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Pages Contemporary Conceptions of Community. Small Towns and Mass Society. Community Elites and Power Structure. Describing the Community in Thorough Detail. Sense of Community and Community Building. Friendship and Community Organization. Self-Help Groups as Participatory Action. Online Communities. Alternative or Intentional? Congregations and Communities. Grassroots Social Movements and the Shaping of History. I am ready to fling myself wide and take up any space in this world with head, arms, and legs five-pointed and star-spread.

Sketch For Harriet E. Wilson With a determined hand, write the wrong. Right it! Press your free hand upon parchment. Spill ink like storm clouds that clot what your soul cannot hold.

Encyclopedia of Social Theory

Catch what history hurls. Double your fist in defiance, unfurl your world into long lines. Get straight to the point: Pen every deed. Record the heavy dreams that woke you each morning. Press down. The paper can bear your weight. Make the page speak of back break, the quill quiver with nothing less than the meat of it. Whip the naked flesh of the past like you were slashed.

Bleed deep — gash history, even if it must stand on hobbled legs. Draw the face, so we may stare at the rotten-teeth truth. Give yourself a pristine mouth to say your piece, a doorway. Her poems have previously been selected as Applewhite finalists and then published in NCLR and , and she had two more finalists in the competition, one of which was selected for third place.

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These poems and an interview with this poet will be published in the print issue. Stand in your place. Ink firm your existence out of the shadows. Make history one deliberate letter at a time — not as a slave, but not fully free either. Write it the best you can.

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Press your free hand on your heart. Unbind your mind no matter how the hand wavers. This is how perfect penmanship feels: One liberated turn after the other. Script your destiny. Weave the story. Right the sky. Burn through fog, mist, and muck.

Veteran Reporter Helen Thomas, a 'Trailblazer' in Journalism

Free your eyes. Sketch a new horizon.

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Pulled and drawn by your own hand. Suppressed Dreams Screaming Out mixed media on wooden panel canvas, coated in epoxy resin, 36x72 by Darryl Hurts. He is a self-taught artist who uses many different methods to create his works, including image transfers, photography, drawing, and acrylic paint, which are then applied to wooded panels or stretched canvases and coated with epoxy resin.

More of his works can be seen on his website. Harrington Amber Flora Thomas. Red Channel in the Rupture. Poulin, Jr. She has worked as a public librarian and now teaches in the creative writing program at the University of Illinois. In Red Channel in the Rupture, Amber Flora Thomas writes poems about place, her lived experiences within a natural environment, her childhood memories, and her family. Her clear, understated poems describe, recall, retell, and record.

Be at home. Her vision is always lyrical and pointed toward the details that the inattentive will overlook. Although Red Channel frequently draws on and lyrically describes the natural landscape, this is not nature poetry, but rather poetry describing a life that has intersected with natural spaces, objects, places, and events.

Thomas is also a poet of the erotic. Liquid consonants, suggestive description, and exotic details draw readers into the poem. Is it a flower the poet describes? At the very least, Thomas suggests the sensual and seductive world that language can reveal or open to readers: the frill labellum. All around you a light that put the pearl in there and kneaded it like a pit some girl could spit into her palm. It can also mean a vent, an opening, or an interstice of space.

Watchdogs of Democracy?: The Waning Washington Press Corps and How It Has Failed the Public

The child follows the boys into the woods, the girl stepping out of the woods, the bird in her turning its ruddy shoulder toward the light, thankful she got to live, that while they tried to kill her, they could in the end let her live. The somehow snares attention: Disbelief? Anger and scorn? An unvoiced question? I let blackness ripple and then I went to him, gunned through rows by spitting bees.

Eyes in horror dashed me to rocks.

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But, I went to him. Thomas does not avoid or soften the difficulty of a biracial identity. The child is not left uninjured: she is violently thrown against rocks. Nothing softened. As they read Red Channel in the Rupture, readers will reconsider their own natural spaces and the stories they find there. They will think of family relationships and the difficulties of identity. Readers will feel at home and invited into this collection. Aaron had returned from Duke Hospital and was recovering from brain surgery.

Rumor had it that the top of his head had been removed and replaced.

Grandpa Joe watched skeptically from our sitting room window as Mr. Aaron took halting steps to and from his outhouse several times a day. He wore a hospital gown on top of his clothes and a bandage wrapped around his head. When he finally did, I stood at the window and wondered what Grandpa would encounter and whether Mr.

Aaron had, indeed, come back crazy. The photographs, courtesy of the author, feature the author, her grandfather and mother, her cousins, and other neighborhood children playing in Sandhill, NC, in the s and s. To get to Sandhill, a small community in Plymouth, North Carolina, one crossed two sets of railroad tracks then travelled nearly a mile down a dirt road, a road so sandy that a road dragger came through at regular intervals to smooth out the grooves and mud holes.

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This was the only way in or out of Sandhill. Poor planning left one stranded for fifteen or twenty minutes, watching the freight train hiss, hiccup, inch forward and backward, then finally crawl in either direction laden with whatever was required for or distributed by the pulp and paper mill located at the backside of our neighborhood. I lived in Sandhill for nine years, and this community defined my values more than any other life experiences. Sandhill, comprised of no more than three or four dozen houses, was a microcosm of.

In essence, it was a gathering of individuals rather than a community of demographics. We lived among preachers, teachers, juke joint proprietors, storeowners, chicken thieves, factory workers, truants, honor students, gamblers, the elderly, petty criminals, the mentally unstable, widows and widowers, introverts, alcoholics, farmers, adulterers, and of course, a survivor of brain surgery.

Our Mr.