Where I’m From

Where I’m From
by Randy DeLaFuente

I am from the soils of many places,
from fights and get togethers.
I am from the schools of haters.
(quiet and peaceful)
It felt like isolation,
the punch and duck
whose words I felt as if they were mine.

I’m from the drama of love,
the dances of celebrations.
I’m from the metiche’s and the ass whoopins,
from the ice cream and the games.
I’m from the he can hit him back
and the wanna dance with me.

I’m from the bailé esta kumbia,
rice and beans and apple juice
from the tree my uncle planted before leaving.

Acceptable in the Eighties

Another offering from our inventive Film Studies class ….

Acceptable in the Eighties from LPS on Vimeo.

Howard

Howard from LPS on Vimeo.

My Mom

My Mom
by Anna Och

I don’t get to see my mother a lot, as we have different schedules. I have school and she has her job at the casino, her job at the township, and her campaign for a bigger township role. The moments we have together are usually spent being the weirdest people on the block. Between the two of us we have many stories of our chicken adventures, like the time we had to bathe a chicken to make it lay an egg or the time mom hatched an egg in her bra because the mother abandoned it. It’s stories like these that give my relationship with my quirky mom depth.

When I campaign for her we usually go door to door. She loves meeting everyone in the township and traveling to the houses she’s never seen up close. She approaches every door with an interesting way of greeting the household and always has something new to say to hold the interests of the many different kinds of people in our area. Often you find her off the topic of her boring township work, reciting the life stories of the chickens in our backyard, or telling of her tale of her walk on the beach the afternoon before. It doesn’t matter to her whether she’s off topic or not, she’ll still keep talking

Whether she gets elected or not it wouldn’t bother me. If she wins I’ll see her even less, but I know she’s doing what is right for this township. If she doesn’t win I’ll see her about four days a week instead of two days a week. Those two extra days may not seem like much, but for me its forty eight more hours with the talkative, quirky, chicken-loving woman I am proud to call my Mom.

If I Could Change

If I Could Change
byAndrea Hunt

If I could change the way things go
The way things are, and how they’ll grow
With these hands, I would murder the illness
That takes sweet souls and turns them hairless.
I know that doctors are searching for the answer
But seriously, imagine this world with no more cancer
Caused by cells that grow up abnormal
Spreading like wildfire, defining the mortal.
It happens to sisters, daughters, and brothers,
It happens to sons, fathers, and mothers
Sucking life from the ones held in our hearts
Praying and hoping we won’t have to part
Why does it target the pure and the perfects
Why can’t it target villains or the insects
The worst always seems to happen to the best
Please, tell me why, and I’d be impressed.
No more tumors, exams, or biopsies
No more implants, aching, or chemotherapy
No more IV’s or troublesome tubes
No more doctors checking your boobs
The world would be full of wonder and grace
If I could put cancer back in its place.

Foxy

Foxy
by Austin Fellows

I was running down the hill at full speed. All I heard behind me was the deafening bark of a rapidly approaching animal. Tears ran down the faces of Ben, Peter, Olivia, and me as we ran for our lives from the drooling, black, 120 pound dog. My parents looked at each other in fear and quickly decided it was time to move onto the next house.

I was six years old, and after months of my siblings and me begging for a puppy my parents had finally given in. My parents had been driving my family and me around all day with long a list of homes and families that were giving away their dogs. We did not spend much time at most of the houses. The dogs were either vicious monsters, too old, or just not the dog my parents were looking for. Ben, Peter, Olivia, and I hopped back into the car, sulking over the fact that we had not been able to find a dog after an entire day of searching.

“There’s just one more house” my mom said from the front seat, “Do you guys want to check it out?” I looked at Peter, whose face was stained with dried tears, and asked if he wanted to go or not. Peter, who was eight years old, responded with a loud “We have to get a dog!!” Ben, Olivia and I agreed with him. My parents turned the “Tarzan” music soundtrack (our preferred CD ) back on through the speakers of the car and we made the journey to the next house.

When we arrived at the next, and last, house, Ben, Peter, Olivia, and I were prepared to be attacked by another massive dog that the owners were just trying to get rid of. I nervously walked around the back of the house with my parents and found two eighty year old grandparents throwing a frisbee for a tiny little gold and white Corgi in the backyard. We watched for a bit as the dog would run and retrieve the frisbee and run it back to its owners, set it down, and sit. The dog was not trying to attack us, not too old, and just the dog my family and I had been searching for all day long. We took her home that day. She was six months old, already trained, and her name was Foxy.

It did not take long for Foxy to adjust to a new house and a new family. Only a week after Foxy arrived home with us she was running down to the lake and swimming and playing frisbee with Peter and me. Foxy’s little golden body would sprint around our yard non-stop for hours, then fall asleep on the floor right in the middle of the kitchen.

Foxy was the perfect dog for our family.

Twelve years later, Foxy turned thirteen years old in the spring of 2012. She had developed a massive tumor on both the front and sides of her face. It made it very hard for her to breathe, hear, and sleep, and she eventually went completely deaf and blind.

Yesterday morning, I took my dog out for a walk. We walked out behind my house, and up into the woods. It was a cold morning. Snow slightly covered the ground, like blotchy white paint. The sun slipped through cracks in the trees, like a thousand flashlights hung above the foliage. The ground was hard, and the open air filled my lungs. I walked for a half of a mile and came upon a mound of rocks, with a cross built from fallen tree branches. I placed Foxy’s collar, which I had found the day before in my attic, under a rock on the top of the pile.

“You would have loved her” I said as I looked down to my side. Toby, a seven month old corgi, stared back up at me with a smile, and ran off into the woods. I took another look at Foxy’s grave, smiled, and ran after my new little puppy.

Cities

Cities
by Kate Bishop

The digital red lights of the clock tell me it is 5:30 in the morning.  I figure my dad will be waiting until a reasonable hour (most likely 6:00 so I don’t complain too much) to wake me up, so I lay in my hotel bed, watching the clock until six.  The Chicago lights are shining through a slight shimmer of smog, fluorescent but a tiny bit blurred through the window.  I see the headlights of cars drive by, adding golden hues to the whites and blues of the city outside, which are a surprise after the reds and browns of the wilderness sunrise of my home.

At 5:45, I give up the pretense of sleep and get dressed to go to breakfast.  Dad likes to wake up early enough for the free buffet so that no one is seated but us.  I choose a table by the large window that is level with the headlights, pedestrians, and skyscraper lobbies across the street.  I can see through the lower windows of the lobbies and into their main rooms, with golden walls and polished elevators.  It looks just like the lobby of our hotel.  I sit down with my chocolate milk and cinnamon roll and think about how different it is here than in my hometown.

Throughout the day, we take a personalized tour through alleys, side streets and adjoining hotels, trying our best not to look lost.  Being lost is not something we are accustomed to, having lived in a small town all our lives.  Even though we are only here for a night and a day, I can already feel myself lose the easy sense of direction you get from knowing where everything is.  I catch myself smiling at people who don’t smile back, but that is just an old habit and I won’t be needing it here.

When the sky begins to turn gray with dusk, we set out again to find dinner.  After having done some online research, Dad determined the best restaurant in town and, even better, he knew how to find it.  We head down the stairs of the nearest subway station.  To my surprise, it opens into a long tunnel with lights illuminating the darkness.  In their cheap radiance there are close to one hundred people bustling by, a hundred voices mingling with that of the loudspeaker.  Catching my attention, however, is a man with dreadlocks, a bandana and torn jeans.  He holds a saxophone and a secondhand case.  The latter is propped open at his feet, and I see the telltale green of his day’s collection inside.

Surrounding the man is a group of spectators.  They’re either far away, wanting to watch but not feeling obligated to donate, watching appreciatively, or joining in enthusiastically by clapping or even singing.  At the end of each song the performer makes eye contact with the people closest to him, smiles, and sneaks a look at the contents of his saxophone case before playing again.  Still having twenty minutes before our train leaves, Dad leans against a wall nearby, watching but not wanting to feel obligated.  I follow, enjoying the music.  In Michigan, there aren’t any places near me large enough to have people like the man playing the saxophone.  Even if there are, there are not enough people on the streets to perform for.  When we leave I drop a dollar in his case, ducking away from my father’s disapproving glance.

After we are off the train, we walk the last block to our restaurant.  It’s a four-star steakhouse, chosen by Dad.  It’s designed like a tavern but with the bar in a separate room so as not to disturb the more snobby guests.  Dishes clatter and people laugh, but not so loudly that we have to raise our voices.  Our waiter appears, giving us water with professional grace.  Dad waits until he leaves and turns to me.  “He’s probably been at this job for years.  It’s probably all he’s ever done,” he informs me with pride in the fact that everything has a cost, and our waiter isn’t on sale.

When we leave the lights, crowds, and polished lobbies of Chicago I watch its disappearing haze for as long as I can.  I miss the creativity and clamor that only cities seem to have.  Even though I live in the clear skies and uneven ground of Michigan, home is where the heart is.