Marisela Diaz

27 February 2015

Selena Quintanilla Perez Historical Fiction

7:00 a.m. The alarm clock blared annoyingly in the otherwise quiet room. A young woman rolled out of bed with a groan, leaving the warmth that was besides her. She stood up, making her way to the bathroom, footsteps padding softly against the wooden floor lest she wake up her sleeping husband. Twenty minutes later the young women stepped out of her bathroom, clothed and ready to go for the day. She walked over to her bed, putting a hand on her sleeping husband and shaking him a bit while saying, " Chris, I'm leaving, alright."

Her husband just turned to the other side and murmured in agreement. She turned around and started leaving the room.

"Selena," Her husband started, having turned back around at her, bleary opening his eyes, croaking out a,  "Be safe."

The young woman smiled at him, happiness filtered across her face. " See you at the studio." She closed the bedroom door with a soft click.

Selena was quite sad she had to leave the comfort of her bed but she knew that she had to go out but first a girl’s gotta eat. Selena pulled into the local Mcdonalds at bought herself an egg McMuffin and a medium coffee. Selena ate on the way to her destination, laughing when she thought what reporters and the paparazzi love would say if they saw her eating Mcdonalds for breakfast. She took the time to think about where she was going and for what reason. Selena couldn’t stop the pounding of her heart. She tried to shake off her thoughts.  She wanted to do this with no regrets. Before long Selena pulled up to the Corpus Christi Inn, taking the last bite of her delicious egg  McMuffin. Selena stepped out of her car,  grabbing a suitcase from the passenger side of the car and walked into the inn with her coffee in hand. She walked through the front doors of the inn brightly saying hello the lady manning the desk, throwing her coffee in the trash can then heading towards room 132. Selena could feel her heart pounding inside of her chest as she walked towards the room. She really didn't want to be here.

Room 132. Selena knocked on the door of her destination. The door opened slowly revealing the face of Yolanda Saldivar.

"Good morning Yolanda."

"Selena"

Selena walked into the motel room, leaving the door open. Selena put the briefcase that was in her hand  down onto motel bed. She started taking out the papers inside of the briefcase one by one, placing them next to each other.

“Yolanda, these are the exact papers that you gave my father and I when we talked to you to weeks ago.” Selena said, turning around.  “There are still a ton of paperwork missing.”

“Selena, I swear to you I did not steal anything!’ Yolanda said.

“Yolanda, we already talked about this! I already know that you’ve been stealing money from the fanclub!”

“No Selena I didn’t. I swear on my life.” Yolanda pleaded.

“Yolanda, please don’t be like this. I came here because you asked me too, the least you do it be truthful with me.” Selena sighed. “My father and I already talked you about this but you’re still trying to say you didn’t do anything.”
    “But-” Yolanda started.

“I can’t do this if you keep saying that you didn’t do anything. I trusted you, you know. You were one of my best friends.”

“I still am your best friend. I love you Selena, I would never ever betray your trust Selena.”

“But you did Yolanda, you did. Do you even know how heartbroken I was to hear that were embezzling money from my fans?” Selena asked. “My fans, Yolanda. You know how important my fans are to me. I would be nowhere without my fans.”

Selena shook her head, “Look Yolanda, I have to be at the recording studio soon. Maybe we could talk about this another time but this time with my father around.”

Selena walked towards the open door. A loud bang went off before Selena felt something hit her back.  Warmth spread across her back. Selena hand went to touch her shoulder. Her fingers came across wet and sticky.  Another shot hit her back and she stumbled out the door. Oh god. Please god, help me. Selena thought, crawling towards the reception desk as fast as she could. Selena could feel herself getting light headed, blood seeping out her wounds. Selena made it towards the reception desk and she could see the lady’s eyes widening before rushing to her side.  “Yolanda...” Selena croaked out before darkness took over her.

Selena woke up to bright lights and loud voices. Her eyes were going in and out of focus and she could hear voices talking to each other urgently. Selena woke to people in green scrubs milling around around a body while saying things like “It’s too much blood” and “prepare for a blood transfusion.” She looked around the room wondering what she was doing inside of an operation room.

“Hello,” Selena said aloud, waiting for a doctor or nurse look at her. “Um, excuse me.” The people in the room ignored Selena completely, not even reacting to the sound of her voice. Selena thought she’d ask in spanish. “Hola, ¿Me escuchas?”

They didn’t react to spanish either. Selena walked up to them and asked again.  Selena went to put her hand on one of the nurses shoulders but her hand went right through. What? Selena looked at her hand then tried touching the nurse once again but the same thing happened. Her hand went right through the nurses shoulder. Selena couldn’t believe what was happening. Selena looked at her hand wide eyed.  Selena looked over to the body that was laying on the operation table. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was her. She was seeing her own self.  She was pale and blood was all over the table. She practically looked dead. She probably was dead or at least almost dead. When Selena was younger her mother used to tell her stories that when you’re about to die you get to see the last minutes of your life. Selena thought this what was probably happening with her. Selena looked at herself laying on the table with sadness. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to live with Chris. She wanted to be with her family. She wanted to play more music with the Los Dinos but she knew that would never happen. Selena’s ghostly body started to fade. It was her time to go.  Selena looked at herself and smiled. She didn’t have any regrets in her life but she does regret that she didn’t get to say goodbye to her family. She just wished she could tell them I love you.

There was a great long beep inside of the operation room. Selena’s heart went flatline. On March 31st, 1995 Selena Quintanilla Perez was pronounced dead.

As I step outside the sounds of horns and car engines immediately flood my ears. Once again I am leaving the house to do my obligatory errands. The looks my cats give me immediately make me stop and wonder if I should just stay home. Knowing that I must be home no later than 6:30 for the new episode of The Golden Girls, I decide that if I venture out it must be now or never. Living in Murray Hill is so entertaining that I often go to the park and people watch. On my way to the library I take Subway line G. I watch as the flocks of people going up and down the subway stairs. I see a women trip and fall all the way down.

I get off the subway and see a lady sleeping on one of the subway benches that seems really uncomfortable. She had short brown hair that she had tied up and stuffed into a hat. A newspaper lay  across her stomach just about to fall off. I wanted to wake up her up because she seemed like she was just wasting her day away.

I return my library books and decide to take a break at a cafe across the street. I sit down and have a cup of coffee. It’s rush hour and all the booths are filled with tourist and workers on break. I sit at the bar, right by the kitchen door. There is a birthday party with little children. The presents are piling up on one side of the table. All the parents talk about their children and how they are doing in school. Next to the presents is a baby in a highchair squirming around. No one is watching him and he wiggles out of his chair and hit his head.

Shortly after I get my coffee, a woman sits down in the seat next to me. She seems to be on a lunch break. She eagerly flags down the waitress to order her food. Sipping my coffee, I try not to stare as she eats the whole plate without stopping for a break. She starts to choke, there is a doctor in the cafe who gives her heimlich.  

Outside the cafe seems to be where all the couples are sitting. Some of the tables had bouquets of flowers others had boxes of chocolates. One couple at the end proposed and they were now vigorously kissing eachother, making everyone else uncomfortable.

As I walk down 3rd Ave there is a group of tourists strolling down the street. They take up the whole sidewalk so I decide to walk on the other side of the street and cut through the park. When I get to the other side I hear a lady in the group scream out, “He took my wallet!”. When the cars cleared I see man in a beanie and coat running away with one of the tourist’s wallets.

I start to walk through St. Vartan Park, and people sitting on benches watching the runners go by. The playground is full of kids on slides and swings playing tag and “lava”. In the far corner of the park is a water fountain with benches around it. The kids playing in the fountain and splash in the puddles.

Across the way,workers are cutting the branches of the trees in the park. The saw makes a loud, annoying, noise.

On my last stop before my walk back home, I stop at the office supplies store on 3rd. They are having a huge sale because they are closing soon and I decide to take a look. As I rummage through the sale bins I find a new notebook, a letter opening, and a pack of tacks.

Two blocks away from my apartment I walk past the local pub when I am startled by yelling. Suddenly, out of nowhere two men fly out of the bar all over each other throwing punches. The bartender runs out and tells them they are not allowed back there again. I watch far on the other side of the road as the taxis whisk by. The two men settle down and walk away from each other.

Finally, I arrive at my doorstep, greeted by my lovely cats who eagerly awaited my arrival. I turn on the TV and switch to NBC, I have exactly 15 minutes before the new episode will start. I put some white toast in the toaster oven and sit on the couch and wait. As it begins to snow, the flakes pile up on the windowpane as it quietly begins to snow.

Suddenly, I wake up to the smell of smoke and frantic cries from my cats. I panic, but slowly calm down when I realize its just my toast, that is now burnt black since I forgot about it. Luckily, I woke up right before Golden Girls starts, all is well.

I decide to pass on the toast and opt for tea instead. Sitting back in my chair, I begin to hum along to the Golden Girls theme song. Mr. Whiskers is now pawing at my sock. What could it possibly be now. As I look down at my feet where Mr. Whiskers has sat, I am greeted by not one but two huge dead rats. Although I feel slightly bad for the rats, I thank Mr. Whiskers for the gift and proceed to dispose of them outside.

I quickly run back upstairs to the TV. I am relieved that I have only missed the first 3 minutes of the new episode and it is now on commercials. Looking at my tea I realise earl grey might not cut it and I pour myself a glass of gin and look back on the whole day.

My grandfather passed away recently. Not too long ago actually, just about a week ago. I didn’t know him very well but I still felt that he was a part of the family. The only things I really knew about him were what were told to me by family members. Self-centered, arrogant bastard, that was still somehow lovable. His brief time he spent dabbling in the musical world of the fifties and sixties really seemed to be his peak, and boy did he take pride in it. Interviewing musicians and what not.

We didn’t know each other well, but I somehow seemed to win over his 1975 Lincoln and his fine pair of brown loafers that he believed could win over any woman he approached. Great, thanks for the car I guess, even though it only got eight miles to the gallon. Apart from that I was also left with a box. A box that appeared to be filled with scraps of paper and folders. I didn’t think much of it.

One day out of boredom I decided to take a peak. Perhaps to try and find a piece of treasure he might have hid in there so no one could find it. Fingers flicking through endless sheets of paper, I didn’t find anything. What caught my attention was the dark “De” and “1956” my index finger landed on. I stopped, and looked at it. Curiosity soon took over and my eyes became fixated on the lines of text.     

December 16, 1956

Dear Mr. Coltrane,

I know that you are a very busy man so I will keep this as brief as possible. It has been three weeks since we last spoke, and yet I still feel like we spoke just a few hours ago. I am extremely grateful for allowing me to interview you and learn more about your world. Not many other people can say that. I’m not one for publishing everything I hear in hopes of making a quick buck, so everything you spoke about with me is safe. The music you’re doing is great. Actually, better than great, it’s fantastic. I have a feeling I spoke with a future super star. Anyways, keep up the good work trane. Perhaps we can become better acquainted as both time and our careers move forward. Please write back at your earliest convenience. Perhaps we can see each other again soon.

Sincerely,

Paul H. Hennion

I couldn’t seem to understand why he would keep this. Plus, who was Mr. Coltrane? I had never heard that kind of name before. Whoever he was, he was a pretty interesting writer. Actually, more organized than anything. He attached each one of his responses to the letters my grandfather sent to him. Behind each of my grandfathers letters another one attached and written in different handwriting which I could only guess was that of this Coltrane, which was faded almost to the point of unreadability. He didn’t seem to add much to his responses. He more or less just acknowledged what my grandfather. It seemed a little hard to believe that these guys were actually good friends.  I found it uninteresting, yet I was still intrigued to continue reading.

May 29, 1957

Mr. Coltrane,

It was great running into you yesterday. I’m glad to hear that everything is going well. I’m also excited to hear your first album! I’m sure it must be exciting for you as well. You seemed a little off though from the last time we saw each other. As if you were sickly looking. Just know John that as a friend, I’m here for you. If you ever need to talk or get something off your chest, you got me. It stays between us. Hope to hear back soon.

Sincerely,

Paul H. Hennion

Huh. Whoever this John Coltrane was, my grandfather seemed to have been pretty close to him. I began to question if that name should be familiar to me or not. It somehow sounded familiar, yet this was the first time I remember ever hearing it. I continued to read on.

July 7, 1957

John,

    I had a feeling something was up. Do you think that stuff is going to make you a better musician or something? ‘cause it won’t. What do you expect to get from drinking yourself to sleep every night? This could really hurt you in the future. And not just you, probably your career as well. I am glad you opened up to me about this John. I’m gonna help you get through all of this. Let’s meet up soon.

Sincerely,

Paul

This guy, John, must've been like every other musician of the day. Drinking and snorting his way to the top. Sounds like an average drunk to me. But he must’ve been close to my grandfather to tell him about that in the first place. They must’ve been close enough for my grandfather to slowly become more informal in each one of his letters.

September 20, 1957

John

    It’s good to see that you’ve cleaned up a bit. I noticed that you started going back to church. That’s great. To have something to turn to. By the way, I listened to your new album. Brilliant, as always. “Blue Train” could blow up, it’s a great piece of work. I wouldn’t be surprised if people, your fans, began to call you “trane”. I personally like it. You know the press is going to probably begin recognizing your stardom so don’t be surprised if you get requested for interviews and performances. I’m going to be away for a little while. I’ve gotta take care of some business overseas, but we’ll keep in touch.

Your friend,

Paul

Now THAT is a name that sounds familiar. “Blue Train”. I’ve seen those words together. Somewhere. I leaned over to look at the highest shelf in the old closet in my grandfathers bedroom. Resting on that shelf were stacks and stacks of vintage records. I stood up and grabbed the one that stuck out from the others by the quarter of an inch. I blew off a thick layer of dust and there it was. “John Coltrane, Blue Train, Blue Note 95326”. That man on the cover was Coltrane himself. I have to say, I didn’t really imagine him to be African-American. I wanted to see what my grandfather was talking about however. If this piece of work really was “brilliant”. I moved out to the living room where I spotted the polished, brown, antique record player that was sitting on a shelf. I placed the record on top, dropped the needle on it, and hoped that I didn’t break it. As the music began to play I was more astounded with how I was able to get the machine to work rather than the music that I was hearing. It sounded just like smooth jazz. I felt that it was only appropriate read the rest of my grandfathers letters while hearing the tunes of quite possibly his best friend in the background. I grabbed the last few unread ones, laid on the couch and continued to read some more.

April 4, 1965

John!

    It’s been a while old friend. I hope everything is well. When I was abroad, I could overhear people talking about what I swear was your name and your music. You’re a global hit! A jazz legend if you will. I know you may not see yourself as one, but believe me you are. I heard you were going on tour with Miles Davis too. He reminds me of a younger version of you. I just hope he knows that he’s gonna be performing alongside a legend. I hope we can catch up in person. It would be great to see you again.

Your friend,

Paul

At this point I really started to feel a bit dumb for not knowing who this John Coltrane was before. Even while hearing his music being played. That was when I really started to think about how my family really saw my grandfather. We all saw him as this old curmudgeon, but according to his letters, he seemed to have lived a pretty fine life. Although I guess it would be hard to see that based on the only things that he left us after he passed. I had one sheet left, so I began to read.

July 10, 1967

John,

I was just thinking about you recently. I actually ran into Alice a few days back.  She told me some things that were a pretty big shock. Liver cancer? That’s pretty serious. I still can’t seem to wrap my head around the thought. But you’re strong, I know get through it. You’re a tough man to bring down John Coltrane. I’m in Chicago on a business trip, but I should be back in a week. As soon as I come home, I’ll stop by to visit ya. Get better soon ol friend.

Best wishes,

Paul

The music stopped soon after I read that last line. That was the last letter that was written to John by my grandfather. I found out later than John died of liver cancer just a week after my grandfather wrote that letter. I couldn’t imagine what he went through when he heard the news. He lost a friend and his beautiful music. I never would’ve thought that this man would have had such a prominent impact on my grandfathers life. I’ve never listened to jazz or payed much attention to my grandfathers stories about his life in the music world, but after his last signature read, I really wish I did.

    I soon found myself packing the letters back into that cardboard box where they came from with such precision that it seemed no one had ever even touched it. I picked up the box and began to walk out the door, but stopped myself halfway outside. I turned around and went back inside to look around one last time. Before that day I had never really appreciated the wisdom and knowledge that my grandfather had that was overlooked by the rest of my family. He lived an incredible life that no one else was able to see. Not so much as what he did, but the people he met and was friends with. Like Mr. John Coltrane. It was that man that allowed me to see that different side of my grandfather and it was his music that inspired my grandfather and the rest of his generation. It’s incredible to just think that he had the honor of calling him his friend. I walked back over to the record player and dropped the needle back onto the record. John’s sweet tunes began to resonate throughout the house once again, and would continue so until the next person would come to clean out the rest of the house. Hopefully those people would be as inspired  and appreciative as I was when they heard that music for the first time. I placed the box in the back of my new Lincoln, and drove away down the road with those sweet melodies still resonating in my eardrums.

Lizzie Mooney

2/24/15

p. 1-2

Here she comes

Walkin' down the street, here she comes

Comin' through my door, here she comes

Crawlin' up my stairs, here she comes

Waltzin' through the hall

In a pretty red dress

And oh, she looks so good, oh, she looks so fine

And I got this crazy feeling that I'm gonna make her mine

-Patti Smith, “Gloria”

6 AM

It was a bright yellow morning at the Chelsea. Patti and Robert’s little floor was cluttered with legal pad paper, fresh polaroids and copies of the Times.  Gruesome photographs of a slaughtered Sharon Tate accompanied the half crumpled articles by their bed where the two lay messy in the still small hours of the morning. They’d only been there for about a week, but the hotel was home. It was summer and New York was sticky, especially so in room 1017. The year was 1968.

Briiinnngggggg!!! went the the metal Crosley alarm clock. Patti Smith dropped a frail hand on the snooze and rolled off the mattress. She dressed in her lover’s thin shirt and dirty denim, kissed Robert on his sleeping head and scuddled out the door.

The hallways of the Chelsea Hotel were still bustling from the night before. Tiptoes continued in and out of rooms and despite her attempt to move swiftly, Patti became a part of the dance. Half of Jefferson Airplane was standing in an adjacent doorway, she was squeezed between Hendrix and a skinny blonde on the elevator. The spectacle continued on her trip down, traveling past the former rooms of Dylan Thomas, Bob Dylan, even Oscar Wilde. She bumped into Arthur C. Clarke in the lobby. She brushed shoulders with Janis Joplin on the front steps.

Patti tossed her mop of black hair back and forth while she walked, shaking out the tangles, and made her way down 7th.  She avoided pricy enticing cafes and headed straight for Scribner Bookstore. The little bell rigged above the door rang as she entered.

“Morning, Patti.” her coworkers greeted her.

“Morning,” she yawned.

She took her place behind the counter and shut one eye, drinking in every last drop of rest. Left eye shut, right eye squinting, a flash of color out the window caught her attention. A beautiful woman in a bright red dressed breezed past the shop window. Her chestnut hair hid her eyes, her lips were plump and pink. She walked swiftly with a dancer’s step. In the blink of Patti’s tired eyes, she’d gone, but something about the girl left Patti in awe.

Who was that? She thought. What’s a girl like that doing all alone in Midtown? At 6 in the morning?

She resumed pricing the books, all the while keeping her eyes on the street. She looked out the window, up and down 5th avenue, but it was bare. The beautiful girl had vanished.

6 PM

Armed with a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread, Patti Smith boarded the F train home to the Chelsea. She stood on the subway- which reeked of hot garbage and August sweat- and looked out the cloudy window opposite her. It peered into the G train across the platform. She watched hippies and suits file in and out of the car, all looking damp with sweat, when a familiar crimson dress peeked through the crowd.

It’s her! Patti thought, It’s the woman in the red dress, the same girl from this morning! The woman’s back was turned to Patti, that same silky hair twisting around her lithe frame. With unexpected enthusiasm, Patti released her grip on the handlebar and began her feeble attempt to move from one side of the completely occupied vehicle to the other. Soon, only the back of one very tall man stood between her and the window.

“‘Scuse me, sir.” he didn’t budge.

“Excuuuuuse me!” Forgetting entirely about the glass milk bottle under her arm, she reached out to tap the man’s shoulder. The train began to shift. Patti watched in horror as the bottle fell to her feet, breaking on impact, flooding the passenger’s shoes with cold milk.

“Shit.” She glanced up at the window. They had sped far away from the G train and the red dress girl was gone again.

10 PM

    Saturday nights at the Chelsea were something to behold. A parade of strung out musicians, artists and trust fund twenty somethings filled the hotel from lobby to penthouse. Patti and Robert emerged from their room, he in a furry vest and sailor’s cap and she in his best tie. With nowhere to be in particular, the pair wandered the halls of the Hotel Chelsea in search of an open door. There was a shindig in nearly every room. Jazz floated through the corridor and crashed right into another room’s rock and roll. There was a cello somewhere above them, a TV movie below.

Robert lead them past only a few locked rooms and into a packed loft. It was hazy and dark and overflowing.

“Mapplethorpe!” a man in paisley recognized Robert.

“Matthew Reigh, this isn’t your place, is it?” the Dylan-esque musician gave Robert a warm embrace and slung his arm around Patti.`

“You kids should check out the jam we’ve got going on in the kitchen. Grace Slick’s singing like a bird. Someone told me Jimi might stop by.” Bottle in hand, their host tossed his other arm around Robert and lead them through the boisterous crowd. The apartment was nearly completely unfurnished, only guitar cases lining the walls and a bed pushed into the corner. Patti held tight to Robert’s hand as they pushed through the party and into what appeared to be the kitchen.

“Patti! Join us!” Matthew gestured to a circle of people sitting on and around a folding dining table. Their faces were masked almost completely by cigarette clouds. On closer inspection, Patti realized she recognized most of them. Faces from her record collection came to life. Leonard Cohen was drumming on the table, Morrison was on guitar.

“Take a seat, love! Sing something!” Robert shouted in her ear. The hair on Patti’s arms stood straight up.

“I don’t know if I should-” Before she could protest, Robert pushed her through the audience and into the band. Dumbfounded, she peered around the room. She couldn’t find Robert, Matthew was nowhere in sight. Patti began to panic. Until…

It’s her!

Across the crowd, in the midst of the haze and the tightly packed people, Patti saw her plain as day. Her face was sharp and pale, but her cheeks rosy, her eyes a piercing blue. Her gaze met Patti’s and those bubbly pink lips curled into a smile. She floated towards Patti, her red dress swaying in time with her hips. The woman extended her hand and Patti gladly took it.

“Gloria,” the woman crooned.

“Patti. Patti Smith.”

“You gonna sing something for us?” Gloria nodded to Jim on the guitar, he smiled at her. The woman was clearly a somebody here.

“I suppose so,” Patti replied. She shimmied her way through the musicians and took a seat next to The Doors’ front man.

“Alright, what are we playing?” he asked the circle. Patti tapped his arm. “You got somethin’?” he asked.

“You guys know ‘Gloria’ by Them?” the garage rock anthem was one of Patti’s favorites. She couldn’t think of a song more fitting.

“Yeah, but you gotta sing it!” prompted a tipsy Paul Kantner from a few seats down. Patti grinned back at him and nodded. Jim struck a heavy E chord and Patti growled the first line.

“Like to tell you ‘bout my baby..” the raucous crowd slowed down at the sound of Patti’s voice. Gloria’s red dress spun around. “You know she comes around here at just about midnight.
She make ya feel so good, Lord! She make ya feel alright!” She smiled wide at Patti and the band played on. As they approached the chorus, the kitchen was squeezed with more and more listeners.

“And her name is! And her name is! And her name is…” Patti rose from her seat. She stomped her clunky feet in rhythm with Jim Morrison’s guitar. She thought she might break on through to the floor below her. “And her name is G. L. O. R. I. A!” she heard the whole apartment chime in. “Gloooooria!” they chanted, “Gloooooria!”

4 AM

They played long into the night. People came and went for hours. It seemed as though every guest in the hotel had wandered into the apartment at some point that night just to hear Patti Smith sing. They played old folk songs, blues, Patti even recited poetry. When it seemed like there was nothing on earth they hadn’t played, the makeshift band took a bow. The few listeners left erupted into applause. One of them was Gloria.

She sauntered up to Patti, somehow maintaining her fresh face through the night. Patti’s heart quickened. Gloria leaned in close, the little hairs on her cheek tickling Patti’s nose. She pressed her lips to Patti’s forehead, staining it pink, and whispered...

“Welcome to New York.”

She whispered to me, she told me her name

and her name is G-L-O-R-I-A

Gloria

Patti Smith, “Gloria”

    Mary walked impatiently around the kitchen. “He should be here, by now,” she thought.

    “Stop pacing!” Her father yelled, “Brandon will be back soon enough.” His face was serious as usual but his eyes couldn’t hide his excitement. Afterall, Brandon was the only son he had left. Her brother William had died right at the beginning of the war. It was awful for everyone but her father had taken it the hardest. Mary shook the thought out of her head. She wasn’t going to let today be spoiled. After all, the dreadful war was finally over. Most importantly, Brandon was safe. He had survived the war without any injuries, which was a lot to be grateful for. The same couldn’t be said for many of their neighbors.

    “He’s here!” Mary’s mother shrieked. Mary rushed to the doorway and her breath caught in her throat when she saw Brandon. It seemed like an entire lifetime since she had last seen him, even though it was only a year. He seemed taller now, with strong, broad shoulders. But it was more than just that. His once soft brown eyes were hardened and cold; his smile didn’t reach them. Regardless, Mary flung herself into Brandon’s arms.

    “You’re home!” She cried.

    Brandon laughed, “It’s good to be back.”

As Brandon got used to living at home again, the world was beginning to see big changes. The men were returning from the war, which was a cause for great celebration. On top of this, there was an influx of wealth. The beginning of the 1920’s started off with an event very dear to Mary. Women had won the fight for suffrage and were now able to have a serious influence in politics. Her mother however, was not as pleased.

    “Mary, why do you get excited with such things? Women never voted before, why should they now?” She inquired briskly.

    “Mother,” Mary sighed. “It has been long enough, women deserve the same rights as men. How can you possibly disagree?”

    Her mother made a noise of contempt but it was clear they were simply not going to see eye to eye on this issue, like many things recently. To Mary, the world was becoming increasingly more exciting, but her mother was very wary of all the changes. Mary turned to see her friend Edith and Brandon waiting outside.

    “I don’t know if I know if I like you spending so much time with that Edith girl, especially when she’s driving that... thing,” her mother remarked towards the car, brows furrowing.

    “Oh mother, don’t worry so much,” Mary chided as she opened the door to leave. Edith smiled at her. Edith’s golden hair was cropped short around her face and a touch of makeup shown on her cheeks.

    “Mary, darling!” Edith gushed. “It’s so good to see you.”

    “It’s been less than a week since you last saw me,” Mary laughed.

    “And that is far too long!” She exclaimed. “You’re going to love tonight. Brandon does, he’s out all the time now isn’t he?”

Mary and Brandon laughed. Brandon was gone at parties more than he was home now. The strange part to Mary was that he never seemed happier after, yet it seemed to be the only thing he wanted to do.

    Mary giggled nervously. She knew she had never been to a party like this before. As they walked in she became painfully aware at how much she must stand out. The girls were wearing shorter dresses than she had ever seen before with short wavy hair and color painted on their eyelids. The music was hypnotic and Mary found herself being swept up onto the dance floor. She was surprised, even the way they danced was different. The movements were so free and uncontained; she loved it. Edith came back to her with drinks. Mary sipped it slowly and she felt her face flushing. She was overwhelmed with the sensations of the music, the dancing, the beautiful people, and the drinks. How could anything be better than this?

    Nothing else really seemed to matter. Like her brother, Mary started to sleep during the day and go out to the parties at night. Life was an endless stream of music, laughing, dancing, and drinking. Brandon would disappear with a bunch of his friends from the war to do drugs the names of which she couldn’t even pronounce. Mary didn’t know how she felt about all the drugs. They seemed to make Brandon happy for moments but just as bitter, if not worse, later. She knew better than to bring it up with her brother again, though.

    “Don’t pretend like you know me anymore, Mary. I’m not the same brother you had before the war. You don’t know what’s best for me, you don’t know what I have seen... What I have done,” Mary shuddered at the memory. His words had cut her like a whip.

    “Mary,” Edith whined. “Stop looking so down, let’s dance.”

    Mary stood up, shaking the unpleasant thoughts out of her head. She let the music fill her mind and followed Edith onto the floor. She danced and drank until her head was spinning and her legs were wobbling.

    Suddenly there was a scream and the music stopped. A man was at the top of the stairs. His eyes were wild and frantic and he tugged at his wavy brown hair.

    “Someone get help quick!” He yelled in a strangled voice.

    “What is it? What’s happening?” Mary shouted to Edith over the panic. Edith rushed to the man on the stairs and her face was white as she turned around.

    “Mary, it’s Brandon,” she whispered.

    “What happened to him?” Mary’s voice shook.

    “He passed out. They said he stopped breathing,” Edith replied, holding on to Mary. Mary pushed past her and up the stairs.

    “Take me to him!” She yelled at the man. “He’s my brother.”

    With every step she took the world seemed to be crashing down around her. Brandon was lying on the floor. His face was ghostly white. Mary dropped to the ground. A doctor was rushed into the room and he knelt over Brandon.

    “I’m sorry, there is nothing that can be done,” his face was somber. “We have to move the body.”

    As the men came forward to lift her brother, Mary lost all control of herself. She wasn’t aware that she was screaming but the high pitched sound pierced the cold air. Edith wrapped her arms around her.

    “I’m sorry, Mary. I’m so sorry.”

    Mary’s whole body was shaking. Her head was swimming. Her legs felt weak underneath her and darkness came down on her like a blanket and she went limp. When she awoke, she was in her bed. The pain ripped through her like a knife, taking her breath away. She could hear her mother weeping from the next room.

    “How could this have happened to our baby?” her mother asked between sobs.

    “The doctor said it was probably drugs, he had seen it before,” her fathers voice was tight as if he was trying to hold in the pain.

    “After William...” her mother’s voice quivered and Mary heard her father suck in a deep breath. “I thought when Brandon came back from the war he would be safe.”

    “I know,” her father said, his voice breaking. Mary sobbed into her pillow.

    Weeks went by and Mary rarely left her bed. She never went outside except for the funeral. She ate very little and slept all the time. Weeks turned into months and while her parents were grieving too, they began to worry about her. One day her father walked into her room. It hurt Mary to look at him. He had lost both of his sons, and losing Brandon was her fault. She had been there, she could have stopped it.

    “Mary,” he said. His eyes looked tired. “Your mother is worried.”

    “I’m sorry, Father. There is no reason for her to worry,” Mary replied despondently.

    “I’m worried too,” he sighed. She looked up at him. “I know you are grieving Brandon, we all are. But you need to get out of this room. Go outside and enjoy life. It doesn’t do anyone good for you to stay in here, especially Brandon.”

    Mary flinched at the mention of his name. “I don’t think I can.”

    “Mary, you have to. You said yourself that there are so many new opportunities for women. You can make something out of that. Just think about it.” He left her room and she sat there thinking. Before she had gotten caught up with her brother and Edith in the partying, she had wanted to do so much more with her life. Women could have real careers now, in the same fields as men. It was difficult of course, but more women were going to college and taking on the working world. If they could do it, so could she. Mary thought of all the people that must have been affected by the war like her brother was. With college education, suffrage, and new career opportunities she could make a real difference.

    Four years later and she could still remember what her father said just as clearly. She watched as her mother cried and her father smiled at her during her graduation from Smith College. She thought of all the people who had asked her why she wanted to go to college when there were many more ladylike options for her.  Mary couldn’t help but think of Brandon. He had shown her what this world can do to people and that she had to decide what she wanted to do for it instead.

Aleister’s Honeymoon

by Gavin Partida

The shutter of the Brownie box camera echoed along the walls of the 2nd great pyramid. “That one should turn out great!” Rose shouted to her newly wedded husband. “Yeah it better, that was the seventh and final picture I’m posing for,” Aleister replied. The couple locked arms and walked away from the pyramid. The sky was a brilliant pink from the setting sun. The two walked toward their camels that they had rented for the day. “Why did we have to rent out these vile stinking creatures, Rose?” Aleister groaned. “You know what they say, ‘When in Rome!’ or should I say, Egypt!” Rose said. “Be quiet, Rose, and get on your camel.” The couple rode back into Giza. The streets were bustling with activity, even after the sun went down. Automobiles and horse drawn carriages zoomed passed, almost colliding with their camels.   “This place is even crazier than London!” Rose exclaimed. The couple tied up their camels outside their hotel. Aleister looked at the cafe in the adjacent building to the hotel, where locals were blowing pungent smelling smoke from hookahs. “Aleister, I don’t know about this.” Rose said worriedly. “Well you know what they say, When in Rome!” Aleister said mockingly. The couple walked in and ordered some tea and tried the local flavor. After an hour, the couple decided to return to their hotel. The night began to blur as they stumbled up to their bedroom. Rose went straight for the bathroom, where she stayed for the rest of the night. “Well there goes the first night of our honeymoon,” Aleister groaned. He sprawled out on the large sized mattress, and fell asleep fairly quickly, despite the awful sounds coming from the bathroom.

    Aleister was almost blinded by the searing desert sunlight. He walked down the stairs of the hotel, which he could have sworn were carpeted with a magnificent pattern and not made of hard stone. He opened the door of the hotel and immediately became sick to his stomach. There were no longer automobiles, or even horse drawn carriages. The streets were no longer littered with beggars or salesmen. The city of Giza was no longer city living in the shadow of its history. It was just like the illustrations in the history books Aleister had read so much of in school. The pyramids were enormous and smooth. The sphinx not only still bore its nose, but it was painted with magnificent colors and seemed to stand guard over the entire city. Aleister started walking toward the pyramids, which interested him greatly. Every person he passed was dressed in the fashion of the ancients. Their faces painted as vibrant as the sphinx's, with grand assortments of jewels hanging from their necks and ears. There was a strange aura surrounding the entire city. That aura seemed to be centered around the great pyramid of Giza. It seemed to beckon to him, almost as if it was calling his name. “Aleister….Aleister…..ALEISTER!” He opened his eyes and saw his wife standing on the side of the bed. “You just let me sleep there, in the bathroom, in a puddle of my own vomit?!” Rose shouted. “Some marriage this is going to be! Where I can’t even count on my husband to…” “Quiet, Rose. Get your things.” Aleister interrupted. “Excuse me?! Where is it that you want to go to so badly?” “Giza” Aleister said.

    The day was noticeably hotter than the last. Their camels were in a progressively worse mood than the previous day as well. “Just walk forward you dumb animal!” Aleister screamed at his stubborn camel who refused to walk any further. “Fine! Good luck finding work in this God-forsaken desert!” The couple continued on foot toward the great pyramid. The strange aura that surrounded the pyramid in Aleister’s dream had never left. They arrived at the base of the pyramid, where their guide awaited them along with a middle aged American couple with 2 girls. “Alright group! Lets get going!” Their guide Ahmed said. The group entered a small doorway at the base that lead to a narrow tunnel system that led all throughout the pyramid. Ahmed confidently lead the group, lighting the way by a lantern. The American family closely followed. Their apprehension was noticeably evident because of the questions they were asking. “Are these tunnels….booby trapped?” the wife asked. Ahmed began to reassure the Americans, explaining how these pyramids have been explored thousands of times. The group continued on throughout the tunnels, taking countless twists and turns which made Aleister wonder how any could ever find there way out. The group walked further and were faced with a fork in the tunnel. “We need to go through the left tunnel at this fork. These tunnels were made into a labyrinth to prevent grave robbers from stealing the treasures that were housed in these pyramids” Ahmed informed the group. “Onward we-” just then, the ground below them began to shake violently. Sand fell down through every crack above them. The Americans began to scream as Aleister took Rose’s hand. Ahmed let out the loudest scream of the entire group as he dropped the lit torch, which burnt out as soon as it hit the ground. The tunnel was now pitch black as the quaking pyramid came to rest. The only sounds now were the hyperventilated cries from the American family, and Ahmed. “Find that god damned torch! I need to see where we are!” Aleister yelled at Ahmed. “Ok! Ok! I’m trying!” Ahmed retorted in a cracked voice. “Here it is!” With a couple clicks! of his zippo, the room became illuminated. The groups jaws dropped as the torchlight danced along the walls. They were no longer in a narrow passageway with a fork directly in front of them. They were in a huge open room, the floors of which were covered with bones.

“Allah…” Ahmed cried. “Where are we!? What has happened!?” The American Husband yelled. “I don’t know?” Ahmed snapped. “Well you’re the tour guide! Are we going to end up like them!?” the husband yelled as he pointed to the bones. The two girls began to cry. “Quiet!” Aleister yelled. He began to search the room. At one end stood a dark doorway. On the opposite, a huge hieroglyph that depicted two Egyptian gods, Nuit and Horus. “Interesting. They refer to Horus as ‘Hoor-paar-kraat’” Aleister said under his breath. Aleister walked over to Ahmed. “Give me a torch,” he said. Ahmed fearfully obeyed. He lit Aleister’s torch and handed it to him. “This is not an exhibition, sir. Our lives are at stake! We need to get out of here!” The husband yelled. “Then leave! and take Ahmed with you!” Aleister yelled. The group gasped and headed out the  door. Aleister began to study the walls. Between the two gods was a third figure that was completely unknown to Aleister. This figure was raising its arms towards a human. The human seemed to be being manipulated by the third God. “Aiwass.” Aleister read the wall aloud. “Rose, come look at this! I’ve never seen any hieroglyphs like this before!....Rose?” Aleister turned around. His wife was standing in the center of the room with a blank expression on her face. “Rose what’s wrong? You’ve been quiet for so long.” He walked towards her but was blown back by an immense force. Rose began to levitate from the ground and stared directly at Aleister. “Had! The manifestation of Nuit. The unveiling of the company of heaven. Every man and every woman is a star. Every number is infinite; there is no difference. Help me, o warrior lord of Thebes, in my unveiling before the Children of men!” Rose yelled, in a voice that was completely foreign to her own. Aleister brought his attention to the wall again. “The Gods are talking to me,” Aleister said. “Behold! it is revealed by Aiwass the minister of Hoor-paar-kraat.” the voice boomed. “The Gods are talking to me!” Aleister scrambled to get his pen and pad of paper out of his bag. He began to write down what the Gods were saying to him. This continued for three days. At the end of the third day Rose collapsed to the ground and all communication with Aiwass ended. He ran over to Rose and helped her to her feet. “What happened?” Rose said dazedly. “I’ll tell you after we get out of this horrible pyramid. The two walked into the black door, which led directly outside where they entered. It was night out and the couple walked back to their hotel. Aleister grabbed the notebook in which he wrote down Aiwass’s words, and wrote Liber al Legis on the cover. “What is that?” Rose asked. “It’s a new religion.” Aleister replied. “Aiwass called it Thelema, and this is the Book of the Law.”

Aleister Crowley Research Paper

By Gavin Partida

Since the dawn of humanity, we have always wondered where we came from. We began to develop systems of theories to attempt to answer these “unanswerable” questions of life. Not only did our ancestors try to answer these questions, they also came up with a set of rules and values within the systems. These systems are known as religions. Billions of people are affiliated with some sort of religion, and most of these religions have existed for thousands of years. New religions are constantly forming, but there seems to be a problem with these newer religions. People view these systems not as religions, but as “cults.” Cults usually have negative connotations and are frowned upon, yet there is no fundamental difference between a  religion and a cult. They are both systems of beliefs and values centered around a deity or deities. Cults have done much to earn their negative reputation, but that does not necessarily mean that all cults are negative. Most people’s perception of cults are dominated by “superstars” of the occult, such as Jim Jones, Charles Manson, and Marshall Applewhite. However, if we look deeper into cults, we can see that religions and cults are essentially the same things and that not every cult should be labeled as negative and even sinister. This can best be shown by looking at the system of faith known as Thelema.

Thelema’s negative attention stems mostly from it’s founder, Aleister Crowley. Crowley was an interesting character, to say the least and was aptly nicknamed “The Wickedest Man in the World”. Crowley was a man ahead of his time, and was not afraid to challenge the traditional and strict societal standards of England at the turn of the century. “Crowley was also a bisexual, a recreational drug experimenter and social critic. In many of these roles he ‘was in revolt against the moral and religious values of his time”(“Aleister Crowley - Crystalinks.”).  As he grew older, he became a prominent figure in the community of occults when he joined The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. The Golden Dawn was an extremely prominent cult that practiced magic and rituals. This was Crowley’s first taste of the supernatural and would eventually lead him to found his own sets of faiths and ideals. He was most famous for his founding of Thelema, which was founded in only three nights while on his honeymoon in Cairo with his new wife in 1904. His wife allegedly became possessed by some sort of angel known as Aiwass and Crowley wrote down what she said. He began to preach the scripture Aiwass dictated to him and thus, Thelema was born.

When we look at other systems of beliefs that are more widely accepted and respected, we find many differences, but also many similarities. Take Christianity, for instance. Both Christianity’s and Thelema’s system of ideals are found in scriptures that were written after the authors came in contact with a higher power. The Bible was written by prophets who came into contact with God, and the disciples of Jesus, God’s son. The Book of the Law was written by Aleister Crowley, after coming into contact with the angel Aiwass. “Behold! It is revealed by Aiwass the minister of Hoor-paar-kraat (Crowley, Aleister).” This basically means that Aiwass is the minister, or representative, of Hoor-paar-kraat, or a rendition of the Egyptian god, Horus. This is easily paralleled when looking at the Bible’s mentions of angels.  “Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?”(Bible). Both of these quotes mention “ministers” of a higher power. When you look at the dogma of each religion and cult, there really is no fundamental difference. The differences come with the deities, scriptures, and most importantly, values. Thelema’s main values consist of Free Will, whereas Christianity’s main values come in the Ten Commandments. Cults and religions have no real fundamental differences, they only major difference is the societal view upon the belief.

Thelema differs from other cults in it’s individual based ideals.When the word “cult” comes up in a conversation, it is usually followed by mentions of Charles Manson, Heavens Gate, and Jim Jones. All of these cults resulted in murders or suicides. Jim Jones and the Jonestown massacre, for instance. Jim Jones gained a huge following in the US in the church he founded known as the People’s Temple, but because of his egomaniacal intentions, received a lot of negative attention. Jones compared himself to Jesus Christ, saying that he was his people’s savior. Jones, along with a large group of followers, relocated to the jungles of Guyana, where he promised the formation of a “utopian society.” It was here where the massacre occurred. “The same day as the murders at the airstrip, Jones told his followers that soldiers would come for them and torture them. He ordered everyone to gather in the main pavilion and commit what he termed a ‘revolutionary act.’ (History.com Staff).” This so called “revolutionary act” was convincing his followers to drink cyanide laced kool-aid. It is completely understandable, after hearing about horrible incidents such as this one, as to why most people would be hesitant to look deeper into a system of faith that has been labeled as a “cult.” However, Thelema completely surpasses the People’s Temple in any spiritual value. The People’s Temple, Manson Family, and other cults were the products of the twisted visions of sick and egotistical men, who desired to be worshiped as Gods, where Thelema was founded as a way for the spiritually oppressed to express themselves and live their lives to satisfy their own Free Will.

The main set of values behind Thelema comes from the scripture Crowley wrote from Aiwass’s possession. He named this scripture Liber Al Vel Legis Sub Figura CCXX As Delivered by XCIII= 418 to DCLXVI, but the name was soon simplified to The Book of the Law. The main rule behind Thelema is summed up in one sentence from the scripture: “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law” (Crowley). This means that everyone is entitled to their own destiny and purpose, and should only make decisions and aspire to fulfil this purpose. According to Thelema, instead of living to make, money, friends, or gain power, one should live to fulfil their “True Will,” or what they truly desire to live for, regardless of anything else. Another main concept behind Thelema is love. “Come forth, o children, under the stars, and take your fill of love!(Crowley, Aleister).” Aleister Crowley was a firm believer in free love, and the expression of such. The Book of the Law preaches for everyone to live their lives based off of these two principles, and puts them at the most important priorities in one’s life. Thelema focuses more on an individual's true desires, rather than the benefit of the faith. Although Thelema is an extremely positive faith, it is still considered by many to be a cult rather than a religion. This is caused by the anti societal nature of Thelema. Society places immense value on monetary earnings, physical appearance, and power, the very things that Thelema denounces. Society also pushes people to work towards benefitting itself, rather than the individual, another thing that Thelema denounces. Society tends to push out, or alienate beliefs such as Thelema, resulting in Thelema’s cult labeling.

Thelema has stood the test of time and still remains to be a very prominent faith today, despite the cult labeling. Aleister Crowley, like most people who were ahead of their time, was harshly criticized and berated for his anti societal views and values. Although he was deemed as “the wickedest man in the world” and did seem a bit eccentric, he preached the ideas of Free Will, Free Love, gender equality, and many other things that we view in such high regard in  today’s society. Thelema was his medium for his vision. Thelema was found on interesting grounds to say the least, but it certainly does not deserve to be discredited any more than any prominent religion. Religions and cults differ in the details and societal views, but their fundamental structures are essentially the same. Thelema and Aleister Crowley have been given bad wraps because of the other members of the occultist community. Cults and religions have been clashing since the very moment humans began creating systems of faith, but at the end of it all, they both attempt to answer the same “unanswerable” questions that have been stuck in humanities mind for millions of years.

   This was probably the third or fourth time Jeff had taken us to the San Diego Museum of Art in Balboa park. I’m surprised they let him back because he is always adding to the guides lesson and that usually makes them really mad at him, but can you blame him? He loves art. The only part of the museum that ever changes is the downstairs. The upstairs has been the same for ages and I’ve been going to the museum since I was really young, so I’ve seen it all. Today, however, we were here to see Lois Mailou Jones’ exhibit, one I’d never seen before. She was supposed to have been an influential character in the acceptance of African American women into the art world and was famous for changing the art scene in the United States . Jeff hustles into the museum and we follow behind him putting our back packs down behind the front desk and making our way to the new exhibit. Our guide was a short little lady and she seemed like she was angry about something, but most guides seem that way. We shuffled along following her into the first room of the exhibit. She walked up to the first painting hanging on a wall filled with abstract scenes of African life .

“This painting is one of Jones’ more famous works. During this period of her life she really was trying to show more of her culture through the painting. It was done in 1977 with acrylic and collage on canvas, titled ‘La Baker’. Jones was known for mixing her culture and her work witch made her art passionate. Now what message do you think she was trying to get across?”.

We all just stood there looking at this lady thinking “Is the art only about the facts?”. That’s when Jeff hopped in, realizing that the guides were losing us.

“Look at the colors in the background. See how the green, orange, and pink compliment the dancing ladies and add to the pattern done at the bottom. Her not adding a lot of detail to the figures helps you focus on the shaping of the bodies and the way they were stretched and in motion. The work done on the head dresses makes you believe this might have been a scene of importance or celebration. What does this make you feel? Do you want to dance or sit down? What do you think Lois was trying to show us here? ” Jeff said as he made gestures that went along with his words. “Do you think the colors were chosen for a reason and the placement of the women had a purpose or was it a realistic representation?”.

Jeff was known for becoming really passionate about paintings so we were actually interested when he would speak to us we probably spent ten minutes talking about this one painting and the guide motioned for us to continue on to the next one I walked closer and closer to the painting as the rest of the group walked on to the next one.

The way the dancers were spread out made you think that you was at a festival. All of the paintings that were hanging on the walls were full of bright yellows and greens they all had something to do with african culture and a heritage which I was unfamiliar to but I understood it was an important part of this artist’s life. But this one painting stood out from the rest. The biggest dancer’s eye was painted as if she was looking directly at me, I wonder if that was done on purpose. I kept moving my head trying to tell if it was actually following me or if it was just painted really well. I look up from the painting realizing that the group had moved on, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the painting moved! The dancer winked at me! I think the dancer in the painting just winked at me! Is that even possible!? I leaned even closer, there was no way that just happened. Paintings can't move! What the hell?! There is no way that just happened... I walked away from the painting frazzled. I wonder what I must have eaten, I felt fine. The group had moved onto her painting of three little boys, I walked up to Tyler.

“Dude did you notice anything weird about the last painting?”

“No, they’re so cool I like how bright they are.” he responded, looking a bit confused.

“Really? I think I saw something weird on the last painting... I think it might have... moved.”

“What the hell did you take?” he said looking at me with wide eyes.

“Nothing! I swear! Maybe I’m just seeing things, literally. “

“Alright... You sure you're okay though?”

“Yeah I’m totally fine.”

Jeff had already started talking about the painting describing her work. “You see how the children are standing there holding the jugs on their heads looking at you in almost an angry fashion? The background on this painting is more squared off and the colors have an earthy feel to them with the browns yellows, and greens. What about them make them stand out, how do the colors on the background go along with what she was trying to show us?”

“I think that she was just painting the scene around her and how the people in Africa were and how they went on about their daily lives. The kids look like they’re skinny and are not wearing a lot of clothing.” Tyler said to Jeff.

They all agreed and walked onto the next painting. I sat down on the couch that they place in front of all the paintings. I focused on one that caught my attention. Something about this painting looked so much like the other one... I wonder if it would… hey, wait! Did that kid just jump? What is going on? The paintings can’t be moving! I looked at it and the kids started to giggle and jump up and down motioning for me to be quiet. I got up and ran over to the group, grabbing Tyler by his arm.

“Tyler you have to look at this!”

“What? Look at what?

“The painting! It’s moving again you have to see it!” I pleaded, dragging Tyler to the last painting.

“I dont see anything Sofia... What part exactly is moving, because I don't think any of it is?”

“The boys were jumping around and laughing I swear you have to believe me!”

“Nothing is happening... Are sure you didn't take anything...”

“Its okay, maybe I did, but still there is no way that’s even possible... but I know I'm seeing something happen.”

“Well tell me if it happens again...” Tyler said, walking back to the group.

“Okay, I will….” I said, giving up. I just wish that someone else could see the painting move. I know it’s happening and that I’m not crazy...or am I? The guide stood in front of the next painting so I walked back over to the group. She began to speak about the piece.

“This next piece is called Two African Hairstyles, 1982, it was done with Acrylic on canvas. If you look at the detailing done on the girl you can see that the hairstyles were represented on two different kinds of characters one an actual human and the other has a more statue like feel to it with the white as the skin tone and hair color. You can see a more traditional african style here with the patterns done in the background.”

“Why did she focus so much of her work around African culture?” Gavin asked.

Jeff, cutting off the guide from continuing her rambling, said “Jones’ most influential time during her career was during and after her trip to Africa because that is when she was able to connect her culture and heritage to her work. So, almost all of the painting were done with a focus on African culture. Her art helped show that African American artist were just as good as white artist during a time while there were many stigmas about African Americans.”

“Well actually there is this rumor,” The guide said, jumping back in, “that during her travels to Africa, Jones was introduced to the leader of the tribe Samburu, who was said to have magical powers and he asked of her to make him a painting so that he could have it for himself and that he would bless her so that the rest of her paintings would have a magic to them so that when someone would look at her paintings, they would come to life before their eyes, as long as she agreed to portray her culture in the way that her people would want to be portrayed. Jones never admitted to whether or not this was true, but many believe it was to keep a mysterious factor to her work.”

I looked directly at Tyler, my eyes wide and thinking “That must be happening to me!” He looked back, kind of understanding where I might be coming from.

“Did you hear that! That is totally happening to me!” I whispered to Tyler.

“Yeah that would explain what you’ve been saying.”

    “Sofia shhhhh!” Jeff said to me motioning for me to come stand by him.

I walked over to him, still in shock from what I just heard.

“Hey I think the girl in the painting just smiled did you see that?”

Jeff whispered to me pointing at the painting as the girl smiled back from the painting.