The Home Page · The Integral Worm · My Resume · My Show Car · My White Papers · Organizations I Belong To
Technical Writing · Exposition & Argumentation · Non-fiction Creative Essays · Grammar and Usage of Standard English · The Structure of English · Analysis of Shakespeare
Analysis of Literary Language · Advanced Professional Papers · The History of the English Language · First Internship: Tutoring in a Writing Workshop · Second Internship: Advanced Instruction: Tutoring Writing
Visual Literacy Seminar (A First Course in Methodology) · Theories of Communication & Technology (A Second Course in Methodology) · Language in Society (A Third Course in Methodology) · The Writer's Guild
UMBC'S Conservative Newspaper: "The Retriever's Right Eye" · UMBC'S University Newspaper: "The Retriever Weekly" · Introduction to Journalism · Science Writing Papers
Feature Article 1 · Feature Article 2 · Feature Article 3 · Feature Article 4
On a budding hillside in Price George's county, mystical tunes, and a hint of mischief fill the air. It is May 21, 2005 and the fairies return to the hillside after hibernation during the cold winter months. Today, otherwise celebrated as Armed Forces Day by the majority of the world, will have an alternative celebration here - one marked by screams of "Kubiando" and hand-written letters to Santa Claus.
Approaching the front gate, entwined with ivy leaves and blooming flowers, Aimee's eyes light up in anticipation. Aimee, 7, is a Bel Air, Maryland native who makes her annual plight to the Maryland Faerie Festival. Her mother, Sherry, has been an active volunteer for the festival for several years. Mom promised me a new dress and new wings," Aimee says pulling on the tassels of Sherry's magic wand. The two come here as most families do - to hear the exquisite sounds of Clam Chowder and to participate in the Tea Party with Posie. Moreover, the festival is also inhabited by many Pagan vendors, who sell a wide variety of exotic novelty items. "We usually stock up on herbal tea to promote the basic Pagan ideals of strength, tranquility, and reason," Sherry says patting the sachet full of herbal teas hanging from her faerie tool belt lined with healing stones. Today, however, they are having a sale on fairy garb and we got here early to get fist dibs - wings fly off the racks."
Marcy Veltsburg, known as Mixie this weekend, has been a vendor here at the festival for two years. Representing an organization known as the Turning Wheel, she sells a variety of Wiccan books and accessories to her faerie clientele. "Most visitors to the festival are Wiccans, but some are just curious about what the hell a Faerie Festival is," she smiles, pointing to a shelf of books and pamphlets labeled "Wicca for Dummies" and "A Very Faerie Celebration!" "I love working here - it is like a different realm," Mixie says, blowing bubbles at passing pixies. Truly, the event lies in a realm all its own. Passing through the gates, a huge block-letter sign reads "Believe," which is the underlying message of the festival - to believe in the power of Nature and, of course, faeries! For the festival goers here, who complete in faerie fashion shows and drawing contests, the concept of faeries is a reality. "It takes some convincing, but after studying pagan beliefs and rituals, many people understand the myths and truths behind faeries," says Mixie.
For any of the estimated 800 visitors to the Patuxent 4-H Center this weekend who do not believe in the existence of Faeries, there is a special attraction just for you. A large booth labeled "Why Believe" lies just beyond the gates, attracting a large number of wing bearing, glittering wearing festival goers. Here one can find the Adam and Eve theory behind the existence of faeries as well as modern day occurrences of faerie mischief. One such occurrence that is a hot topic this year is the scientific unknowns surrounding the "faerie circles" in Namibia, Africa.
If the several hundred daily visitors in mystical garb and the "Why Believe" booth is still not enough to quench your curiosity, try settling down underneath the wishing trees for an enchanting story from Bill Mayhew and Susan Wooden. The dynamic duo tells of real-time faerie encounters, known to believers as Faerietales, during public access to the festival grounds between the hours of 10-6. After the festival's end, the two are available for personal questions about Wiccan philosophy and culture over a complimentary cup of Faery Fink Tea, donated by the Chesapeake Pagan Community. Each year the Chesapeake Pagan Community donates craft and bubble blowing supplies to the kids's corner of the festival. Here at the Children's Craft Cove, children write colorful and glittery letters to a favorite faerie of their choice - Santa Claus, the toothfairy, and Tinkerbell just to name a few. In addition, children learn to make faerie headbands and lizard hats out of cardboard, paint, and feathers. Teresa Baldwin, 27, has supervised the Children's Craft Cove for two years now. "It is a lot of fun working with the children here," she says, "except last year when that weird guy ruined our fun."
While working with the Children's Craft Cove last year, Teresa Baldwin was joined by the likes of a flasher. He approached a table of young faeries working on magic wands and exposed himself before darting away to the security of neighboring wishing trees. "I was appalled but not entirely surprised - I have been told stories of strange people at faerie festivals before," Teresa smiles, realigning her faerie headband she made as a demonstration today.
Strange people at a festival like this seem unlikely. People hugging trees while listening to the faerie gospel by Bill Mayhew is just the thing to do. Several faery ribbon dancers prance around a fifteen foot pole of pink, red, and orange ribbons shouting "Kubiando" or "thank you" to the faeries for making the Magnolia trees bloom early this year. Faeries pass munching on large turkey leg lunches, before taking a spot among weathered benches to listen to Lee Davenport strum his harp.
So if you missed out on the two days of laughter, mayhem, and traditional music have no fear. Another Faery Festival will be held for five full days at Our Haven Nature Sanctuary in French Lick, Indiana June 15-19. Leave your alcohol and pets at home, but remember your wings, magic wands, and smiles.
###
When most people call up and order a pizza from their local Italian eatery, its rare that most of us ever give the delivery guy a thought other than trying to calculate what a fair tip is on two large pepperonis. As pizza delivery driver Dave Goodwin explains though, "It's a whole n'other world from the driver's seat."
Goodwin has worked as a delivery driver for the past six years, and maintains that there are too many other jobs where people have the same kind of experiences he does. "I've been doing this part time throughout high school and college, just to get some money on the side to help pay the bills, and over the years I have had some pretty weird things happen," says Goodwin. Like the time he was delivering food to a house and "it looked like a party was going on inside, when they opened the door there was a big group of women drinking and screaming at me. Apparently there was a little confusion as to whether I was actually the pizza guy, or the entertainment for the night. I guess it must have been a bachelorette party or something." Describes Goodwin.
On a slow Thursday evening, Goodwin sits around the shop noticeably peeved that there has been a lack of delivery orders coming in, which means a lack of tips for him. When out of nowhere his mood is suddenly elated, "Dave you're going out, two pep and mush's; 7-4b Towson Woods," yells out of voice from the front of the shop. "Sweet, the stoner guys," exclaims Goodwin. He tells stories that the tenants of this particular apartment are regular customers and that there are several constants when delivering to this location. "They always get the same pizzas, they always tip well, and it always smells like someone is burning down a forest of pot when they open the door," he says. "I'll tell you man, with drunks you never know if your even going to get a tip at all, but the potheads, for whatever reason they all seem to love taking care of the pizza guy."
The shop stays open until 3 a.m. and the driver assures that the latter two categories make up a substantial portion of the business in the late night hours. This possibly explains Goodwin's assertions that he has been offered pot, beer, liquor, and even balloons of nitrous oxide, all as tips. Goodwin laughs and says, "I always just tell them that cash is all I need, but I can't lie completely, one guy offered me a bottle of Johnny Walker and I just had to take it."
Driving back to the shop Goodwin tells tales of how it isn't always as easy of a job as many people might think it would be. He's been the victim of robberies on two separate occasions, both times while stopped in his car. "Both times these guys approached the side of my car and started yelling at me that they had a gun and demanded money, and both times I did the stupid thing and sped away without giving them anything," says Goodwin. Since the second encounter the pie driver decided to go against the rules and take the badge off his car when he's driving. As it is what he says, "basically just a sign that says, hey I'm driving around with a bunch of cash in my car, and if you're hungry I've got that covered too!"
Outside of the occasional brush with death, apparently certain groups of customers can be a constant thorn in the side of a delivery driver. "Dogs are the worst," describes Goodwin. "So many people just let their dogs bum rush you at the door without even thinking of holing them back." People also seem to want their food for free fairly often as well. As on this night two separate customers have claimed to have seen a coupon for free pizza delivery, yet mysteriously are lacking the said coupon in both occasions and seem offended and irritated when they actually have to produce money for their extra large cheese pizza.
This isn't to say that the driver himself isn't beyond fault at all times. Goodwin recalls that, "a couple of weeks ago me and a few guys were eating a staff pizza (one that they made for themselves), I think there were two slices missing and another one half eaten, and I accidentally lumped it in with another pizza and delivered it to the customer. Needless to say they weren't happy when half their pie was eaten.
So next time you're sitting around with a couple of buddies watching the game and feel like a melted cheese and mozzarella is the only thing that can satisfy your cravings just think of the hard working delivery boy, and remember the cardinal rule as Goodwin describes it, "Always tip your driver."
###
Parents Jane and Court Herschelman have a lot to be thankful for. This April 29th will celebrate the first birthday of their triplets April, Mia, and Emily. After a trying first year, Jane and Court breathe a sigh of relief at the thought of planning their first "adult" cocktail party, honoring the fifty-some friends, relatives, and neighbors that have tirelessly contributed to the Herschelman clan. Clan? Indeed, as the entrance of the triplets only added to the Herschelman's already three-child strong household: daughters Lauren, 6, Alex, 5, and son Court, 3. Like a blast from a previous generation, the Herschelmans stand for a slice of nuclear normalcy in an age of population decline, where the average child-per-household in the United States has shrunk.
"It was easy," says the former aerobics instructor Jane of childbirth, as she sits cross-legged in a chaotic living room strewn with various toys and couch cushions, lone sneakers and picture books. A breastfeeding babe, indecipherable from her sisters grasps Jane's shirt collar, as Court Jr. attacks her from behind, slobbering some admittance of love into her ear. The eldest girls finger-paint in the kitchen, and blonde Alex, the "wild one," periodically takes breaks from the paint to twirl into the living room announcing, "I HAVE BLUE EYES!" while pear chunks fly from her mouth. Jane's first three children managed to escape the womb without Jane's need of any medication; it was that easy. By the time she was ready to deliver Court, and after having two previous deliveries under her belt, she timed it so that he was born within 35 minutes of her being in the hospital. Home within a couple of hours, Jane nonchalantly upheld her obligation to host "Bunko" at their home that night, the dice game that gives her an excuse to have weekly women's gatherings. "We really didn't think anything of it," says Court Sr., matter-of-factly, "but now looking back we see that might not have been normal."
Although the three elder children arrived easily, the triplets did not come without some complications. Jane's pregnancy was fraught with scares of hyperthyroidism, a disease in which the thyroid gland produces too much hormone, consequently leading to high blood pressure and the chance of delivering prematurely, as well as passing hyperthyroidism along to the babies. Although the tests came up negative, Jane was still challenged to be able to find an agreeable obstetrician. After being booted by her familiar midwife due to the automatic labeling of a multiple pregnancy as being "high risk," the Herschelmans went through many doctors before finding one that would permit Jane to deliver them vaginally, despite her impeccable track record. She found one that agreed, but then changed his mind in her 32nd week of pregnancy. Thankfully, they found Dr. Moen, agreed to deliver her naturally, and just in time, too, as Jane went into labor during her 36th week.
If a baby is born before the 32nd week of pregnancy, and/or weighs less than 4.2 pounds, the baby will be immediately brought to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). "It was our goal to keep those babies out of there," says Court, "we just wanted to bring them home as soon as we could." The obstetrician, a bit liberal as evident by the scowls and questioning of the labor and delivery nurses, probably let Jane go a little too long in her delivery. "Any other doctor would have forced me o have a cesarean - the first baby's arm came out instead of her head, and that can cause some complications." The obstetrician's solution? Risky, but it worked. She put Jane on her belly, head down, and "forced the baby to slide back in," says Jane. The first baby then went right into the correct positioning for delivery, and "came right out." The next two babies, although both breach, (feet-first rather than head-first), could then be delivered easily, because Jane's cervix was relaxed enough from the first baby. Each, a little over five pounds, (huge for triplet standards), went home with Jane on their birthday.
A little girl, no older than four or five, walked into the house, her brown hair giving the only indication of her not being yet another Herschelman daughter, "Have you seen my Sleeping Beauty Doll, Lauren? She asked, disregarding the formalities of a "hello." A search begins, and the towhead children begin to dump and tumble and roll all their toys into an even bigger jumble on the on the floor. Jane barely looked up. This is the custom at the Herschelman's; knocking is a waste of time, and invitations to come over are just understood to permanently exist.
"If you're a friend, and you're here to help, just go on in," says Jennifer Sewell, next door neighbor and friend of the Herschelmans. She recalls one occasion where she went over to help Jane with the babies for a while: "When I walked in, there was just this painter guy painting their front room, and little Court and one of the babies were sitting at his feet playing. I asked him if his mom was there, and he said, 'No.' 'Who's here, then' I asked. He shrugged and mumbled, 'A worker.' Needless to say, Jane was upstairs bathing one of the babies, but when there's someone in the house, Jane'll take all the help she can get."
Dinnertime is always a moment of utter chaos, and this one is no exception. A beautiful spring day, Jane decides to move the kids outside. The Herschelmans live on a picturesque cul-de-sac at the bottom of a hill steep enough to be conductive to sledding in the winter. From the top of the hill passes-by can see the triplets, kept in a playpen with a blanket on the driveway. "It looks like the kids are for sale," says 15-year-old neighbor and volunteer babysitter Amanda Thompson, "You can't see the parents anywhere and here are their babies, they might as well have price tags around their necks."
Court pulls up with several bags full of Subway sandwiches, and before he can disperse them equally among all of the children, lettuce bits and tomato slices burst out into the air and all over the lawn. The babies, like little birds, sit with their mouths open awaiting scraps. Personalities come alive as Lauren methodically and with authority take one bite at a time. Alex the "cyclone," inhales hers, and baby Court tries hard to eat without having the sandwich stolen out from under him by his elder sister. Jane and Court Sr. barely look at each other but the mutual support is evident; once the children are occupied, Court breaks out another sub and splits it with his wife, saying, "Here honey. I didn't forget about us this time."
###
Few college students enjoy spending a Saturday out in windy weather for $7.25 an hour. Then there are the S.T.A.R.s - UMBC's student telecounselors and recruiters. An exclusive group of seven students, the S.T.A.R.s are the people who call up scores of high school juniors and seniors every week in an attempt to have them add UMBC to their list of colleges to apply to. In addition to reciting memorized scripts, these students also have the luck of attending the recruiting event of the year, New Student Day, which is, according to the admissions counselors, the deal maker or breaker for this year's accepted students.
New student Day, almost always held on a Saturday in mid-April, begins with the arrival of the Undergraduate Admissions team and the S.T.A.R.s at 7:45 a.m. Bleary-eyed and slightly disheveled, senior Denise Mendez, straggles into the Retrievers Activities Center, hoping to gulp down a cup of bitter coffee before starting the day. "Denise!" gushes her supervisor, admissions counselor Rebekah Porter, "Here are your directions. Now stand at the stairway between fine arts and the engineering building to greet the visitors as they come in!" Denise nods, trying to shake the sleep from her eyes. She is awake enough to tiptoe into the RAC and sneak out a cup of coffee and a Danish.
"I gotta put on my face," Denise says between sips of coffee. What's that like? "It's something like this," the dark-haired, cherubic-faced senior explains, instantly tacking on a wide toothy smile and waving her hand dramatically. "It's kind of like a pageant, you know? You put on a pretty face, you gloss up the experiences you've had here." Her designated place is ironically situated near the construction site between the chemistry and fine arts buildings. The sign says, "Under construction until August 1, 2004" has been dismantled, but there is no way to cover up the work that has been going on there for the last four years: Amid a scenic view of a grassy hill and the backdrop of the majestic Albin O. Kuhn library, portable toilets, a trailer, and bags of cement populate the grated area between the two edifices. Denise finds a triangle of dawn sunlight and tries to keep warm by pacing in a circle with her hands stuffed into the pockets of her over-sized black UMBC sweater. When the parents and students begin arriving at 8 a.m., she reluctantly pulls her shivering hands out of her pockets and greets each family that walks by. The parents are usually more than happy to chat, asking questions about Greek life, student activities, and the general environment. However the children tend to shrink away from Denise's big and bright "Good Morning! [insert enormous smile here]"
After two hours of waving at close to 1000 people, Denise heads over to another designated area, a small white tent and a table in front of the Retriever Activities Center, to answer questions and direct people in various directions. “When it comes to answering questions, there’s always this idea that there’s a ’right’ answer and a ‘wrong’ answer,” she explains while directing close to fifty people to Lecture Hall II for a placement exam, “The ‘right’ answer consists of ‘Your kid will get the personal attention here that he or she won’t find at College Park,’ but the ‘wrong’ answer is usually something like ‘Your kid is just a ten-digit number to the people in Financial Aid and Administration.”
Denise has a strange and ironic history as a S.TA.R. “I had wanted to work out of financial necessity,” the petite 21-year old explains, “but I later realized that if anyone has the right to talk about her experiences here, it’s me.” Her past at UMBC has been checkered from the very beginning: In four years, she has managed to lose a partial scholarship (“They wanted me to pull up a 1.64 GPA to a 4.00 in my first year - it wasn’t happening.”), move off-campus due to financial issues (“Nobody helped worth a damn - even though I sent emails and called just about everyone in Administration.”), and confront Residential Life (“I had to ride their asses all summer.”) to get back on campus. “My experiences are what the school doesn’t want to put in its viewbook,” she says, heaving a sigh and slumping onto the edge of the table. She immediately straightens up when two admissions counselors pass by. “Working hard?” one of them asks. “You know it,” Denise says, the broad smile from earlier returning to her face. “That’s the one,” the other admissions counselor says to the first, “You should hear her on the phone - she makes me want to come here!” Denise chuckles at the compliment as the two ladies walk off, slouching onto the table as soon as they’re out of sight.
Eleven o’clock rolls around and our S.T.A.R. is due to participate in a campus tour departing from the University Center Plaza in ten minutes. Fortunately, she only has to lead a crowd of about forty parents and students to Susquehanna Hall - no trudging into unfamiliar territory such as the Imaging Research Center or the Howard Hughes Medical Institute. A slender middle-aged Asian woman with a heavy accent dashes up to the front of the crowd and bombards Denise with questions: “What’s this residence hall like?” “Are the floors co-ed?” “What are the bathrooms like?” She answers while briskly walking to get the group to the destination as quickly as possible: “It’s supposed to be a really social hall in which people leave their doors open so that others can come in to chat,” the senior explains, recalling the S.T.A.R. script she had received in the fall semester, “Also, the floors are co-ed, but not the bathrooms. The bathrooms are set up suite style.” Denise’s voice begins to take on a monotone and her eyes glaze over as she lapses into a verbatim repetition.
After aiding a few stragglers in finding Susquehanna Hall, Denise drops by the Commons for lunch. Her supervisor was generous enough to provide her with all the other S.T.A.R.s with a free coupon for any meal under $5.50. Denise orders a grilled chicken sandwich and a soda at the Retriever Grill. “I haven’t eaten here since I learned how to cook,” she says, “and now I remember why.” She grabs a seat with co-worker Amanda and the two go over the events of the week. “I had a phone call with this guy who got into Fordham University,” Denise says, opening the wrapper around her sandwich and frowning upon revealing the charred food inside, “It was so hard to stay on topic because I totally know that area, and this guy was just psyched about going there.” Amanda warns, “I hope you didn’t talk too loud when you were with him - I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking about other schools at all.” “So that’s advertising?” Denise asks, her wide eyes narrowing at the admonition. “I guess it is if you sound too excited about the other school,” Amanda replies, shrugging her shoulders underneath her large gray UMBC sweatshirt, Denise isn’t new to toeing the line on the phone: “I once had a ‘talk’ with the boss because I was telling some kid about how lame the student pub is because the place is vacant on weekends. I mean, it’s true, right? I thought the whole point of doing this was to give an honest perspective.”
After taking three bites out of her burnt chicken sandwich, Denise straightens up and tosses the remainder of her sandwich in the trash. Her shift is up, and her chubby cheeks finally relax from the constant smiling. “So I’m through with advertising,” she says, rubbing the side of her aching face, “Until next week, anyway.”
###
Remember when riding the bus meant getting in a tank sized yellow moving block of cheese and a bunch of screaming little children with their Transformers lunch boxes were coming home to watch Power Rangers and take an afternoon nap? For thousands of students at the University of Maryland in College Park, including Ian McIntosh, driver of the Thursday night shuttle, that is but distant and sometimes drunken memory.
The big yellow school bus has been replaced by an even bigger 40 foot long dark red shuttle that looks like it’s about to take off for outer space. The screaming little children are now obnoxious and sometimes belligerent juvenile delinquents who can’t keep the inside of the bus from spinning even when it’s at a stand still. The lunch box is now a full coke bottle that is only half coke or a traveling coffee mug that makes a person’s eyes squint after every sip. And that nap they’re going home to take will either be on the floor of a bathroom or leave them wanting a real cup of coffee and a truck full of Advil when they wake the next day. Of course, no one really liked riding the bus in grade school anyway.
Ian is 20 years old and has a lip ring, ears stretched so far he can stick pencils through them (and he will), and an uneven hair cut that looks like a child who’s never used scissors before gave him. He is a Criminology and Criminal Justice Major at UMD and has been driving the shuttle since he got his Commercial Drivers License in January 2004 after a month of intense training. He became interested when he heard how well it pays. Being responsible for his apartment, car, and tuition, he couldn’t pass up the cash. “It’s the best job I’ve had yet,” says the chain smoking lad - and he would know. Since he was 15 he’s had an assortment of nametags and hairnets: working in the kitchen at Red Lobster, serving food at Boston Market, pumping gas, and delivering pizzas. But, when driving the shuttle, “there isn’t someone complaining or bitching at you all the time.”
That’s what he says now at least.
About a year ago, when Ian first started driving, he got the shifts when not one person was of sober mind. “At first I thought it would be funny to see all the drunk people. Now it’s just ridiculous.” Indeed it’s hard to drive when “people are loud and out of control, not to mention, puking (which the driver has to clean up).” Gross. Consequently, he now drives Monday through Thursday from late morning to early evening when it’s pretty quiet. The only downside is, however, being awake. Like any college student, Ian prefers to sleep in till when the sun is more than half way across the sky. “With some jobs, you can be awake but you don’t really need to be alert. For driving this bus, it’s even more necessary than usual.”
As can be expected, there’s always someone to walk on the bus and ruin his meditation. One time an Asian woman came on the bus and she spoke very little English. She didn’t understand she was supposed to hit the buzzer at the stop she wanted to get off at so when Ian drove by her stop she burst into tears. “She started freaking out on me and yelling.” According to Ian, it was not as easy as letting her off at the next stop; the next stop, or for that matter any other stop, was no where near hers. “So finally, even though I’m not allowed to do this, on the way back I stopped on the side of the road and told her to get out because she was distracting me and making the other passengers unhappy.” Ouch.
Regardless of the few displeasing instances, driving the bus is a good job. Ian plans to continue driving for the remainder of his enrollment at Maryland. In fact, he just applied for a manager position. “I’m going to be in school for a while so I’ve got to have a way to pay for it.” After he graduates from college, whenever that may be, he hopes to apply to the police academy or do something in the criminal justice field. Really, he would love if his band The Lake could give him all the money he’d need for the rest of his life. Currently, this four-man band who sings the “scary lead vocals” for is in the talks with WMUC Records about a 1 album deal. But mostly, “we’re just playing and writing music we love and having an amazing time doing it.” Ian does a lot of screaming for the “hardcore” band and often ends up so energized he goes from jumping up and down to rolling around on the stage floor singing. “People from the crowd will jump on Ian or sing with him” says one enthusiastic audience member. The Lake can often be found at “The Refuge” in Hagerstown and some surrounding areas churches as three of the members are former residents. “There’s a pretty big yet diminishing scene in Hagerstown,” she says with disappointment.
Don’t worry; as long as there are people listening, be it on stage or in a bus, Ian will keep on singing. As long as he doesn’t end up singing on one of the yellow school buses, he’ll be good.
###
Main Street, in Laurel, is a well-preserved stretch of road that holds much of the town’s history as it blends with the new. The Red Hot and Blue restaurant is popular, and sits across the street from The Laurel School of Music. There are several traditional businesses nestled among its old Victorian houses, such as tailors, banks, and doctors offices. Just a few blocks away from St. Phillips Episcopal Church, and right next to Outback Leather Horse Supply and Saddlery store is The Crystal Fox. This store blends in with the quaint scenery on the outside, but the inside is anything but traditional. The Crystal Fox, for years, has been a business specializing in Wiccan practices and novelties, Magic, and alternative belief systems.
One can be immediately taken aback in The Crystal Fox, since there is so much to focus on. There is a change of aura in the store (or a sense of calm to us mainstream folks) compared to the hustle and bustle outside. To the left, the wall is lined with all sorts of novelties: candles of different colors and meanings used for spells and smells, figurines of dragons, gargoyles, and fairies, Celtic wall hangings, richly colored satin bags, and much more. Stands, holding oils such as sandalwood and musk, every type of incense from here to India and back, fragrant soaps, jewelry, and various semi-precious stones used for “healing” are scattered across the floor. Two massive cases full of even more jewelry line the opposite wall next to the incense, and hold other thing-a-ma-jigs like healing and zodiac stones, which sit next to the Witch’s Almanac. What is most impressive in the store are the bookcases in the middle of the store, holding an abundant amount of literature on Wiccan practices, White and Green Magic, Astrology, Shamanism, Witchcraft, and more. These books range from the simple ones like, “Wicca for Idiots” to “Green Magic” which teaches you how to harness the good powers of nature by respecting the balance of the earth. Customers are free to graze among the topics while they take in the sweet smells of all the incense, candles, and oils and listen to the mesmerizing music playing softly in the background. If it’s Tarot Cards you are after, then they have that too. So many in fact, that they occupy two rotating stands and a table. Buddhist Tarot, Celtic Tarot, and Wiccan Tarot are just a few of the hundreds of card decks. Tarot cards, a form of divination, are used to aid in decision making, and self-making, and self-realization. Since there are so many decks of Tarot cards that a customer is bound to find their subject. The store even holds seminars where for 20 bucks, you can make a “magick mirror that will improve the energy flow in your home.
How does a store with such alternative merchandising go unnoticed in this traditional neighborhood? It doesn’t. The store, which opened up in 1991 and has remained on Main Street ever since, frequently gets a lot of people walking in out of curiosity, and then walking out in confusion. If you don’t know what Wicca is, you’re likely to assume its some type of evil inspired witchcraft. This notion is one that Sven, a store employee, is quick to correct. “Wicca is much like other beliefs, except it is centered around nature,” Sven says. “It has a symbolism that connects everything to everything else.”
Peaches, another employee at The Crystal Fox, says that the Wiccan spiritually left her with a truer sense of spirituality than other religions. But since Wicca isn’t a mainstream belief, how does one come to believe? “For me it was my mom letting me know other things are out there,” says Peaches. The emphasis on the natural world is what drew her in.
While some may not believe it, Wicca is a monotheistic religion that believes in one god having different deities much like Hinduism. Sven explains it as being, “like when we as humans have different personality traits.” It relies on the same principles that most religions are founded on including a Golden Rule, “Harm none, do what you will.” This is as close to the phrase “treat others how you want to be treated,” as it gets. There is no black magic, although people often assume there is. The spells and chants do not produce mind-blowing thunderstorms or strong winds, as in the movie The Craft (“Who’s gonna watch a witch movie if you can’t control wind?” Sven adds.) Newcomers still come in the store and in a roundabout way, will inquire about scorning a lover or friend. “People won’t come out and say ‘I wanna cast a hex!’ but you can tell that’s what they’re expecting,” says Sven. Peaches agrees that many people will take what the belief is all about the wrong way. Some are receptive to the ideas and others are not. She admits it is not for everyone. “Either you push what you believe on them, or you just accept your differences and say ok.” She opts for the latter.
Many families are also raising their children in the Wiccan tradition, which Sven says is more common than one would think. “There are festivals and carnivals and activities that are all family appropriate here in the area.” People are finding it perfectly acceptable to raise their children as witches (another term with a negative connotation). To prove his point, Sven even points out two books on the self, one called “Pagan Parenting,” and the other, “The Family Wicca Book.”
Wicca relies heavily on nature, herbs, and stones, which also play a huge role, are used for different things. Carry a piece of Rose Quartz in your pocket for friendship, sensuality, and emotion, or burn incense to “cleanse” your home. Even candles have a special meaning in their color. Pink being for love, red for seduction, and yellow for positive energy. Everything is meant to bring a sense of balance to the worshiper. And if Wicca is not what you are in to, then there is still something for everyone in the store. In case you were curious, you can read up on Santeria, go Hollywood with selections on Kabbalah, or brush up on your Judaic beliefs. They even sell Holy Water right behind the jewelry case that holds a mix of pentagrams, crucifix necklaces, and talismans.
Outside of the Crystal Fox, there is an active Wiccan community in Laurel. The Moonlite Coven has been around since 1995 practicing the Alexandrian tradition of Wicca. They offer classes that range in subject from “The Elements,” “Gods and Goddesses,” “Symbology,” and “Divination.” There are several other covens in the area including ones in Frederick, Beltsville, and Baltimore. The Crystal Fox also has a small section that provides business cards and other information on business catering to the same interests and New Age events in the area. They are very resourceful people. Since the store caters to so many different groups it isn’t likely they are going anywhere. After all they have been in business for almost 15 years, and the New Age community keeps growing right under the community’s nose.
###
What would 18 Caucasians and one sole African know about legendary African musician Fela “Anikulapo” Kuti? What would they know about the man who inspired resistance through song and was the enemy of the Nigerian government for his politicking?
It is 10:30 p.m. at the corner of Franklin Street and Paca, in the aged side of West Baltimore where night activity is usually drug activity. Here amid waves of red, white and blue warning lights, an old apartment building plays host to the rhythmic beats of a fallen international icon. The words “Gallery Four” in white letter on a blackboard stand against a storefront window, not as dazzling as the tiny bulbs that light up the “Hippodrome” sign down the street. The cars parked outside this green worn out door do not match the long stretch limos that line the entrance to the stately theater not more than the stones throw away. Outside on this dark lit street, three men check ID to ensure that all who come to see a note to note performance of Fela’s music are over 21 yrs. A big round circle on the back of the hand which will take at least five showers to wash off is the mark of permission to gain entry.
On this night on the fifth floor of this old building the Baltimore Afrobeat Society will play the music that had a single man arrested 356 times by an oppressive government from 1971 until his death in 1997. The only thing between the party upstairs and the cold drizzle outside in the elevator at the end of the pastel green peeled paint, brick walled, long hallway. One of the men from the door acts as an elevator driver and as the graffitied doors open before a small metal rectangular box, he ushers the people in strangely gleefully. The elevator doors close leaving the small group of people in dimly lit highly spray painted and graffitied box. The elevator driver turns to the crowd and announces loudly, “I hope you all managed to get to the bathroom before getting on to the elevator,” as he reaches for the five button, pressing and holding it as the little note beside it orders.
“Why?” a wary voice pipes up.
“Oh nothing. Just that this elevator breaks down a lot.” He says as he continues to stab the button. “I guarantee it will break down at some point by the end of the evening.”
Silence.
“How do you get people out?” a young lady with long braids asks.
The elevator man wiggles his way through the tiny crowd to a corner and lifts the panel of a section of the metallic elevator roof, “Through here,” he says as he gives the visibly shaken crowd a Cheshire grin. There is a unanimous sign of relief as the doors finally open up the floor and the people hurriedly scamper out, glad that the short ride did not turn long.
Fela Kuti’s words spoke against corruption and like Bob Marley his poetic words called for revolution against oppression. His political party “Movement of the People” was much like the American Black Panthers from the 1970’s. Most his performances were held in local crowded neighborhood clubs. His scathing dialectic lyrics brought down the full force of Nigerian police upon his person, with him being arrested three times. The charges were often dropped from pressure by his followers. Still, what would 15 Americans and one lone African know about the music that made many a man’s blood boil, rearing to fight?
“Just like That! Just like That! Just like That!” the four female bikini clad, glitter covered women sing and dance imitating the voices and accents of Fela’s Nigerian female backup singers. One stomps her thick black boots and the other wiggles her legs, which are in colorful stockings. They move and gyrate trying hard to mimic the body movements of the African dancers. A valiant effort for four white American women.
Several fists are raised in the air, people thud powerfully on the beaten wooden floor of the loft apartment. In the back, an Asian couple sell $2 beers and wines and $1 sodas in red Dixie cups, tax free of course… after all why would Fela agree to pay taxes to a ruthless government? The folks at the Hippodrome don’t mind paying taxes. A hand written sign on loose-leaf paper hangs above the steel sink behind them reading, “New Dish System - Everyone does their own dishes!!!” Beside the sink and scattered around the disorganized kitchen are a lit coffee pot, a stained refrigerator, an old gas stove and a basket full of old dirty dish racks among other kitchen items. The make shift bar is swayed by the vibrant crowd as the bartender hands over another cup, pours himself another drink and downs it with one seamless movement. He continues as such throughout the rest of the night.
The audience however, does not need alcohol or the hypnotic-floating scent of Mary Jane. Fela’s music blaring from four trumpets and four shinny saxophones, two horns, a drum set, three electric guitars, and electric keyboard and a cowbell, shakes the bodies of the delirious crowd. There are no prim and proper expensive gowns like the ones that sit in velvet chairs watching a mundane performance of “Little Shop of Horrors.” The souls here are stirred up by splices of comments occasionally voiced by the lead singer, a diminutive man with black hair and a scruffy beard, dressed in maroon pants, a checkered dinner jacket, a pink shirt and gray pinch front hat.
A child of about eight years of age scooters across the floor, weaving between the crowd at an hour when most children and seniors are tucked tightly into bed. A young woman grabs him on his third run and carries him through one of two doors marked “Private” on other hand written loose-leaf paper.
Loft parties are common in many metropolitan areas. Most of them like this one are rarely advertised and spread mostly by email invite or word of mouth. They are also heavy age restrictions because of eminent raids by police. In other cites like New York, the parties usually have sexual connotations and some of the ones advertised on web posts include naked loft parties. Thankfully the only interest for this crowd is to listen to the great music and they definitely will get their $10 dollars worth of it.
But what would 18 Americans, one with a crisp Mohawk, another in a Hawaiian shirt and one lone African, know about West Africa’s version of Jimmi Hendrix? What would they know about the “Black President” who married 27 women at the same time? Fela often danced shirtless and drew Nigerians together chanting and charging the crowd through songs that lasted 15 to 30 minutes each. 15 - 30 minutes are what the mainly Caucasian crowd gets. Four hours of straight high powered, music without breaks is what they dance to. The lead singer calls for one more song and the fatigued crowd braves the last song out. Many have been leaning on the walls and pillars and on each other, unable to stop moving to the beats. The girls collapse on the floor, giving into the energy from the spirit of Nigerian political activism. The party ends with more deejayed music until the wee of dawn, long past the time that the lights at the Hippodrome have been turned off.
###
The Home Page · The Integral Worm · My Resume · My Show Car · My White Papers · Organizations I Belong To
Contact Me · FAQ · Useful Links