice yet united behind a common goal.

Jess Byron is a first year graduate student in political science at The George Washington University. In her free time she enjoys knitting, reading, and activism. She is hoping to go into government work once she finishes her degree. She can be reached via e-mail.

2008-10-22T20:30:00.008-05:00

"Crazy 4 Cult Show"

by Camilla d'Errico

The artist says, "This piece was part of a group show at Gallery 1988 Los Angeles, opening on August 22, 2008. The show, “Crazy 4 Cult: This Time, It’s Personal,” was hosted by cult connoisseur Kevin Smith and his producing partner Scott Mosier. Over 100 artists were asked to cast their unique eye on classic cult cinema, with personal interpretations of cult classics. My piece was based on one of my favorite movies, "Donnie Darko"! It was one of the first pieces to sell, even before the show opened."

Camilla d'Errico is part of what may be the first art movement in Western history where women are not second-class citizens, but may even have an edge in the mind of the public when it comes to capturing the essence that is woman. The thriving culture of innovative and emotionally evocative art that sprang up so forcefully in Los Angeles five years ago and which has now spread internationally was quick to embrace Camilla’s work. She has sold out every large and small show she's been in, at galleries in Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, Vancouver, and elsewhere. Of late, even Hollywood has come calling. Camilla has a passion for friends, family, art, and life, which goes hand in hand with her profound and insightful side. It’s a duality that permeates her paintings. There’s always a piece of her heart, and perhaps all our hearts, in every one. You can find more of her work at CamilladErrico.com.

Lit by Chicks

2008-10-22T12:00:00.006-05:00

"Nightly Reading"

by Diane Height

Every day I take the same path to work, three blocks away to the library, where I check books in and out, help people find what they are looking for, and answer questions. I’m a librarian. It isn’t very important work compared to what my brother does as a policeman, but it keeps me busy and pays the bills. Isn’t that what matters? I’m happy, right?

It’s difficult, though, not to wonder every day what my brother is doing across town. He has a wife and two daughters to come home to. I, on the other hand, come home to make myself dinner. I usually bring a book home each night--just one. I try to choose the book carefully; I have many favorites, and some that I’ve enjoyed over and over again.

After dinner I open the book, and that’s when the characters invite me in to be one of them. How could I feel alone? How important their lives are. The authors, just by writing about them, make them so. The books I choose also let me choose who I want to become. Action stories are my favorite--westerns and mysteries. I become one of the good guys, of course. Sometimes I'm the lead character, but other times I'm the person who needs to be rescued.

Lately I’ve been wondering what it would be like to become the bad guy, the villain, the spy that gets caught or even killed. Captured or killed by my brother perhaps! To be so important that my own brother would have to risk his life to stop me.

For a week I’ve searched through all my favorites genres for the right bad guy to become, and nothing. Then today one of the new assistants hands me a book that has a hold placed on it, but was never picked up. I glance at the title: Vampires. It’s a subject that has never interested me, but during my break I browse through the pages, thinking this could be my book.

I bring the book home and can’t put it down. Every night, I read Vampires and nothing else. I can’t get enough of the book or the subject. Vampires are bad, but have tremendous power. I could feel important as a vampire, couldn’t I? Perhaps, a voice whispers, even as important as my brother, though in a dark way....

Tonight as I open the book, the characters say to me, “It’s time. We want to invite you to become one of us. Come in. We want you to be Raphaele.”

§

VAMPIRES

It’s not even Mardi Gras time in New Orleans, but I insist that everyone wear their favorite mask to my party tonight. Mikror is coming. He’s always telling me that he likes to stay by my side at a party because I’m the most beautiful creature ever created. Is it true? I’m tall and statuesque, and over the centuries my skin has become more radiant--so white, almost translucent. But the younger ones make me question myself. That new vampire, Gabriella, is coming tonight. I saw her a few weeks ago, and she’s young and stunning. I remember those days. I would love to have her as my companion. We could travel together, and I could teach her all about darkness. Mikror says that she still drinks the blood of animals and hasn’t yet tasted the richness of human blood.

“Raphaele, you look radiant as always. I see you have your eyes on Gabriella. Come with me and I’ll introduce you.” As Mikror leads me over to her, I know I’m staring too intently. “Thank you for coming to my party," I say. "Maybe we can spend some time together later on, and you can tell me about yourself.”

§

When I'm at work, I can watch people coming and going. I often wonder about their lives. Do they have someone to love and take care of them? Some people seem so happy, while others are sad. You can see the pain on their faces. I look at my face again in the window of my cubicle. I’m not sure I want to know what others see in my face. I can't see it myself.

I rush through dinner to get to my book.

§

“I didn’t get a chance to spend time with Gabriella tonight.”

Mikror sighs. “Don’t worry. Vadim was occupying all of her time. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. You know my sense of hearing isn’t as keen as yours.”

I can feel the intensity of my voice as I say, “Does he think he’ll have her all to himself, so that she’ll become his companion and he can teach her his ways? I can show her powers Vadim doesn’t know exist. I’ll make sure she understands what immortality means." I feel my temper rising as the words spew from me.

§

It’s very late. Sometimes I think I am like Raphaele and I prefer the night to the day. At night, it’s just me. During the day I have to deal with people, feelings about my brother, feeling unimportant and rejected. I’m the head librarian, the person in charge, yet I avoid any confrontation when I can; it frightens me. I can’t imagine my brother ever being scared, like me, and he certainly has plenty to be scared of with his job.

Actually, I do remember a time when my brother was afraid. We were very young and our family was on vacation. The two of us wandered off from our parents, and my brother started to cry because he thought we were lost. I told him it was okay and took his hand. When and how did I become so weak?

As I’m getting ready for work, I look closely at myself in the bathroom mirror. I don’t like what I see. Why do I wear my hair this way? Always pulled back with no style. And these glasses?

I need to get ready for work and stop spending time in front of the mirror. Isn’t that what my mother used to say? "Stop looking at yourself so much." She always said that I was smart and didn’t have to worry about how I looked. I don’t think she ever said that to my brother, but then my brother is good-looking--and smart.

The day goes by quickly. When I get home, I call my brother. He answers the phone and seems happy to hear from me, though you can never be sure. At times I even wonder if I embarrass him -- his Plain Jane sister, the spinster librarian. He would never say that, though. He’s too nice. I don’t like to think about how lonely I am, so I open my book.

"Underneath" by Danielle Duer

He’s been looking at me for a long time. Quick glances at first. I can feel his heat even at this distance. He's the kind I usually like, too: immoral. Not like the innocents, the ‘good’ ones that Vadim and his group prey on. Vadim has a total lack of compassion for the humans he preys upon. Is that what he’s going to teach Gabriella?

I’m brought back to the moment because I see him making his way over to where I’m sitting. He asks if he can join me. I say yes. After making small talk, he invites me up to his hotel room. The script never changes.

We undress each other and lie on the bed. He has an erection even though he’s been drinking a lot. It doesn’t matter; this is not what I came for. As I reach for him, I anticipate the moment my lips will touch his skin and my teeth barely break the soft tissue of his neck. In an instant my fangs are deep into him and I can taste his blood. I hear him moaning as I drink. I feel him relax, and then I’m gone into the night.

§

I sit back in my chair, eyes closed. I run my tongue over my lips, and I can still taste blood. Why am I doing this? So I can live, at least live at night. I was with a man. Men never look at me. And why would they? I dress in frumpy clothes, never wear make-up and always wear sensible shoes. No man is ever going to look at me--not even once! If I couldn’t be Raphaele at night, what would my life be?

The next day, I arrive earlier than usual at the library. I have my tea with me and I head back to my cubicle. I have a certain routine in the morning, and that’s what I’m doing when I sense someone standing in the doorway. I look up and my assistant is staring at me. She says, “You look different. What is it? You’re not wearing your glasses. You look good.”

Moments later, the part-time teenage girl always dressed in the latest fashion sticks her head in and says, “Wow! I love your lipstick. Russian Red from MAC, right? Madonna’s color. Your hair looks really cool too. You should put some streaks in it. I’ll give you the name of my stylist.” I don’t even understand half of what she’s saying, but I feel good. Someone has noticed me. Now I’m really excited that my brother invited me over for dinner tonight. He’s going to be so impressed with the way I look--or at least I hope he'll be.

I arrive just in time to see him leave. “Sorry, Sis," he says, looking sheepish, "but you know how it goes. There’s been another robbery in that gated community a few miles away. Gotta go! Go on in and have dinner with the family. Maybe I’ll see you later. I love you.” I love it when my brother calls me ‘Sis’ and says he loves me. I can tell he means it. It makes me think of when we were growing up, when it was just the two of us. I barely get a chance to say goodbye before he’s out the door. He didn’t even notice my hair or the new outfit. Why should he? He’s a policeman, with real things to worry about.

I walk into their house. My sister-in-law is just putting dinner on the table. My nieces do most of the talking during the meal, boyfriends and all that ‘girl’ stuff. I’m laughing right along with them, but inside I’m thinking, "No one has said anything about my hair, my clothes or my lipstick. Maybe they think I don’t look that good."

Finally, I smile and tell them I have to leave because I have things to do at home.

§

What do I care about anyone else? I have my pleasures. Darkness is all I ever want. The soft touch of the night. Let the others do what they want. I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone.

A voice startles me. I turn. It’s Vadim. “Out all alone tonight, Raphaele? What a pity.” He’s with Gabriella. I just stare. Usually I can read his thoughts, but not now. He smirks. He knows. I detest his attitude. I ignore him and look at Gabriella.

“Gabriella, it’s nice to see you again. Be careful, my dear. Vadim isn’t always what he seems to be. You may think he cares about you, but he only cares about himself. Do you know that he only feeds on the innocent and that he takes tremendous pleasure in the sick games he plays with them before he kills them?”

A shadow falls across Vadim’s face and I hear a faint hissing sound. He says, “I think Raphaele has lived too long. It’s affecting her powers. I think perhaps she is becoming ‘less’. An unfortunate malady that affects some vampires. Maybe it’s time for her to end her miserable life.”

§

At lunchtime the next day, I can hear some of the employees talking about going to the café around the corner. Maybe that young girl, the one who likes my red lipstick, would like to go to lunch with me? I usually bring my lunch from home and eat in my cubicle, but not today! I’ll ask her to lunch. We can talk about hair and clothes and, well, ‘girl’ stuff.
“Oh, you just missed her," my assistant says. "She went to lunch with that group that just left.”

I go back to my office and pull out the sandwich from home, but I don’t feel hungry anymore. I look at the clock wishing it were time to go home. At least I have my vampires.

"Liberation Rewards" by Danielle Duer

I’m heading towards a familiar place. It’s been some time. I have a few hours before sunrise. I’ve been told she stays in her home most nights, her faithful companion Elden taking care of all her needs. I was very young when I met her in Europe, while she was traveling alone. She quickly became my mentor and encouraged me to come to New Orleans, to the Vieux Carre, to live. She’s the only one I trust after all these centuries.

“Good evening, Raphaele. It’s good to see you.”

“Good evening, Betresa. How are you?” As I say these words, I notice how old she has become. Her skin used to glow with radiance, but now it is dull, almost chalky.

“Please sit down. I know you didn’t come to inquire about the state of my mind and body. You have something on your mind. What is it?”

“Betresa, you always seem so happy, and I’m not. We’re both old now. We both have seen the younger vampires come along, asserting themselves, basking in all their beauty and glory. It doesn’t seem to bother you, but it bothers me. Doubt hangs around my neck like heavy stones weighing me down.”

She laughs. “Raphaele, you want to know how I have survived for almost three thousand years? I’ve had my moments of self-doubt, but I will tell you what I’ve always told you. Do not let anything or anyone decide who you are. You must know who you are inside of you. Now, there must be a specific vampire who is causing you so much pain. Is it Vadim?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about you and Vadim.”

“He acts like he’s a prince, better than the rest of us. He takes whatever he wants. He drinks the blood of the innocent. He mocks me because I’m getting older.”

“Raphaele, you give away your power to him. You give away yourself. That’s what frightens you. He cannot take who you are unless you give it to him.”

§

Why must I think? Why can't I just be? These are questions I ask at night, when I don't want to think about tomorrow, the pain of yet another failed day. This is the moment of truth between me and myself. Release me from this turmoil called life, so that I may finally know peace.

§

It’s right before sunrise, the best time to be walking. Nothing’s around, except a few animals returning home. Then I hear it -- a noise not too far away. Something is in terrible pain. I walk towards the sound, and I see a man tied to a post, moaning, a stream of blood running down his neck. I hear a voice behind me, and I turn around to see Vadim with a heinous smirk on his face, fangs out, covered in blood.

§

I can’t go on. I start to hyperventilate. I’m scared. Then I hear Betresa’s words: "He can only take what you give him." I think about my brother and how loving he is. I see us running through the fields, the ones behind our house, flowers everywhere. Someone falls--it’s me, and my brother stops. He’s little, but he comes back and kisses the scrape on my knee. I want to cry now like I did back then .

§

Vadim’s haunted eyes reach into me as he says, “Raphaele, you are losing your powers. You didn’t even hear me and I’ve been behind you for a long time. Are you here to dine with me or do you want this mortal for yourself? Are you so old you have become like the scavengers who only feed on the prey of others?”

“I want nothing to do with you, Vadim! Let him go!”

“And why would I want to do that?”

I answer, “You’ve had plenty tonight. I know you. You gorge yourself thinking it will make you even more powerful, but it does the opposite.”

He laughs. “Is this the wisdom of an old vampire speaking? You fool! I do what I want!”

“Not this time.” I hurry to the man’s side. My hands can still move very quickly, and I have the ropes untied before Vadim can reach me. The man is conscious, staring back at me, terror in his eyes. I tell him, “Go! You must go!”

In that second, Vadim has his hands around my throat, and I’m pinned to the same post. Teeth bared, Vadim starts speaking, but it’s hard to understand him. I yell again for the man to leave. Vadim’s pride and rage will keep him with me, away from the man.

Vadim throws me across the courtyard, but I get up and have the strength of mind to will a large rock up and off of the ground. It strikes him in the head, but nothing is stopping him. As he gets up, he says, “Raphaele, the sun is rising and you have a long way to go to get to your home. My home is right here." He laughs and the old terrible hissing sound I know so well comes from him. I yell, “I’m not afraid of the light!"

The sun is starting to rise. I scream--or is it Vadim who screams? I see him flinch in pain, but he still moves toward me. His hatred of me has kept him with me and away from his home. My body grows weaker, and I can see Vadim changing--but still he moves toward me……

§

I pull from the book with such force that I fall to the floor. My lungs feel like they’re going to explode. Death is all around me. Is it my own or another's?

I see my brother and I as children playing, unable to stop seeing it. I see love, and I feel it, yet I am dying. I am afraid, and yet I reach for the book on the floor beside me.

§

I hear a faint voice. There’s a shadow. Someone is leaning over me, asking if I’m all right. I’m too weak to answer. I open my eyes; and staring back at me is the man I set free. I want to talk, but I can’t. What’s happening to me?

I hear him say, “You saved my life. Thank you. I’m not sure what really happened back there. That....”

I put my hand on his arm and ask, “Is he gone?” My voice sounds different to me.

“He--he disappeared. It cannot be, and yet I--I saw it.”

“And I’m not gone like him?” I ask.

He laughs. “No, you are not gone."

"My name is Raphaele."

"What a beautiful name. My name is Daniel. I am an officer of the peace in this town. You remind me of my sister. Your eyes. Your mouth. She had courage too, before she died."

§

He will tell me about her, I know, and it will fill me with light--the light that no longer hurts, but feels like life itself, as if I had come home.

I look at the clock. It’s 6am. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping. The book is next to me on the floor, closed. I run my fingers over the cover.

I’m still feeling a little shaky. A voice speaks to me, but it’s not from the book, it’s my own voice: “It’s just fear, Raphaele, and fear can take many forms. Remember that it has no power over you unless you give it the power...”

I want to call Daniel. Whether he is at work or at home, I want to call him.

I reach for the phone.

Diane's writing is inspired by her love of travel, adventure and the world at large. She recently spent time in Africa working with cheetahs to help educate people about this beautiful animal. In an earlier life she passed her wisdom along to 5th graders as an elementary school teacher. When she's not writing, she enjoys her new grandson, Bodhi. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in All Things Girl, Clockwise Cat, Dog Versus Sandwich, Lucrezia, Mirror Dance, Sand, and The Short Humour Site. Diane can be reached via e-mail.

Danielle Duer has worked as a painter and visual artist in the center of Nashville’s evolving art scene for the past several years. Her unusual pieces have been described as haunting and romantic. She uses bold, beautiful color combinations and layers the main images with dainty details so that the viewer can stare for hours and always see something new. These narrative paintings are quite feminine and successfully possess both realistic and fanciful charm. She includes symbolism to tell lighthearted stories that are metaphors for deeper truths and philosophies in her own life.

Danielle’s work has been featured in a variety of publications such as the Music City Arts Channel and Elle Girl Magazine. In 2007, she was recognized by the mayor of Nashville for her outstanding achievements in the art and culture of the downtown area. You can find more of her work at DanielleDuer.com, and you can contact her via e-mail.

News Announcement

2008-08-01T00:00:00.001-05:00

Upon careful consideration, I have decided to make the webzine quarterly rather than monthly. You can expect news on the Fall 2008 Issue shortly.

Thanks for your support!

- April

Issue #15

2008-07-01T23:59:00.003-05:00

*Letter from the Editor

*Interview with a Fabulous Female: Anita Revel

*Health and Beauty: "The Flat Tummy Gospel, Part 3"

*Lit by Chicks: "The Air Beneath"

*Spirituality: "The Moon and You"

*Lit by Chicks: "Spring in January"

Letter from the Editor

2008-07-01T23:58:00.003-05:00

We at Della Donna want to wish all American readers a very happy Independence Day.

This month's issue contains a double dose of "Lit by Chicks" (you thought it was over, but literary chicks abound) as well as the final installment of "The Flat Tummy Gospel."

Enjoy!

- April

Interview with a Fabulous Female

2008-07-01T23:30:00.001-05:00

Anita Revel is a self-described "creatrix, author, mother and wife, web diva, dream weaver, lover of life." She is the author of several books and the woman behind Goddess.com.au, a website that helps today's woman connect with her inner goddess. Anita was kind enough to take time from her busy schedule to answer a few of Della Donna editor April Boland's questions.

AB: What sparked your initial interest in goddesses?

AR: The idea of visualizing a woman via the myths of the goddesses appeals to me. The fact that an ancient goddess has been through the highs and lows of the emotional spectrum makes me feel better about myself as a woman. After all, if a goddess can have an "off day," then it must be alright for a mere mortal to have one too, right?

I first became aware of goddess archetypes in a boardroom meeting about 12 years ago. I was being all corporate and so forth (that is, masking my true Self), when one of the girls from the ad agency referred to a colleague as "a real Persephone." I asked her what that meant and she described a personality based on the myth of Persephone - the maiden who was kidnapped to the Underworld. Her interpretation of the myth was that my colleague was a "professional victim," though I now prefer to describe someone with a Persephone personality as someone who is empowered in both the light and shadow sides of her persona. Using the goddess myths as a way of understanding women's motivations, intrinsic morals and natural behaviors just makes sense to me.

AB: What led you to create the website Goddess.com.au?

AR: The more I looked into the goddess myths, the more parallels I found between them and modern women. I began recording my theories online, initially using Goddess.com.au as a repository for my musings (there weren't any blogs back then, so Goddess.com.au was my journaling place)! It wasn't until 2004 when the Goddess-ence 100% pure essential oil blends came into existence that I overhauled the site and made it more meaningful, content-rich, and above all, fun.

AB: Why do you think it is important for modern women to "reconnect with their inner goddesses"?

AR: We're not the first generation to be loaded with stress. In fact, compared with our ancestors I'd say we're the luckiest generation of women to date. We have the freedom to believe in what is right for us, the room to flex our empowerment and unprecedented avenues for expressing emotions on all levels. The key to doing all of these things with dignity and style lies within having a meaningful and rich relationship with Self. It's this healthy and balanced relationship with Self that I call being connected with one's Inner Goddess. When we're connected with the beautiful, inspired, intuitive, sassy and sacred being we were born to be, life is absolutely wonderful.

AB: What first step would you recommend for a woman who has never thought about such things before?

AR: Take the Goddess Birth Sign test and then read a bit more about your birth goddess, research her mythology and her symbolism, and spend some time journaling to find a connection between her energies and your life. Use her as a role model as you come up against certain stresses or situations, asking yourself, "What would goddess do?" You'll be surprised at how this simple little exercise helps you rally your personal power to make the right choices for you.

AB: Is there one particular goddess who guides you?

AR: I resonate with Kwan Yin on a very deep and personal level. I was raised in a house where fear and control ruled rather than love and compassion, so when I "met" Kwan Yin and her gifts of unconditional, unquestioning, undying love and compassion, I was hooked. I willingly and easily fell into her loving embrace, and she's the one whose energies I recall when I'm in need of an esoteric cuddle. Thinking of Kwan Yin as a role model has really softened me and helped me open up to meaningful connections with others.

AB: What is the most interesting thing that has happened as a result of your journey (with the website, the tour, etc.)?

AR: I don't have "most" interesting thing - every experience that reveals itself to me on this journey, whether painful or exhilarating, has been wonderful. I've learned a lot, and now know to trust that everything is perfect in my life. "Everything happens at the perfect time for the perfect reason" is my mantra when I encounter a blockage, and "gratitude" is my mantra at every other time. I've never been so happy!

Health & Beauty

2008-07-01T23:00:00.001-05:00

The Flat Tummy Gospel, Part 3

by Kristina Marie Darling

Although gaining weight back isn’t necessarily a bad thing, dating remains completely different before and after a successful diet. This aspect of being overweight became the most depressing one for me, and until I made a conscious decision to focus on the English degree I’d taken out a $30,000 loan for, the dating world made me want to stop eating anything that tasted good.

It’s not just the absolute dearth of men who want to date an overweight woman that made finding a boyfriend difficult. As a skinny girl in a miniskirt, some women say that they get no respect, but I found that people are much more humane and considerate to an attractive woman than they would be to a girl who is physically unattractive. Walking through the Delmar Loop one day in daisy dukes after reaching my goal weight on a crash diet, a man stopped me and said, “You look very French. I mean that as a compliment.” This was not an isolated incident. Guys told me I looked nice on a fairly regular basis. When I gained it all back, however, I wasn’t prepared for men to change completely.

When I was still happily packing on the pounds, I was downright astonished when a guy from my writing class asked me to have coffee with him. I’d had my eye on him all semester, primarily because he seemed like the tortured artist type. He had black hair, wore rumpled sweaters, and carried around a copy of Gravity’s Rainbow. (Most people don’t know this, but I pretty much only date brooding short story writers and sulking dark haired men who paint when they’re not too depressed.) When he asked me out, I remember thinking, Someone must have changed the laws of the universe just for me.

He picked me up from the school library on the night of our date in his brand new Mitsubishi and told me when I reached for the door handle, “My car’s kind of… uh… messed up. I had a food fight with my ex-girlfriend in the back seat and when I called the cops on her, all my stuff got even more messed up.” He smiled at me and raised one eyebrow, as though this explanation was the sexiest thing I’d heard all day.

Although he had made some attempt to clean the interior of his car, splotches of grease and flecks of cheese still glistened on the seats and dashboard. I was wearing a four hundred dollar, full-length, black Jones New York coat and tried my best to get in the car without getting nacho toppings and fajita residue on my lovely attire.

At this point, I thought that as an overweight girl I most likely would have to put up with some grief to get a guy, and figured that it could be worse. I asked him, “What kind of music do you like? I love the Smashing Pumpkins, even though it’s not the 90’s anymore.” I smiled and fixed my hair, hoping that I could somehow salvage this date. He ignored me, and droned on about his ex-girlfriend.

I knew that if I had somehow lost the weight before he asked me out, this incident would have never happened. He would have at least shown me a shred of respect and asked if he could reschedule, mainly because he would have been sure that I had other options. But unfortunately, that night, he knew I didn’t. I thought back to happier days of being a size four, when guys would hold the door for me when I walked into Borders and all I had to do was wear a halter top to the St. Louis Bread Company if I wanted a free soda. Not only was I catered to as a thin person, but even basic polite gestures, like guys picking me up for a coffee date after stopping at the car wash, were completely absent from my life when I gained the weight back.

I noticed that my date had pulled out his cell phone, and it wasn’t long before he said, “Uh… my ex-girlfriend left her student I.D. at my house, and I need to call my mom and make sure she picked it up.”

As he dialed, I asked him, “Is this the food fight girl? The one you called the cops on? You mean you’re actually going to give her stuff back?” As I furrowed my brow and tried to figure this out, he kept shushing me and telling me to be quiet.

When he was done with the call, he said, “Sorry. My ex, Susan, is kind of still in love with me. I hang out with her a lot because I feel bad for her. And she always gets pissed off when I won’t make out with her.” He told me this as though every guy has a crazy ex named Susan with whom he occasionally has nacho fights. Then he asked me, “Do you mind if we drive around for awhile instead of getting coffee? I’m kind of traumatized by that food fight, and don’t really feel like going in a coffee shop. And since you live way out in the suburbs, that ride can just be our driving around experience.” At this point, I found myself feeling pretty traumatized as well, so I didn’t object. He made a U-turn and pulled into the Starbucks drive-through, bought me the cheapest coffee on the menu, then began the drive to my house.

Apparently this guy was trying to get out of going on a date with me, and had very thoroughly insulted my intelligence in the process. I went home and ordered cheese bread from Papa John’s, feeling as though I’d sunk to a new low in my mission to find a decent guy. The respect I received from men as a thin person as opposed to an overweight girl remained as different as a canister of Betty Crocker cream cheese frosting and a Weight Watcher’s dinner, eaten alone on a Friday night.

*

I lost the weight and gained it back again in college, too, this time using the ability to get a decent date as an incentive. The day I decided to diet, I realized I also had to choose a diet, which proved more complicated than I’d anticipated. When I Googled “South Beach Diet,” I found that it came with charts of “good carbohydrates” and “bad carbohydrates,” and overall it appeared too difficult to figure out. I remember thinking that if I ever went to a restaurant, I’d look like a loser flipping through my complicated chart to see what I could order. Atkins sounded effective from what I heard from friends and family, but I was still incredulous. I didn’t think I’d survive a diet of nothing but meat and cheese, considering the fact that I’m practically a vegetarian. Besides, I couldn't understand how I could lose weight eating nothing but fat anyway. The fashion model diet (in other words, champagne and cigarettes) seemed glamorous and more fun than what was out there, but I thought it would be hard to keep my grades up if I was partially inebriated all the time and kept taking cigarette breaks. Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig sounded doable, but were too expensive for a college student to afford. The advertised seven dollars a week to be a member at some of these places often didn’t include food, weight loss pills, shakes, and metabolism boosters. I’d heard it could cost hundreds of dollars to finally drop the pounds at one of these places. Even the slacker’s answer to losing weight, those diet pills advertised on late night television, were extremely expensive too, retailing for forty to fifty dollars for a one-month supply.

I opted to reduce my intake of food, which seemed simple but proved difficult. On campus, temptation lurked everywhere: the coffee places in the library and at the student center, the cookies next to the cash registers, the vending machines, even the Godiva display in campus store. At times I felt like walking around campus with my eyes closed. The coffee shop near campus proved to be my worst enemy for awhile, and although I had to walk a couple of blocks to get there, I was never disappointed. When I opened the heavy wooden doors and saw the glistening glass case of chocolate chip scones, raspberry sammies, crumb cake, and blueberry muffins on neat little plates, I usually decided it was okay to cheat just this once.

I took the path that snacks tread, and sinned against miniskirts and meal replacement bars, but did not repent. After gaining, losing, and gaining my flabby stomach and thunder thighs, I sat in the coffee shop one afternoon and thought about the whole idea of dieting. It was like I was cursed, because no matter what I tried, I kept gaining it all back. I also thought about the fitness trainers at my mom's health club and how enthusiastic they are about exercising. For me, it was torture. Those perky little women at the gym always said that eating plain granola and plain celery made them feel good, because, after all, you are what you eat. I had never felt that way – for me, chocolate and whipped cream and pizza make me feel better than wheat bread any day. And I knew why I had never been able to keep the pounds off: I genuinely loved food.

After class, I went home and ordered a pizza. I felt as though I’d finally been freed from a health food store.

*

After giving in to key lime cheesecake and the little vanilla cupcakes that they sell at Starbuck’s, I eventually began to perceive myself and the people around me differently. First of all, I knew that the glory of the Flat Tummy Gospel that these fitness trainers preach is nothing compared to the stellar diet deviations I’ve had so much experience with. Also, I knew that most people want to change their bodies, and often spend a lot of time and money trying to get to a thong-worthy weight. Even though it’s tempting to buy thigh shapers and diet pills, I’ve started to realize that a hot body is never, by any means, permanent. I’ve always been a good listener, Bush joke teller, and pasta cooker, and although these things don’t change with cupcakes or age, they’re easy to forget when there are so many swimsuit calendars around. This time, I’m not going to forget. Like Donna Stonecipher writes in The Reservoir, “Inside the body it’s dark. But maybe the bones glow.” And there’s nothing like a candy bar to light you up inside.

Kristina Marie Darling is a graduate of Washington University in St. Louis. She is the author of four chapbooks, which include Fevers and Clocks (March Street Press, 2006) and The Traffic in Women (Dancing Girl Press, 2006). A Pushcart Prize nominee in 2006, her poems, reviews, and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in many journals, which include Janus Head, Rattle, The Mid-America Poetry Review, Rain Taxi, The Adirondack Review, CutBank, The Mid-American Review, Jacket, Redactions: Poetry and Poetics, and others. Recent awards include residencies from the Centrum Foundation and the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts.

2008-07-01T22:30:00.002-05:00

"Audrey"

by Lori Earley

Lori Earley's oil paintings are a combination of classical realistic rendering with a personal element of distortion. This distortion comes from her innate desire to transform her emotions into tangible planes that express what she feels, not what she sees. Painting has always been a means of self-expression for her. Therefore, she paints because she must, not necessarily because she wants to. Subconsciously or not, the figures she paint are a reflection of herself and whatever mood she is in at the time, so every painting is in essence a self-portrait. Each mood is distinct, ranging from subliminal, cryptic expressions to more cognitive states of being and the eyes of her subjects are often the primary focus of expression.

Lori's work is a fusion of personal experiences and influences - moody atmospheres, Victorian-inspired couture, and timeless elements all laced with clandestine symbolism. The figures she paints exist in their own esoteric realm and time, and each painting offers a glimpse into their anomalous world.

You can find more of Lori's work at her website, LoriEarley.com.

Lit by Chicks

2008-07-01T22:00:00.001-05:00

The Air Beneath

by Megan Sebestyen

I say goodbye to the ground
As I fall from the heavy connection
Of gravity pulling me down.
I fall up, free from weight of worry.
Seeing the responsibilities of time's restraints
Slide from my form,
I wriggle my toes
In the free air.
I care not for the Earth
From such a great height.
I swallow in great gulps of this sweetness.
For do you realize I must go?
Soon, this free moment will fall from under my feet,
Sucked back down by gravity's firm fist.
I will be forced to depart, down,
To the lowly ground.

Megan Sebestyen is a student at The University of La Verne in Southern California, pursuing a degree in Journalism and Creative Writing. Having always loved to write, she aspires to work on a magazine staff. Her work has appeared in The Durango Herald, The El Diablo, and Escape Artist Travel Magazine.

Spirituality

2008-07-01T21:30:00.003-05:00

The Moon and You

by Jenni Piech

Have you ever seen one of those films or TV programs where a group of young, usually naked witches get together at the full Moon and start dancing around in the moonlight? Ever felt the urge to join in? Well, maybe you haven’t, but if (like me) you have, don’t worry, it’s perfectly natural. Throughout history and in many different cultures the Moon has always been strongly linked to female energy. In ancient beliefs the Moon was seen as the symbol for the Goddess, and many modern-day Pagans and Wiccans still celebrate this connection between the Moon and feminine power. Yet many of us non-witchy type folk probably don't know much about the changing phases of the Moon and the effects they have on us. Women today seem out of sync with our traditional source of feminine energy and magic.

The Moon symbolizes the universally fundamental cycle of birth, growth, death and rebirth. Likewise, women also experience phases depending on where we are in our menstrual cycle. We find ourselves influenced emotionally by our hormones, and our experience of ourselves and others can vary quite noticeably. (I'm sure our partners would agree!)

It is generally believed that menstrual cycles coincide with the cycles of the Moon and that, before electricity became so popular, most women cycled together. Although this is no longer the case, it is interesting to note that it takes the Moon 28-29 days to complete a full orbit around the Earth - the exact length of time between the average woman’s cycles.

Many ancient cultures revered and celebrated the link between women and the Moon, leading to the creation of numerous myths and legends about Moon Goddesses. These Goddess stories feature in Chinese, Greek, Native American, Aztec, Mayan and Celtic legend, just to name a few. I particularly like the story of the Mayan Moon Goddess, Ix Chel. One myth states that the Sun was her lover, but that her grandfather was very upset with this and threw lightning at her out of jealousy, killing her. Dragonflies sang over her for 183 days until she awoke and followed the Sun back to his palace. Soon after, the Sun also became jealous of Ix Chel, thinking that she was having an affair with his brother, the Morning Star. The Sun threw her out of heaven and then persuaded her back home, only to become jealous again soon after her return. It is said that Ix Chel was angered by the behavior of the Sun and went off into the night, remaining invisible whenever the Sun comes around. She is also said to nurse women of Earth through pregnancy and birth.

Today, many women still find comfort in an awareness of their spiritual and emotional link with the Moon. It can almost feel as if the Moon is a kind of guardian – a presence who watches over us during the different phases of our lives. It can also help to remind us that our menstrual cycles do not always need to be seen as a burden. Rather, we are part of the many cycles which happen around our planet and within the entire universe!

Jenni Piech began freelance writing in 2006 and has been published in various online magazines, including Nuts4Chic.com. She is now working on her second novel, a project which involves a lot of research, which is good because it makes her feel all clever. She lives in a cozy cottage in south-east England with her fiancé, Tim, and their cat, Cheesecake. Jenni can be reached via e-mail or MySpace.

Lit by Chicks

2008-07-01T13:32:00.003-05:00

Spring in January

by Nirvan Hope

On a winter afternoon
a rhododendron in full flower,
cherry trees along my road
shower petal blossoms
long before their blooming time.

Every living thing
pushes out of control,
a hurtling trajectory
into chaos.
Human doing?

Or was this planned
before we crawled
from mud and muck,
mere pawns
in a transition time,

tools, slaves of a mineral world?
A world that longs
to end oppression
by all pulsing green
and growing life.

We do not know
the language of mineral.

Even if that was
the original plan,
can we emerge
as pacifier
of mineral force,

protector of
the world of green,
through a balancing
of superb proportion
where all will win

and rhododendron and cherry trees
will learn to bloom again in Spring?

Nirvan Hope is the author of the forthcoming book “Three Seasons of Bees and Other Natural and Unnatural Things.” She writes and takes photographs in the Pacific Northwest and is currently working on a memoir set in England and Northern Nigeria. Her work has appeared in regional, national and international publications. You can find her photographer at her website, Earth Rhythms Photography.

Issue #14

2008-06-01T00:08:00.001-05:00

*Letter from the Editor

*Lifestyles: "Reinventing Myself"

*Health & Beauty: "The Flat Tummy Gospel"

*Anecdotes: "Female Mysteries"

*Lit by Chicks: "Early-Winter Night"

Letter from the Editor

2008-06-01T00:06:00.000-05:00

I have been asked to speak to a group of women writers - a group of which I am a member - about how to start a 'zine. I have tried to outline my points, recalling what started me on this path over a year ago and what has kept me going, despite the amount of work involved and the occasional difficulties.

The best advice I can come up with for them and for any of you out there interested in starting something new is to always keep the goal in mind. Remembering why you are doing what you are doing will help you to keep doing it! Any time I am weary, I think of all of the women whose voices are being heard here, as well as all of the people - myself included! - who benefit from listening to these voices.

With that said, enjoy this brand new issue of Della Donna. Kristina Marie Darling is back with the second part of her "Flat Tummy Gospel" series, and we have some inspirational and funny stories for you in addition. Enjoy!

- April

Lifestyles

2008-06-01T00:05:00.000-05:00

Reinventing Myself

by Gayle Boles

I’ve been through some pretty tough situations in my life. I was brutally raped when I was nineteen and at the age of thirty I went into a hepatic coma for three and a half months. I had a stroke while I was in the coma, which left me with a speech impediment and impaired my ability to walk. This led to numerous years of physical and speech therapy, and thankfully, my speech is now understandable and I get around quite well with a little three-wheeled walker.

I am proud to say that I am no longer overcome by problems; instead I calmly look at the lesson I should learn from them. I haven’t always been this way, as I am a recovering alcoholic who has been blessed with the gift of sobriety since July 1, 1980. Back then, the Alcoholics Anonymous program helped me to look at what I was doing to help create the problems in my life and subsequently change my behavior. I learned that sobriety, like life, is a journey, not a destination. I can be excited about each new day or not--the choice is up to me.

I know that God has a mission for me, and I just need to keep my eyes and ears open to understand what it might be. After many years of disappointing members of my family, they have become proud of all that I have accomplished. For example, I have been working for the state of Texas in a job that I enjoy for seventeen years, which has led to financial and emotional independence. Instead of concentrating on the negative aspects of the world, I now focus on what I can do to create a joyous environment. I really can create my own reality by identifying what’s making me uncomfortable and addressing it. If I make the choice to see the beauty of the world and the people around me, I can grow spiritually, which leads to being comfortable in my own skin and life. This is true peace and happiness.

I used to be so concerned with what other people thought of me and my actions. I was always trying to read their minds so I could meet their expectations. I thought everyone knew about every mistake I had made in my life and were labeling me accordingly. That was a very draining preoccupation that kept me from actually experiencing the wonderful things going on around me.

I am grateful to have a whole new life. I am able to give freely of my time and self to other people in my community. People seek my advice and enjoy my company. That’s not how anyone would have described my life before I got into recovery. It is so nice to have been able to change myself and the atmosphere around me. I am now aware of the many blessings in my life and face each day with a joyful heart. This change of attitude allows me to continue growing and blossoming into the woman I have always wanted to be.

Gayle Boles is a firm believer in the idea that life is an exciting adventure. She has been a psychotherapist for close to 30 years and previously worked as a teacher. She loves to travel and write about her experiences. You can find more of Gayle's work at her website, Gayle's Travels.

2008-06-01T00:04:00.000-05:00

"Dust"

by Karen Preston

The artist says, "This piece just came out of things I have read and things I have seen. Ideas and pictures form in my head. That’s how most of my art comes together.

I have always felt that art is magic. There is such an excitement that comes with creating something from nothing. One moment you have a blank space, and the next, there's a new world in front of you. When I finish a piece that I like, it's an incredible high. I can't sleep the night I finish a piece.

It takes between a week and forever to complete a piece. Some come easily, while others take much longer. Like many artists, I feel the ones that come easy are sent to me from somewhere else. Wherever that is, I am grateful for the glimpse inside."

You can find more of Karen Preston's work at her Etsy shop, and she can be reached via e-mail.