Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY)

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JUST A SIMPLE JACK-ASS I told her from the first to be careful. She wouldn't listen. I can still remember the massive shoulders shrugging away my advice. Even then, I marveled at the similarity between her and the mule she called, Angel. We met on a lonely road, quite by accident. I was desperately lost and she was passing by. I watched for a while before speaking and let- ting my presence be known to her. She was a big girl, with long, brown hair, pulled back into a messy pony-tail. Her skin was a deep tan, from the long exposure to the sun and her feet were bare. Her arm rested on a small mule who refused to move. With her hands pulling on his rope, she finally got it to move a few steps only to give up as the mule once more stood still. She went and sat under a tree, and I approached her. I thought her to be an uneducated farm girl and so I spoke to her in the Spanish dialect spoken in the region. She noticed my clumsiness and with -a smile spoke to me in a hesitant English. I told her my name and how I was lost and she offered to take me to the town as soon as her mule de- cided he was ready,-she did not want to trouble him. It was a full ten minutes before he rose from his hind-quarters and started to walk down the road. It was another hour before we reached the town, and the public water pump. After getting Angel a iug of water which she spilled into her hand while he drank, she went to the pump where I was drinking. She drank. It was not until they began to shout their insults that I noticed the boys standing nearby. She paid no attention to their taunts, only con- tinued to drink her water. I was furious in the face of her calmness. I could not think what to do and so moved towards the source of the shout- ing. She stopped me, not speaking a word, and I could only stare at her in disbelief, in confusion. I continued to watch her as she unstrapped the bag from her mule's back, slung it over her shoulder and walked towards the church yard. I followed, unwilling to let her out of my sight. She placed the bag by the door and without a word, went back to her mule. She walked slowly with even steps, each falling squarely on the ground. When we reached the mule, she looked up, smiled her kind, knowing smile and said good- by. I looked around me to make certain we were alone. It should not matter who your parents were. The product is what is of importance. It should not matterl bhe patted her Angel's head, After all, he is iust a simple iack-ass. MIRIAM JIMENEZ ALLI His dark skin and strong legs were always seen among his goats. Alone in the isolated val- ley, sleeping with them, eating with them, their world became his. At the time the sun came up, he went to his long journey with his flock to find pasture. They glided down mountains, a black wild river, and he with them, skipping upon the rocks with his curved, hairy legs, and always holding, like a single horn, a huge oak stick. Alone. At sunset when the sun colored the trees with pastel tender colors, he returned to the cave. Here, on his wooden bed, covered with hard goats' skins, he watched his goats when their wild desire rose: he watched them making their coarse love on the stained ground. His unsatisfied desire was then rising in- side him, wild and powerful. His hoof-like hands would grasp something in the air, until the pale dawn came .... He tried to get deeper and deeper into the valley. To escapel To forgetl He tried to concentrate his life, his thoughts, on the goats, staying with them in the cold winter, helping them to give birth to their young, and yet they feared him. Sometimes he would become cruel all of a sudden, trying to hurt them, and they would see death in his eyes. Blood. His cracky voice would hang like a wild eagle in space, above them, threatening. Sometimes he would stand for hours on a peak, the wind blowing against his dark, hairy chest: his sharp eyes searching the distances below. Something vague, ungrasped would begin to wrestle inside his simple brain. What was it? One time in one of his iourneys he met a group of children. Their pure eyes looked, won-

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I don't mind helping you. And if I am ever hurt, I will be sorry, but I will be a little bit better and a little bit wiser for knowing you.' I could never be sorry for making relation- ships a foremost thing in my life. I love harmony. My creativity needed god-parents. I knew that no matter how many hurts should spring up, there would always be too many good friendships to counteract them. I was still staring at the little man. He moved unconsciously, except for his eyes. They were alive with the knowledge that these ani- mals needed him, looked forward to what must be his daily coming, and the friendly gesture he made with his arm to beckon them to dinner. Suddenly, I wanted more than anything else to cry. I wanted to take the little man and never let anyone laugh at him or stare at him or hurt his precious squirrels. I wanted his placid face to break in a thousand grey old lines and a thousand tears to flow down the square planes of his face: Whether for ioy or sorrow or both, I don't know. I wanted to cry out: 'Cry Little Manl Never mind the rest of the worldl Cry, cry, Little Manl Feed your little ani- mals, St. Francisl Feed your friendsl Feed your damned lice and flea infested squirrels with their dirty feet and rat-matted fur and pus-streaked eyesl Feed your friends, for God's sake St. Francisl Love them and feed them and cryl Oh please cry, my Little Manl And thank God that there's a park for you to walk in and tiny animals to bestow your love uponl Who would think, Little Man, that you could love! Have a good cry St. Francis. No one will see you. They're too busy looking at them- selvesl Get yourself stoned St. Francis! Who would think that you could love...' A very slight smile, so faint it was almost unnoticeable, slipped across his face as the squirrel plucked another nut from his fingers. I let out a gasp and dove into my pocket- book, crammed with iunk. Pulling out a pad, I scribbled as I said out loud, Saint Francis fed the squirrels. Both Laura and Leona looked at each other and smiled a somewhat knowing smile. I want to write a story about him, I said, He's like something from another era. We left the park laughing. Fool that I aml I am the little man and the squirrels, and the people that watch himl I can't help hoping he won't die iust yet. When he does, I hope he dies in his sleep. ADELE GERAGHTY LEMMING - MY MOTHER Lemmings are small, attractive rodent- like creatures who inhabit the Arctic Tundra re- gion. They are nomadic animals who travel end- Iessly in search for food. Rather than change their course, bands of Iemmings have been known to swim across rivers, where more than half drown. No barriers can hinder their progress because of their great determination to move on. They are famous for their quixotic courage, demonstrated in their willingness to fight for their young. Unfortunately, large predators find the brave lemming easy game. I know only one person who possesses the virtues of this animal. She has searched endlessly for the food called kindness and understanding, and she still searches, finding only enough crumbs to keep her from dying of starvation. Mountains of apathy, rivers of fear and deserts of hopeless- ness confronted her in her iourneys, but in her desperation, she managed to move on. When she thought she had found her sustenance, a gro- tesque animal called CRUELTY chased her away from happiness, devouring her spirit again and again, until almost all her willingness to live had been ingested into its black interior. Unceasingly, she searched, being led into spider webs of pain, hypnotized into security, then being allowed to fall into a pit of reality by the sneering laugh of deception. The little progress she had made in life had been envied by other Iemmings who con- spired to stop her from gaining any more. They bit her and clawed at her soul until blood and tears drenched her shabby gray rags. One reason for existence then saved her from dying. She sheltered it, nursed it and made it grow. Only then was she able to seem complete. But is she complete? Even now I sense that she searches for food. Will she regain what she has unwillingly lost, or has half of her drowned in the seas of her past? ROXANNE RIVERA

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O dering, at him. They feared this dark, sweat- smelling figure in a goat-skin. What is your name? Long forgotten cords of something unde- fined rang inside him. But he could only draw distorted, childish forms on the ground, and call THE WANDERING ALBATROSS He came from the sea to puzzle us, like a wandering albatross. He had traveled many life- times and seen more than he told of before he came to us to choose his mate. He was fine-boned and handsome beneath his curls of soft down, and as the albatross is clothed in thick feathers to shield him from the wind, so was our albatross enveloped in his own shield of fantasies to guard him from the sober- ness of the world around him. We doubted him and knew too little of his mysteries, iust as the sailors hadalways held this unusual bird in wonder. Like the albatross, he seemed never to sleep. His eyes remained open in rest, as if he sought to see great distances in his dreams. He seemed to fear us, for he never fully landed in our midst, always hovering lust out of touch, not wanting to leave us, but afraid to give up his wandering life and put his wings to rest forever, not wanting to be soiled by our human frailties, and not wanting to recognize his own. He was a sea bird and a strange bird, and his goats. His legs then iumped lightly upon the rocks, and he disappeared. A free, wild figure. But something was missing in his mind, something he wanted and knew not. Something which could never be fulfilled. SCHOSCHONA SCHONFELD he came to us to find a mate. He found her in the summer and took her to the sea. The courting customs of the albatross are peculiar to us. Male and female waddle to- ward each other with a dignified step and bow ceremoniously. After some strutting, they cross bills and seem to fence like swordsmen, mean- while uttering strange cries. The pattern of their relationship bore a startling likeness to that of the albatross. lt was an odd and unearthly love, nour- ished on the sea, and always he hovered above her, not wanting to close his eyes to his dreams of wanderings past and wanderings to come: afraid to let her touch his vulnerable soul, and always afraid of losing his wings. The summer came and went, and few of us succeeded in truly understanding our albatross. When the sea froze, so did the love of our albatross. It seemed to be covered with a shell of transparent ice that promised to melt in the spring, and at the peak of the lonely winter the albatross stood at the shore of reality and spread his wings in the rain. JUDIE PFEFFER C 'iz'-: N r lfflyams s . t Ag itlminv' - W if T h QXXXS: 1 n 51 , 5 1 ' l W T' '