Young Women's Empowerment Project wants street based youth to SPEAK YOUR MIND
 
 
This speak out was organized by YOUTH for YOUTH!   Street based means if you identify as being under age 25, homeless, are runaways, DCFS Wards, HIV positive, gang involved, survivors of police brutality, survivors of sexual assualt, survivors of the mental health system, have had an abortion, fugitives, squatters, sell drugs to surivive, use drugs, are queer, are couch surfin, are disabled, LGBTQAATSI, feminist, activists, butch queens, femme queens, transgender youth, butches, femmes,artist, rioter, involved in any part of the sex trade, rebels, militant fighter, trader, tagger, writer, slam poiet, dreamer, racer, vagbond,rapper, youth of color, girls of color, young parents and girls who are mothers, freestyler, buttonmaker, anarchists, revolutionary thinker, or just plain surviving through the day 2 day hustle and flow of our struggle.... THIS IS YOUR DAY TO SPEAK OUT!!
 
WHERE: Latino Cultural Center
Lecture Center B2, Enter through 750 S Halsted  **signs will be posted
WHEN: April 18, 2008
TIME: 6pm-8pm

Child care provided free!

Limited space available for adults. Adults interested in attending should email cindy@youarepriceless.org to RSVP. Youth under 25 do not need to RSVP!

This speak is being co sponsored by Young Women's Action Team, Chicago Abortion Fund, Chicago Women's Health Center, Aqua Moon & Unsilenced Woman Press, Broadway Youth Center, Radio Arte, Illinois Caucus for Adolescent Health, Latinas Organizing for Reproductive Equality, Empowered Fee Fees,Chicago Girls Coaltion, Feminists United, MeSa, UIC Gender  & Women's Studies, Women and Girls Collective Action Network & Third Wave Foundation.
 
 
Want to help us? JOIN our STREET TEAM by DOWNLOADING the black n white FLiER HERE and handing it out to all the youth you know!
 

This information comes from the artist Helen Redman. More information is available on her website.



This is about eMotion Pictures: An Exhibition of Orthopaedics in Art which opened at the San Francisco Moscone Center in March and is now at the Chicago Cultural Center.

eMotion Pictures: An Exhibition of Orthopaedics in Art
Chicago Cultural Center, G.A.R. Rotunda
2nd Floor, 78 East Washington Street
Chicago, Illinois
April 17 – July 20, 2008.

Almost 1,200 entries were received from 17 countries and 45 states, representing a broad spectrum of orthopaedic conditions. The jury included René de Guzman (Yerba Buena Center for the Arts), John R. Killacky (The San Francisco Foundation) and Paul Pratchenko (San Francisco State University). This unusual show features 200 works of art from 152 artists (including children, surgeons and patients) who celebrate struggle and healing.

While I participated in e-Motion Pictures (2001), I hesitated to enter the 2008 exhibition because it seemed like such a long time since my successful surgery for a herniated disc had taken place (1980). Although musculoskeletal problems wax and wane as I age, the suffering and symptoms that beset and immobilized me in my forties are no longer part of my life. I move freely now and alternate daily practices of Yoga, Qi Gong and physical therapy. Yet, I realized that even after physical symptoms are gone, the emotions and fear of reoccurrence are not.

"Ultimately the whole and broken live side by side in us all."— Estelle Frankel

Reading the beautiful accompanying catalogue from start to finish gave me a sense of the spirit, courage and resiliency of all the participants and a deeper understanding of how a core condition impacts one forever. While surgery helped many of us, I read of persistent, chronic problems: immobility and rigidity sometimes only finding flow and movement in art, through the paintbrush or lens of the camera.

http://www.aaos75th.org/gallery/emotion_pictures.htm

Please forward this notice on to people you think would be interested, especially in the Chicago area.  THANKS!

By Jamie Y. Marable

One often hears about the “preacher’s kid”—whether through gossip, public scandal, craftily woven novels, or personal stories. While I certainly would not want the kind of public attention preachers’ kids often receive, I can say that being the daughter of a musician is no less interesting. It is in fact an experience that one would have to live to fully understand.

I am probably my father’s biggest fan. A local saxophone player in Chicago, Illinois, he is neither rich nor world-renowned, but his passion for music has inspired me throughout my life. I Google him regularly to see what information is out there on him, ask him to save fliers, program copies and any other tangible items that I can place in a scrapbook, and sit proudly—front and center—whenever I have the privilege of attending one of his gigs. Whether he is writing and composing music at home, revving up at a rehearsal, playing at a local club, or performing at a festival, I get a rush from hearing my father play.

My earliest memories of music are from growing up in an apartment complex owned and occupied by local musicians on the South Side of Chicago. It was far from upscale, and not everyone would be able to stomach the beats and melodies that permeated the building throughout each day. For those of us who lived there, however, it was a way of life. And for me, it was routine to return home from school to the sound of drums, pianos, horns and singing as we walked toward the entrance to our apartment. Although my father and I shared many wonderful times together, I developed an understanding early on that rehearsal time at home was sacred. He would go into the den and close the double doors, and I knew that unless it was an emergency, I had better find something else to do besides bug him about trivial things! His music provided a wonderful background for all of my activities around the apartment—whether I was playing in my room, spending quality time with my mother, doing homework or writing poetry. At times my mother was irritated by his playing, but to me it was just “what Daddy does”; it came with the territory.

One of my favorite memories is going with my father to Old Town Chicago for rehearsals with a band he was playing with at the time. He always made the trips fun for me. There was a candy store we would stop at that featured giant barrels of candy. I remember developing a love for “rock candy” with its crystal-like appearance and super-sweet taste. We would stop there before or after rehearsal, and I would stock up on enough rock candy to last me until the next rehearsal.

Old Town was also where I developed my first crush on an “older man” named Kenny, who my father played with in the band. The rehearsals were in Kenny’s apartment in Old Town. He was in his late teens or very early twenties at that time, and I was still a little girl. However, I swore that when I grew up I was going to marry Kenny and we would grow old together in Old Town!

I will also never forget Donald, another musician that my father played with, who had mastered his Donald Duck impersonation and would have me laughing hysterically every time I saw him. He loved to make me smile, and his mission was always easily accomplished.People often ask if I play an instrument, and the answer is no. I always scored high on music aptitude tests that I took in school, but I never had a desire to become a musician. My father knows how to play a number of instruments besides the sax, and once I asked him to give me piano lessons. But I discovered learning to play the piano required much more patience and discipline than I was willing to devote as a young girl. Some time later I decided I wanted to become a singer, but that too proved to be a passing fancy. Instead of music, I chose writing as a form of creative expression. Ironically, whenever I write there is always music playing—if not actually in the background, then figuratively in my head.

The last time I had an opportunity to hear my father play was at last summer’s Chicago Jazz Festival. The annual festival showcases the talents of outstanding jazz musicians; some are known all over the world, and others are well-known and respected in the city. Seeing my father on stage brought back so many fond memories of growing up and learning about music through his life. My mind could not help but drift back in time to the days when I was a little girl who went with Daddy to rehearsals and relished the gift of music he so unselfishly shared with me. Each time I hear him play, that excited little girl returns. And although he is a humble man who tends to downplay his accomplishments, I could not be more proud of him for remaining true to himself and his craft.

                                                                            
                   Me with my father, Edwin A. Daugherty, Jr. at the 29th annual Chicago Jazz Festival. Summer 2007
                   Credit: Shirley A. Daugherty

Bio: Dr. Jamie Y. Marable is a “born-again writer” who has returned to her first love after a long hiatus. A journalism major in college who wrote features articles and editorials for her college newspaper, she later went on to become a higher education professional. Read more of her work at: Associated Content.

By Adele Nieves                                                    


                                                            


On three separate occasions I've tried to express in writing the meaning of this song, my song, and its hold on me. Each time I came up blank.
 
I realized I don’t want to share it. It’s mine, privately. And even if I could put into words the breathlessness the night E sat me down, shut off the lights, asked me to be quiet and introduced me to a song that melted my world away, I wouldn’t. I find no place for it in this room, in any room.
 
The enormity of this feeling is mine and mine alone. It only plays for me; it doesn’t hold regular performances and doesn’t schedule guest appearances for the general public. When I listen to this song, I understand that love comes in many forms. Sometimes it is simply yours, to cherish silently.
 
I want to be generous and break off a piece for you to savor, but it needs no acclaim, no paparazzi attention or writer’s critique. It is complete and whole exactly the way it is—untouched, uncomplicated and simple, and simply mine.



Bio: Adele Nieves is a journalist, writer and activist, a co-founder of Liquid Words Productions, and one of the editors for The Outlet.

By Frank Little

Here's to the maker,
The film double taker,
The illusion type faker.
Guaranteed shaker,
Paravision viewer.

Or it just may seem
you lost the real scope of life,
the hope of life,
to cope with life,
And found it on the screen.

And how many times have we heard that line?
Do you think I'm blind, to trade my mind for what you call fine?
Never in my time—I’m not in your movie.

Do I have a theme song?

No. But “At the Movies” by Bad Brains is certainly a contender.

I have a strange relationship with this band. Like many others of my generation, my favorite hardcore punk band is arguably the most unique of the genre. In an overwhelmingly white subculture of punk rock, Bad Brains were black. In a musical and cultural movement that defied the authoritarianism and conformity of the Reagan era, Bad Brains were ultra-religious (Rastafarians, later born-again Christians) and homophobic. Like so many others touched by artistic genius, they were complex, and often contradictory. Yet at the same time there was jubilation, a love for life, a positive mental attitude, and a creative zeal that was simply beyond inspiring, especially in their earliest work of the late 1970s and early 1980s.

They were also helped by the fact that no one—and I mean, no one—could touch them, on stage or in the studio. Forget it. Stop trying. You simply accepted that they were the reigning champions of rock, and you were fine with that. Shit man, it’s Bad Brains.

I say “were,” because for me their career was largely over after their second full-length album I Against I. It represented a major shift in style, yet maintained all their brilliance and creativity. As for what came after this album, I don’t bother.

So, “At the Movies.” It begins with an effect-drenched reggae guitar intro, then shifts into high gear with an aggressive riff. The drums come crashing in, and we’re off. Forget about trying to understand the lyrics in this one. For one thing, the first 12 or 13 lines of the song are sung in about six seconds, and I think H.R. (singer) skips about half of them. Whatever. You don’t care, because your head is swirling in the rhythm and the rage.

Then something about “stale popcorn, don’t you stand in your chair.” What the…? Never mind. After a lead guitar break that’s over before it begins comes the second verse:

A child is influenced by the make believe
To take advantage of this truth is a cold-hearted sin.
So I say to youth right now:
Don't sway to the unjust!
No matter what they say,
Never give in, never give in.

I understand this will sound corny as hell, but every time I hear these lines, my heart just moves into my throat. Half of me wants to cry, and the other half wants to start throwing chairs at walls because the energy of the music is so undeniable. I feel like I’m performing some injustice by not wrecking shit, you know? Or I want to grab anyone in the room by the shoulders and shake them, pleading “don’t you hear this? Please tell me you understand how beautiful this is!”

There are songs that make me feel like I can get up, grab the world by the throat and say “Not today, motherfucker—I’m the wrong one to fuck with.” This one is on that list.

Bio: Frank Little is very much in love, and doesn't regard much else about himself as being of real consequence.  However, he feels it is important to point out that the war is over, if you want it.

When I was in my late teens and a political activist, I remember hearing about the 1970’s rally cry of never trusting anyone over 30. I always laughed at that. Middle age would never happen to me. In fact it seemed impossible to comprehend that I would ever not be young. I knew it all, and I would always be right. I knew so many old fogies who were out of it. They dressed in pant suits recommended by some sales clerk. They listened to classic rock or the easy listening stations. They worried about credit reports and the future. Ha! What a pack of losers.
 
Well, last week I had to face up to the fact that I was squarely out of my youth, and it ain’t coming back. I was on a field trip with my students when I realized that not only did I not recognize any of the music they listened to, I had absolutely no desire to listen to it at all.

I have always considered my musical tastes well-rounded, and I keep up with trends, but who the fuck is Chris Brown?  I just can’t summon the energy to listen or search him out. The famous of the moment, they usually hold some appeal for me. Beyonce comes on and I can’t take my eyes off her, Shakira—I mean, I must watch the hips shake. Even an Usher video can hold my interest. But when I look at picture of Chris Brown in a magazine, I just don’t see the attraction.

The girls in my class faint at the mention of his name, the boys all have his stuff on their mp3s. And I have to sadly shake my head and admit, “Don’t trust any one over 30”.  -Teach

Hermana, Resist is accepting submissions for the next issue.
 
Hermana, Resist is a personal, political zine with literary tendencies which manifest in forms of poetry, free verse, haiku, short stories, journal entries, rants, raves, critiques, commentaries, photos, recipes and dreamy manifestos.
 
Submissions should keep in mind what Hermana, Resist is, from folks who know that love is political.
 
The best way to know what it's about is to read a past issue or two.
 
-Women of color/Chicana/Xicana single mothers-send in your rants, pieces, articles
-WoC/Chicanas-send in your poetry.
-WoC bloggers, zinesters and revolutionary visionaries
-feminist Chicanos/Xicanos
-Unsent letters, for example-Dear white guy who asked if I needed a translator before I even spoke
-Interviews with an Hermana. 
 
Send your best work, soulful, compelling, compassionate, angry, original and unforgettable.-send your history.
Poets-up to three poems, artists & photographers-send up to 5 images via email.
 
Note: They the issue will most-likely be published in black and white. Writers who's work is published, will get a free copy of the issue.
 
This is the first time Hermana, Resist is being printed by a printing press!  Be part of Hermana, Resist!
 
Send submissions in Word format or text to noemi.mtz+hr@gmail, include your bio, location (nothing specific, for example, El Sur del Valle, Occupied Cali).
 
I'll also be setting aside a few spaces for ad space to help offset the printing costs. please email me if you'd like info on ad rates.

Noemi Martinez
http://www.hermanaresist.com

Our March LTTP contributor is Saiida Mumin Stoakley. 


Are You a Guy or Abroad?

By Saiida Mumin Stoakley

I shamelessly admit that Paris is my Passionate Pastime. It's a smooth euphoria like the creme whip hazelnut milk chocolate (or chocolat, depending on whether I'm in Michigan or Paris) that I so sensually enjoyed during my whirlwind week and three days in France. A group of Wayne State University students including myself traveled to Perfect Paris and the surrounding areas, globe trekking to Fabulous Fountainebleu, The Lovely Loire Valley, Vast Versailles and Classic Chartres. We tasted expensive wines, cheeses, peeled grapes and delightful desserts.

One evening, a handful of us girls went on an ice cream( la glace) hunt. Haagen-Daz is on every corner there, but we'd heard about a delectable dish of something special. We landed at the most heavenly little cold cream shop... where one small scoop cost 1,80 Euro! That's the equivalent to $2.50 here in the States. Nevertheless, the cool, creamy treasure was so worth the all-night search and price.

We explored on foot and tour bus the fun-filled French countryside and cool catacombs. We took scholastic notes as our petite, French, female guide took the twenty of us on an exclusive excursion. We visited historical monuments and were moved by the museums. The Louvre was especially beautiful and serene. I had to keep pinching myself so I would know I wasn't dreaming. The museum housed long hallways with perfect portraits in every corner. Some of the bold brass frames where so humongous that they stretched all the way down the corridor and took up an entire wall from painted ceiling to waxed floor (about 80 feet). There was one painting of a gentleman in royal blue knickers who had the most piercing dark eyes, I swear they were following me. It seemed so real, like some part of his spirit was there watching. . . waiting. It hurt to look into those eyes and I ran away. I didn't go far because as a horror writer I was intrigued. They say if you take a picture of a old portrait and there is a bright shiny reflection in the development, it means that person's ghost was watching you. Cool!
 
I found my dreams and desires in Paris and you can too. Stay focused, stay in school, follow your heart, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

(The end)

Bio: Saiida Mumin Stoakley  is currently working on two new horror novels, Bleu and Those Darn Socialities.  She is the dynamic author of MOI: French Confessions of an American Girl. She is a Wayne State University Alumna. Her worldwide travels and ethusiasm has made her a beacon of inspiration  for students across the country. Renedevous with Ms. Stoakley at www.frencheuphoria.com!

Every noteworthy trip I have taken has been with my best friend in the world, A.  We didn’t set out to be traveling partners, but that’s what happened, and it’s resulted in the most memorable experiences of my life.  We've crisscrossed the country by car, plane, bus and even on foot. We've slept outdoors, on friend's floors and in luxury hotels. Some of the trips were work-related and some for pleasure, although we somehow always managed to make the business trips more about pleasure.

For example, we once took a crazy taxi ride high into the mountains of Acapulco in search of a tiny, hidden restaurant we’d heard tales of. After a bit of wandering we finally found it, and were welcomed by the old chef. He mixed his favorite rum cocktail for us, and told us there was no menu; you ate whatever he felt like cooking. Fine with us. That night, as we watched the sun dip below the mountains, we feasted on a dinner of quail eggs, pork in a smoky sauce and several other dishes I can’t recall, thanks to those rum cocktails.

We’ve aided political organizers in London defending the rights of asylum-seekers and immigrants, and visited crowded hostels—there were many of these—filled with people desperate to find a better life. Our hosts ushered us into their tiny rooms where we listened to harrowing stories about growing up in refugee camps or as child-soldiers. We heard from orphans and people who escaped the kind of hunger and poverty we will never know. We also learned not to refuse when our hosts offered us their only can of Coke or piece of fresh fruit, because refusal was a sign of disrespect, the type of rude behavior no amount of apologizing would erase. So we would share that can of warm soda or slice of pear, amazed at the genuine pleasure it gave them to be able to offer their guests something, anything, while we listened.

Then there was the Christmas we spent in Key West. At the end of a long day walking streets packed with chickens and tourists, we somehow wound up in a club watching the most god-awful drag show I had ever seen. One of the performers touted herself as the world’s oldest female impersonator. Seriously, it was bad. But fueled by holiday cheer and the realization that if you’re shimmying around on a stage to “Bootylicious” on Christmas, you definitely have no one else to be with, we emptied our wallets for the girls that night. Merry Christmas, Ladies!

From there we went on to South Beach where we had the misfortune of being in a hotel room next to a man who played the same Lionel Richie song on a continuous loop for hours.

There were and will be more cities, more adventures, and more lessons learned. Having A. as a traveling partner rocks. Nothing bonds you with someone like being stranded in a freezing train station or calling in sick to work to extend that trip that just doesn’t want to end. In fact, it’s been a while since we’ve had such an adventure, and I have a feeling another trip is not far off.





Melisa Resch
Editor-in-Chief

By Mykel Dicus

As a young entertainer, just starting out in the business, my world was all about singing for money. I had been fortunate to land a 10-month gig on board a cruise ship operated by Commodore Cruise lines, but almost a year after the cruise ended I was still in New York City and had yet to land another gig. My savings were going fast and endless auditioning wasn't what I had anticipated.  I had student loans to pay, I was working two jobs, and was sharing a small studio apartment with three students. This was not exactly the career I’d envisioned.

Soon after moving out of the studio, however, I was hired as a multi-lingual singer/entertainer on board Chandris Cruise Lines. I was in love with the fact that I would be traveling to all the major ports in the Baltic and Mediterranean. Learning the material for eight different shows in five different languages was a slight challenge, especially since I was only fluent in English and Spanish. But this paled to the day I was almost killed in Casablanca.

On the cruise, I had made great friends with Craig, the sound engineer. Craig was broad-shouldered, blonde, blue-eyed, Ivy League-educated, and a spoiled rich kid from Wales. He’d been forced on the ship as punishment by his parents for burning down their guest house. I’d also befriended Debbie, a leggy young 19 year-old dancer out of Liverpool who had filled the last spot in the dance troupe. These girls were pretty impressive; they could do flips, cartwheels, and tap dance in circles while the ship swayed up, down, to and fro, in calm and not-so-calm sea weather. Debbie had a wild streak, and could drink any of the officers under the table. Craig loved looking preppy, playing monopoly and shopping in all ports we visited. We all got along well.

We docked in Casablanca on a bright sunny spring Saturday, and the three of us decided to spend the day shopping for leather goods. We’d heard the craftsmanship of leather goods in Casablanca was of the highest quality and very cheap. I was looking for a leather brief case, Debbie a leather purse, and Craig wanted a black leather biker jacket. Craig had serious expectations for this jacket, and his search for the perfect leather jacket dominated the trip. We literally spent an hour in every shop we passed so he could examine the stitching and inseam of every jacket that caught his eye.

The shops in Casablanca were poorly built. They had dirt flooring, the goods were protected with plastic tarps, if at all, and the rickety wood roofs were insulated with dusty hand-woven cotton fabrics bleached by the hot sun.

Craig spotted a row of jackets swaying in the wind at another shop. When we walked in, we fell upon the silent stare of the three hundred and fifty pound bearded shop owner. He sat below his prized collection of coats, his arms and legs folded, chewing on a piece of wood. He smiled, revealing his tobacco stained teeth. This man had the body of a sumo wrestler and probably the speed of an arthritic old man, or so I assumed.

Like a cat clinging to a screen, he strategically held onto corners of tables, using them to hoist himself up to a towering six foot three inches. He handed Craig the first jacket he wanted to see, then the second, then the third. After Craig’s fourth jacket, our shop keeper started to growl to himself. Craig was oblivious, and acting like a snob. By the sixth jacket inspection, the owner began to hiss under his breath, and his toxic foreign inflections spat venom at the nape of Craig’s neck. Debbie and I subtly suggested to Craig that his compulsive jacket obsession needed to end. It was clear that things were going to get bad.

Acting as if he never heard us, Craig announced he was done, and walked out of the shop like one of those soldiers marching in front of the Queen’s Palace. As soon as he turned the corner, the shop owner screamed, “You fucking Americans!”

Fucking Americans?? My blood began to boil, and my thoughts raced at lightning speed. I stood there between the Dragon Slayer and Prince What-the-Fuck, the following questions running through my head: how can this blonde bitch just walk around in a foreign country and have no clue how to act?  Why the hell does this shop owner think all American men are blonde and blue-eyed? Didn’t he hear Craig’s British brogue? Why couldn’t Craig sense he was royally pissing off this poor man trying to make a living? Was he doing it on purpose? What did fucking America do to that made this man hate Americans so passionately? What did I do to have this man to include me in his hatred? My pulse was racing. I can’t allow someone to treat me with disrespect, especially when I did nothing to provoke it. My mouth flew open, my diaphragm expanded, and at the top of my lungs I screamed, “Fuck you too!” Almost immediately, I knew this was not the smartest move. The next 20 seconds were the most horrific moments of my life.

Before I had a chance to turn and run, I was on the ground, flat on my back, with 350 pounds of man on top of me and 1,000 pounds of hatred radiating from his hands. He gripped my arm with one hand and the other was coming for my neck. I was choking on a cloud of dust, disoriented, and fighting to breathe with his knee on my chest, when four babbling younger versions of the shop owner came from behind and with all their strength pulled their father off me and dragged him back into his hovel. One of the four brothers helped me off the ground, and whispered in my ear “run, he will kill you, he is our father and he hates Americans.” No kidding.

I was completely helpless, in a foreign country, and with Craig and Debbie nowhere to be seen, on my own at that moment. Thankfully I managed to find my way back to the ship, and spent the afternoon in the infirmary getting a bandage put on my swollen and bruised arm, where the imprint of the man’s hand was still visible.

As I write this, I still don’t know what the fuck happened in this man’s life for him to hate Americans so much, but knowing wouldn’t make the moment any less terrifying.

Bio: Mykel is a singer/performer, artist/producer. Visit him here.

By Natazzz

When I was 17 years old, I went on a hiking trip in Wales with my best friend. I’m not sure why I agreed to go with her. I was completely uninterested in endless fields full of sheep, and time has not changed this. We were planning to hike every day for about 20 miles, or however far it was to the next camping site. This would not have been too bad, except for the fact that Wales was experiencing a heat wave for the first time in 15 years. On top of that, the camping sites were a little more “basic” than I had anticipated; often it was just a field near a farm, without so much as running water. Before long, I started to complain, blaming my friend for suggesting the trip in the first place.

After a few days of hiking, we visited some of her friends. They had a lovely little house at the end of a narrow, winding road. Next to the road was an abyss, about 70 feet deep. While we were there, my friend decided she wanted to learn to drive a car, and that she would learn under the guidance of her 17-year-old friend, who did not have her driver’s license. And stupid me got in the back of the car. To this day, I still don’t know what made me get in the car.

My friend was driving slowly along the little winding road. She was doing well; she paid attention to what she was doing, and did a fine job avoiding some sheep. All of a sudden she accidentally hit the accelerator instead of the clutch, and the car raced forward. Both girls in the front panicked, started to scream, and if things weren’t bad enough already, my friend let go of the steering wheel. I can picture myself sitting in that car so vividly. I grew very quiet, and watched as the car sped faster and out of control off the road, heading straight for the abyss. I remember thinking, “I cannot believe this is happening”, and “I am going to die.” I was waiting for my life to flash before my eyes, but nothing happened. Then again, at 17 I hadn’t accumulated very much life. 

Instead of falling down into the abyss, we crashed into the one lone tree standing on the side of the little winding road. In fact, we wrapped the entire car around the tree. Lucky for us, the tree did not break, and even luckier that none of us were hurt, besides my friend needing four stitches in her chin. But that was the extent of the damage to us.

I had never been so scared before in my life, and I had never been so glad to be alive. I can honestly say that this hiking trip in Wales changed my life. Not only did it teach me to never again do something so stupid, but it also made me value being alive in a completely new way. It has been 14 years since that hiking trip, but I still remember it like it was yesterday.

Bio: Natazzz is an academic researcher, with a PhD. in psychology, a love for the written word, sarcasm, cute girls and anything geeky. She is currently living in Germany, but in the midst of looking for a new country to call home. 

Women, let's praise our pants. In fact, give your pants the pleasure of you, sans underwear. Have fun in your pants. You earned 'em.


Bio: Fritz is a frustrated writer and a frustrated woman. She still smokes and is a passionate advocate for fellow smokers. Mostly, she's planning her next diatribe or her next knitting project. She lives and works in the Detroit Metro area, but she dreams in red. Her home includes one saintly husband and one demonic cat. 

Our February Late To The Party submission is from Wright Minded:

Want to live into your dreams? Consider this workshop!

The Choice: Mastering the Mind, Living the Dream.

Does it still ache – that unspeakable emptiness in your gut that asks, “Where’s my life?” Your soul whispers that you’re here to be something magnificent in this precious life. It’s time. Come re-find your heart’s song and re-member your inner voice of wisdom again.

The Choice will hush the dulling voices in your head that claim your dreams are impossible. This weekend isn't merely a few relaxing days to escape. You will cross a bridge that spans from what is to what will be. Others precede you, never to return to the drabness of yet another lifeless day. You can too. Learn to develop your “Law of Attraction” muscle, crystalize key desires and direction, silence debilitating self-talk, master the focus of your powerful mind, use coincidence as divine clues, defeat life-robbing procrastination, feel more daily peace and focus, build an inspiring and doable plan, and relax into a renewed spirit and confidence.

What You'll Get
 
The Choice is a priceless opportunity to take the time to really consider how you think, what you believe, and whether it's getting you what you want. During the retreat you'll:

• Explore how thoughts create things
• See why fear attracts what you don’t want
• Use emotion to magnetize your desires
• Learn to silence debilitating self-talk
• Develop your “Law of Attraction” muscle
• Clarify your key desires and direction
• Build a dream-happening plan
• Have fun, recalibrate, then fly!

Imagine what you could do by mastering even one of these skills!
 
Don't wait another day. You deserve more happiness and freedom.
Sign up now: http://www.wrightminded.com/public_workshops.html
 
Brochure: http://www.wrightminded.com/thechoice.pdf

Led by Karen Wright, internationally renowned author and facilitator, a handful of women will gather on the breathtaking Oregon coast to shed the past and breathe in new life. Be one of them. Give yourself the gift of time, clarity, life. Make March 7-9 the turning point where you left the beaten path to experience a fresh start.

Bio: Karen Wright is a personal development coach, public speaker and author, her work is dedicated to this one, yet ever-present, battle - to expose fear as the impotent imposter it is and encourage hearts to dare boldly and dream confidently

"Call for Entries”

The Go On Girl! Book Club, Inc., the nation’s largest reading group for Black women invites you to write your way to $500!

 
Founded in 1990, The Go On Girls are a spirited group of sisters who love a good read.  We currently boast 29 chapters in 12 states with more than 350 members. Our mission is to encourage the literary pursuits of people of African descent.  In this vain, since 1993, we have bestowed our coveted “Author of the Year” award and our “New Author of the Year” award on such talents as Octavia Butler, Gloria Naylor, Valerie Wilson Wesley, Connie Briscoe, Stephen L. Carter and Pearl Cleage, just to name a few.  In the year 2008, we will host our annual awards weekend in Toronto ,Canada .  Will you be honored there among our literary giants?  Read on for details on how to apply for the prestigious “Unpublished Writer” Award.

Award Guidelines:

1.  Applicants may reside anywhere within the United States

2.  Applicant must mail three copies of an original, unpublished fiction work (short story or novel excerpt) not to exceed 2,000  typed words on double-spaced pages

3.  Applicant must include a cover sheet with the following information: applicant’s name, address, telephone number and e-mail where possible; 250-word biographical sketch, including your writing goals and current status

4.  Mail your cover sheet, three copies of your manuscript, and your bio by March 15, 2008 to:
     GOG Awards Committee
     Pat Houser
     P.O. Box 1656
     New York, NY  10163-1656

5.  The $500 winner will be notified by April 30, 2008 , and will be invited, along with a guest, to attend our annual awards ceremony.  The winner’s work may be featured in the Go On Girl! quarterly newsletter and/or on our website.
ALL ENTRIES MUST BE POSTMARKED BY MARCH 15, 2008

For info. on the Unpublished Writer Award and the Educational Scholarship contact:
Pat Houser, National Co-Chair, Scholarship Chair
email:  pathouser@aol. com; tele: 212-455-2522

___________________________


THE LOST TECHNOLOGIES HOTLINE

Call 206-888-9118 from Thursday, January 31 through Friday, February 8th.

Dear friends, family, classmates, acquaintances and strangers,

I'm writing to invite all of you to help me with an instant project that I'm putting together for an exhibit in Brooklyn at the end of February. The exhibit will showcase work from Famous Magazine Issue #10: Nobody's Famous in New York, in which I have a small story.

Details on location and dates of the show are below.

My project is called the Lost Technologies Hotline. I have obtained avoicemail box, 206-888-9118, for the purpose of gathering brief tales of loss pertaining to New York City. From January 31 through February 8th, I invite you to make an anonymous phone call and deposit a story, a song, or a howl about being lost or losing something or someone — abstract or material, immense or tiny - in some way related to New York. Feel free to be inventive: tell a tale, sing a song, address the lost object, cry, speak as the lost object, or just say somebody's name over and over. Invent your own response. It would be especially extra great if you placed the call from a payphone, and if you shared the details of the payphone?s location, but any and all manner of phone calls - cellular, landline, or Skype - are welcome.

I will then record the messages and assemble a sound installation to be played in the gallery during the show.

This project springs from my story in Issue #10, which is about taking the greyhound bus from California to New York City, and making calls from pay phones all along the way. It's also about loss of love, loss of a fantasy about the meaning of New York, and loss of a certain solidly bounded sense of identity. I got to thinking about the payphone itself as a vanishing - but not completely gone! - form of technology. Then I began to think of other, more abstract things — such as identity, spiritual or political beliefs, or even relationships —as technologies that we use to navigate our ways through the world. And so I offer you The Lost Technology Hotline, an archive of random losses.

The show will run from Friday February 22nd to Sunday February 24th, 2008 at Outrageous Look Gallery, at 103 Broadway, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The Opening Reception is on Friday the 22nd, so save the date if you are going to be in Brooklyn at the time.

I thank you for reading. And like all games of telephone, I invite you to pass it on. Please call! 206-888-9118.

Amanda Davidson | amanda.davidson@mac.com | partedinthemiddle.com

Famous Magazine | Capricious Publishing
becapricious.com cantbefamous.com glumagazine.com

It would be especially extra great if you placed the call from a payphone, and if you shared the details of the payphone's location, but any and all manner of phone calls.