Tomás Rivera and Civic Morality by Carlos Cortes

When Tomás Rivera became chancellor of the University of California, Riverside, in 1979, he accepted both the honor and the burden of being a first: first Chicano chancellor, first minority chancellor, and youngest chancellor in the history of the University of California system.

Tomás earned plaudits nationwide for his accomplishments. Partly because of his firstness, he also became the object of national attention, serving on numerous prestigious boards, committees, and task forces, including the Los Angeles Times Board of Directors. Moreover, beyond his administrative firstness, Tomás also garnered literary acclaim for such works as his novel (. . . and the Earth Did Not Devour Him) and his poetry (“The Searchers”).

But, as inevitable for most firsts, Tomás also bore a heavy burden, the relentless pressure of knowing he was constantly being viewed as a representative, maybe even the embodiment, of his people. He lived continuously with the terrible knowledge that any of his perceived missteps or failings would be interpreted by some as definitive proof of the inadequacy of Mexican Americans. That burden ultimately contributed to his death from a heart attack in 1984.

In the aftermath of his death, Tomás reemerged as a Latino symbol. His name soon adorned schools, centers, prizes, and, of course, UCR’s Tomás Rivera Library. Yet, while Tomás attained enormous symbolic importance, his real life administrative accomplishments received little serious assessment for nearly three decades. Then, in the fall, 2013, Professor Tiffany López, holder of UCR’s Tomás Rivera Endowed Chair, organized a seminar dedicated to analyzing Tomás’ speeches and writings concerning the role of higher education administrators, particularly Latino administrative leaders.

From that careful and astute examination of those documents, the seminar identified one core idea that illuminated the trajectory of Tomás’ administrative life: his commitment to the concept of civic morality. Again and again Tomás proclaimed that college administrators should lead with the goal of spreading and inculcating a sense of civic morality, a basis for fostering a more equitable society.

During the seminar, Tiffany invited me, as Tomás’ friend and a 26-year UCR History professor, to spend a couple of hours with her students, sharing my observations of and experiences with Tomás. Later Tiffany asked me if I would participate in a theatrical piece she was developing based on the seminar. Intrigued by the idea of a seminar on college administration being transformed into a theatrical presentation, I said yes. Yet the cynic in me knew that an administration-oriented seminar could not possibly become effective theatre. How wrong I was!

While the expression “blown away” has become a cliché, that is precisely how I felt when I participated in the first performance of “Civic Morality” on December 3, 2013, before a packed house at UCR’s Culver Center of the Arts. Riversiders will get another opportunity to see how wrong I was when Tiffany’s theatrical presentation, “Civic Morality,” about the life of Tomás Rivera, is presented again at 7 pm on Wednesday, November 12, at the César Chávez Community Center Auditorium in Bobby Bonds Park, 2060 University Avenue.

“Civic Morality” is as difficult to describe as it is impossible to resist. Both Tiffany’s opening narrative, which sketches the contours of Tomás’ administrative career and the evolution of his thinking, and the students’ heartfelt reflections on their engagement with Tomás’ writings provide drama and insight into the life and ideas of this remarkable man. When the students had finished their parts and I made my way to the Culver stage to share my recollections of Tomás, I felt both the joy of personal revelation and the onus of responsibility of helping bring Tomás to life for an audience of many who had never known him.

Tomás Rivera was far more than a first; he was unique. With his sly smile and mischievous sense of humor, he could charm. A man of virtually limitless personal generosity, he gave himself to everyone almost without reservation. He and his wife, Concha, hosted more than 200 events each year in the Chancellor’s residence. No matter how imposing the administrative pressures, Tomás would somehow make time to answer a local teacher’s request to speak to her elementary school class. An academic leader who never forgot his farm laboring family roots, he always remained part of the people.

The life of Tomás Rivera, particularly those last five sometimes joyous, sometimes tumultuous, always challenging UCR years, provide the stuff of tragedy and triumph. “Civic Morality,” which captures both the tragedy of Tomás’ death and the triumphant timelessness of his vision, serves as a moving tribute to a good and, in some respects, great man. I hope that many of you will be able to join us on November 12 for this dramatic exploration of a life worth recalling, cherishing, and emulating.

Happy Halloween: Zombies in Love

Zombies in Love

By Cati Porter

Scene: Two zombies side-by-side, holding hands, each with a hand behind their back.

Zombies in unison:

When we first arrived here we were alive.

We were already in love.

We had gone for a drive down Victoria Avenue when a sick coyote ran across the road and our car veered into a pole.

(cue coyote howl)

We were resuscitated by paramedics and taken to the hospital.

Where we fell ill. An epidemic soon took hold and while we felt strange

We were still the same Jack and Jill

We left the hospital after the doctors fell ill too, walked home,

Where our fathers and mothers seemed afraid of us

And could not be consoled. They were well, but not for long.

Zombie Jill:

My mother said she thought I was dead

But I said No, I was just cold.

Zombie Jack:

My father said I looked like death warmed over.

(Jack laughs)

In unison again:

When they slammed the door we walked here to the morgue.

Because that’s where you go when you’re dead, right?

(they both laugh)

The hordes had gathered here to discuss what would become of us.

The next day, our parents joined us.

There was no escaping this.

None of us knew what a zombie should do. Should we go back to our old ways?

Zombie Jack:

Zombie baseball?

Zombie Jill:

Zombie ballet?

In unison:

We were strong. We thought nothing could hurt us, even as our bodies were falling apart.

They said it was just a nasty virus—that we would adapt. That we would build the world anew, a “Zombie Utopia.”

Zombie Jill:

I drive a Ferrari now.

Zombie Jack:

I run a delicatessen.

In unison:

See, it’s not all bad. The deli has been quite a success. And we love new guests.

But the trouble is….

We’re running out of fresh meat!

End scene: Jack and Jill run into the crowd, pulling meat cleavers from behind their backs.

KIDLANDIA: Come to the Museum by Julianna M. Cruz

I’m using my blog space to promote an event at our wonder-filled Mission Inn Museum. They are holding a Riverside author signing event, and I will be there to sign copies of my book, Dos Chiles, Two Chilies and my friend Cindi Niesinger will also be there to sign her new children’s book, Mouse Wedding at the Mission Inn Where’s Daddy? There are lots of other books by Riverside authors as well. I will have a sample copy of No Easy Way if you would like to look at it before ordering. All proceeds from sales will go to the Mission Inn Museum.

I hope to see everyone there!

Mission Inn Museum

1:00 pm to 4:00 pm

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Thanks for all your support,

Julianna M. Cruz

Julianna M. Cruz is a teacher, an author, and an Inlandian.

In Honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month by Cati Porter

Everyone knows someone who has been affected by breast cancer. Not surprising, considering that statistics show 1 in 10 women eventually will be diagnosed.

I am no exception: both my mother and stepmother are breast cancer survivors, as well as my maternal great-grandmother, and still others not too far from me in my family tree. And that’s not counting any friends.

The importance of recognizing October as Breast Cancer Awareness Month is that it serves to raise awareness about the disease and to remind us all how necessary it is to make those screening appointments.

But no matter how faithful you are about screening, if you happen to be the one who is diagnosed, it will change your life.

Writing is a therapeutic art, a healing art. For a writer who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, writing through the illness can be cathartic. And, of course, it’s also beneficial for all who enjoy reading and hearing others’ stories.

Here are some good reads on the topic:

FICTION

“Bodily Harm” by Margaret Atwood is a novel about a travel reporter who is a breast cancer survivor and who, after her recovery, takes a Caribbean vacation, which leads to romance and political intrigue.

“Talk Before Sleep” by Elizabeth Berg is a novel about two female friends and how, when one of them is diagnosed with breast cancer, the other – along with their larger group of friends – rallies to care for the friend in the last days of her life.

“What Girls Learn” by Karin Cook is a novel about adolescent girls whose mother finds love, moves them to another city and then finds a lump in her breast, as well as the importance of the bonds of family.

NONFICTION

“The Cancer Journals” by Audre Lorde, a classic cancer-chronicle text that presents excerpts from Lorde’s diary and tells the story of her journey through breast cancer from a feminist perspective.

“The Dog Lived (And So Will I)” by Riverside author Teresa Rhyne, a seriously funny memoir about Rhyne’s experience battling breast cancer as well as treating her beagle Seamus, who was diagnosed with cancer, too.

“Places in the Bone” by Carol Dine, a poet who turns to a memoir to write not just about her experiences with breast cancer but also about the abuse she suffered as a child. She discusses her writing career, which has included studying with the poet Anne Sexton.

GRAPHIC NOVELS

“Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person – A Memoir in Comics” by Miriam Engelberg, described as: “a cartoonist examines her experience with breast cancer in an irreverent and humorous graphic memoir.”

“Cancer Vixen: A True Story” by Marisa Acocella Marchetto, which “tells the story of her 11-month, ultimately triumphant bout with breast cancer – from diagnosis to cure, and every challenging step in between.”

“Mom’s Cancer” by Brian Fies, a freelance journalist. While not about breast cancer – rather, lung cancer – this book is from the perspective of a son helping his mother go through cancer treatment.

POETRY

“Divine Honors” by Hilda Raz, a finely crafted and accessible collection of poetry by the editor of one of the nation’s leading literary journals, Prairie Schooner, detailing her breast cancer journey.

“Her Soul beneath the Bone – Women’s Poetry on Breast Cancer,” edited by Leatrice Lifshitz, is a serious and unsentimental anthology of remarkable poetry written by breast cancer survivors.

“It’s Probably Nothing…* Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Implants,” a poignant and humorous collection of poems by Micki Myers.

And if writing is your thing, then consider putting your journey to paper – as a record for family and friends, and possibly as a resource and source of comfort for others going through similar circumstances.

One book that may be helpful in guiding you is “Writing as a Way of Healing – How Telling Our Stories Transforms Our Lives” by Louise DeSalvo.

Regardless of whether you are personally coping with breast cancer, encourage your friends and loved ones to take care of themselves by making and keeping screening appointments, in memory of those who have come before and for those who have yet to come.

Walking Other Paths of Inspiration by Marsha Schuh

If you write, what is it that gives you ideas?

The first question most poets and writers have been asked is: “Where do you get your ideas?”

When I’m asked this, I usually answer by saying either, “ideas are everywhere,” or “I don’t know.”

Neither answer are very helpful, are they? It is a question that novice writers ponder. Even experienced writers sometimes wonder where others find their inspiration. When I listen to powerful writers read their work, the same questions scratch at my brain: “Where did that come from? How did you ever think that up?”

Consider a few possibilities.

Writers often find inspiration while walking. Several of my own poems have grown from my morning walks around Ontario.

Walking also was a favorite pastime of writers, such as: Virginia Woolf, Charles Dickens, and, of course, Henry David Thoreau and William Wordsworth.

Authors such as Ernest Hemingway, Vladimir Nabokov, Thomas Wolfe, Joyce Carol Oates and Will Self have praised the benefits of long distance walking. The exercise not only provides ideas, but also has a calming effect while at the same time stimulating the brain – both conducive to good writing. Studies have shown that walking boosts creative inspiration by as much as 60 percent.

The prolific poet Mary Oliver says, “Think for yourself. Trust your own intuition. Another’s mind isn’t walking your journey; you are.”

True, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to understand what journeys have inspired other writers? What sparks their mysterious ordering of words that are able to stir and inspire us? Each person is a storehouse of feelings, memories and ideas. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to peer into those storehouses?

Realizing this fact, I propose to interview perhaps 10 to 20 poetry and prose artists in the Inland area and combine their insights into a book, one that includes the input of several Inlandia/PoetrIE writers along with my own.

Contributors would discuss some of the things that have triggered their own creativity, perhaps offer a couple of examples from pieces they’ve written and maybe suggest prompts for other people who aspire to write.

As an example, think of Dru Sefton’s piece published on Current.org on May 30 concerning the book edited by poet Robbi Nester: “The Liberal Media Made Me Do It: Poetic Responses to NPR & PBS Stories.” It features the work of 56 poets reacting to segments and programs aired by public stations.

What a great and unexpected source of inspiration!

Elizabeth Kostova, author of novels “The Swan Thieves” and “The Historian,” finds inspiration from William Carlos Williams’ admonition, “No ideas but in things.” She writes a delightful essay on the subject in the January/February issue of Poets & Writers Magazine, and the object she chooses to write about is a set of metal measuring spoons she remembers from her mother’s kitchen. Consider the possibilities in “First Objects.”

Kostova says, “For writing it seems important to me that the objects we grow up with help form our sense of the world.”

Her essay provided me with a possible prompt: Think of a few early objects you remember that were your gateways to life and learning. Write about one of them, recalling the many vivid images it stirs up in you. Allow your mind to follow the flights of fancy it takes you on.

What is it that inspires you? Since the question has been discussed by authors through the ages, one aspect that intrigues me in this project is how contributors will add to the conversation.

When I suggested the topic of inspiration to fellow Inlandia poet David Stone, he had some questions of his own: “Will the writers you interview affirm ideas from the past? Will they find major or fine points of contention/difference with earlier writers? Will they bring in ideas from unexpected fields of study?”

Here is a conversation that has the potential to enrich all of our writing lives.

Based on the number of writing books and “how to” books both online and in bookstores, I believe there would be a considerable market for such a book. What do you think? Would you like to participate?

Would you like to join our conversation? Leave a comment here on the Inlandia Literary Journeys blog.

Connections: Huxley, Stravinsky, Krishnamurti &Wood by Joan Koerper

“Human beings are multiple amphibians, living simultaneously in half a dozen radically dissimilar universes—the molecular and the ethical, the physiological and the symbolic, the world of incommunicably subjective experience and the public worlds of language and culture, of social organization and the sciences.” Aldous Huxley from the Foreword in You Are Not The Target, by Laura Archera Huxley

My paperback copy of Aldous Huxley’s classic Brave New World almost disintegrated in my hand when I was packing last October to move to Wrightwood. I’d had it since early high school. I carefully placed my hardback copy of Island, a softback of The Art of Seeing, along with my also falling-apart-at-the-seams copy of Laura Huxley’s 1976 edition of You Are Not The Target, into a carefully packed, plastic box of classics by George Orwell, Edward Bellamy, Ernest Callenbach, Hermann Hesse, Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland, a lost feminist utopian novel, and Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, among others. I had no clue at the time that I would be living less than a mile from a house Huxley once owned.

When I learned Huxley was Wrightwood’s most famous one-time literary resident I engaged in online research and hoofed it to the Wrightwood Historical Museum to see what info could be gleaned in person. There is a display case dedicated to Huxley at the museum, and also a bit of filed material on him.

In my first round of research on Huxley after moving, I found a photo on www.WrightwoodCalif.com in a blog posted by Graham_Ranch on 12.7.2007. It was an image of Aldous and Maria Huxley, Mr. and Mrs. Igor Stravinsky, J. Krishnamurti and Radha Rajagopal (Sloss) at a picnic in Wrightwood in 1949. I looked up Radha and identified her as the daughter of Rosalind and D. Rajagopal who lived with Krishnamurti for a number of years, located the photo at other places online, then put the photo and the information in my mental “revisit later” file while I continued to unpack.

In early July, coinciding with the scheduled talk at the Wrightwood Museum about Huxley, I was asked to write up a short biography for the museum’s newsletter, a distasteful task at best. I was copying the sentence, “Joan (MJ) Koerper is passionate about exploring our souls as artists: the intersection of art, music, creativity, writing, and human emotion in the everyday sacred of our lives” when my mind flashed on the photo of the Huxleys, the Stravinskys, Krishnamurti and Radha. I returned to explore it.

I began meandering: about my relationship with these people and their works, their relationships with each other, and how they influenced each other…how their lives, ideas and arts intersected.

Huxley, as you know, and was previously noted in another of my blog entries, is considered one of the most important literary and philosophical voices of the 20th Century writing in English. Huxley’s classic, and other works of his, were required reading in both my high school and undergraduate classes at Michigan State University, as well as simply pertinent works to read and re-read over the years.

Growing up in the home of a musician, the works of the Russian-American composer, Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971), oft considered the most versatile and greatest composer of twentieth century, was well known to me. I met him once during my early years. Whether I liked his music or not, I gave one of his books to my father as a birthday present one year. I just let it go during my “great giveaway” prior to moving to Wrightwood. Somewhere in my memory I knew, but was recently reminded, that in the 1950’s there was even talk of Huxley, Stravinsky and Martha Graham turning the Tibetan Book of the Dead into a ballet with a Greek chorus.

(Jiddu) Krishnamurti (1895-1986) was a world-renowned spiritual teacher and philosopher. In the winter of 1991, tricycle magazine reviewed the book Lives in the Shadow with J. Krishnamurti written by Radha Rajagopal Sloss. Radha was in the photo taken in 1949. The introduction to that piece noted that “… by the time he [Krishnamurti] died in Ojai, California, in 1986 at the age of 91, he had helped-perhaps more than anyone in this century-to introduce Eastern teachings on the nature of mind to the West.”

Krishnamurti’s works, and in particular the book Education & the Significance of Life, were required reading, and the centerpoint of much discussion, in my doctoral program at the California Institute of Integral Studies. Krishnamurti believed it is necessary to face experience and disturbance as it comes to keep “intelligence highly awakened; and intelligence highly awakened is intuition, which is the only true guide in life” (1953:11). He further posed that if we are being educated to simply get ahead, obtain a better job or more power, “then our lives will be shallow and empty…Conventional education makes independent thinking extremely difficult. Conformity leads to mediocrity. To be different from the group or to resist environment is not easy and is often risky….” (1953:9).

He spoke of two kinds of revolt: violent, which is reactionary against an existing order and without understanding. The second is the deep psychological revolt of intelligence.

Perhaps, most importantly, Krishnamurti spoke of integration: “We may be highly educated, but if we are without deep integration of thought and feeling, our lives are incomplete, contradictory and torn with many fears; and as long as education does not cultivate an integrated outlook on life, it has very little significance” (1953: 11).

When I was working on my doctoral thesis, a work of creative nonfiction exploring pottery and writing as expressions of our souls as artists, I had the opportunity to learn about the pottery of Beatrice Wood (1893-1998). I visited her studio in Ojai, CA, in 2001, where Wood continued to work until the age of 104. I was totally enamored with her studio, her determination, the ceramics she produced and collected, and most of all the immersion in nature with which she surrounded herself. Her pottery wheel sat in front of a large window looking out over the valley. How could anyone fail to call forth songs from their soul to be transformed into clay in such an environment?

While Wood originally lived across the street from Krishnamurti when she moved to Ojai, in 1974 she was invited to move her home to the grounds of the Happy Valley Foundation in the upper Ojai Valley. In her autobiography, I Shock Myself, Wood relates that Dr. Annie Besant, Krishnamurti, Aldous Huxley, Dr. Guido Ferrando and Rosalind Rajagopal founded the Happy Valley Foundation in 1927. The Happy Valley School, where Wood also taught ceramics for many years, was a project of the Foundation. She speaks of Huxley’s frequent visits to Ojai to have long talks with Krishnamurti about education, thus she was able to see the Huxley’s often. Huxley also served on the Board of the Happy Valley Foundation for fifteen years. Her home, studio, work, library and massive collection of folk and Eastern art were gifted to the Foundation upon her death. So there I was, back in 2001, in Beatrice Wood’s home, studio, and walking the grounds where she, Krishnamurti, Huxley, Anais Nin, Alan Watts, no doubt Stravinsky, and so many others gathered to socialize, exchange ideas, challenge, and nurture each other as friends do.

In 2001 I also had the outstanding good fortune to meet world-renowned woodworker, or furniture craftsman, as the Smithsonian refers to, Sam Maloof (1916-2009), when he hosted an event on his property to honor the potters of Mata Ortiz. A night under the full moon I will never forget. A story in itself, for another time. When Sam Maloof took us on a tour of his home, I recognized a number of Wood’s pieces about the premisses. He knew her, of course. We discussed Beatrice’s unique style and unconventional life among many other topics.

And so the linkages continued. I needed to take it further. It’s the detective in me. The researcher. The scholar. I wanted to observe the resulting affects of these relationships without having to get bogged down with all the details. I wanted to grasp the larger picture.

I re-visited some of Huxley’s stories and essays, picked up a new addition to my library, The Divine Within: Selected Writings on Enlightenment (Jacqueline Hazard Bridgeman, ed.), put my nose to the pages of Krishnamurti’s writing, re-read Beatrice Wood’s autobiography and played some of Stravinsky’s compositions I have in my music library. I was able to perceive, with much more clarity, how these great minds influenced each other, and subsequently influenced me. Each expressed similar ideas using different mediums.

I was spurred onto this recent voyage of the integration and expression of ideas, philosophies and talents by one photograph of a musician, author, and philosopher…people with whom I’ve been familiar with since my youth.

Truth be told, for me, all forms of life are creative, and all life is art. One of the many uncoverings I learned by studying linguistics, for instance, is that in Tewa, Navaho, and most, if not all, indigenous languages, there is no separate word for art. Tewa potter and poet Nora Naranjo-Morse relates that in Tewa there is, “the concept for an artful life, filled with inspiration and fueled by labor and thoughtful approach.” Educator Kenneth R. Beittel, in Zen and the Art of Pottery (1989) writes, “From earliest times, art and life have been one.” Conceptual artist Damien Hirst and naturalist and writer Terry Tempest Williams both write that every society and each person designates what is art. “Art’s about life and it really can’t be about anything else.”

These quotes are only a smidgen of those I’ve gathered confirming what every child, indeed every animal, knows instinctively.

Yet in the Western world, the social construct of dualism is the foundation of our philosophical and psychological worldview. It teaches us to separate all aspects of our lives…indeed to separate us from our lives, our minds, our souls, our artful life. It is indeed a challenge when one embraces the whole while living in a society based on dualism. Hence, speaking in Western terms, I look at how the intersection of these perceived disparate parts of our lives form a much larger worldview. I like to explore how they unite us…how they come together to make us whole. Because when the focus is really on the art that is our lives, however it is expressed in the everyday sacred, it inspires us to be more fully creative beings.

My research offered me a glimpse into how the creative lives of Huxley, Krishnamurti, Stravinsky, Wood, and others, including Alan Watts, intersected: how they came together to nurture, inspire, enjoy and support each other. They carried forth the art of their lives into different mediums and, in turn, produced opulent, radical, lasting, artistic, literary, and philosophical gifts for the world. They were revolutionaries, in the intellectual sense of which Krishnamurti spoke. They impacted each other, and generations to come, including me, as they engaged each other and practiced the arts of their lives. For me, this dialog and communion of minds became yet another example of how important it is for us to have our own commitment to depth, breadth, vision, imagination, integrity, and integration, as well as a wide range of interests, friends, and colleagues who express their art in different mediums. And how critical it is to relate with people who care enough to honestly share, listen, dialog, mentor, honor, and nurture each other. Finally, this voyage into connections became an opportunity to express my deep gratitude for all who have cared enough to share their art of being, expressing, transforming and living with me.

Talent is Overrated: A Free Five-meeting Fiction Writing Workshop at CSUSB by Cati Porter

Join the Inlandia Institute and Cal State San Bernardino for a free five-meeting fiction writing workshop, “Talent is Overrated.”

Writing isn’t glamorous and it isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. With determination and hard work you can become a writer, but you have to choose to be one. Join Andrea Fingerson for a 5-meeting workshop where you will learn how to become a writer. (Note: there will be homework. Please be prepared to commit to the workshop.) The workshop will discuss what it means to be a writer, share strategies that will help you develop the necessary disciple, and review basic fiction techniques and strategies that will help you write a short story or picture book. By the end of this workshop you will have a completed and edited story that is formatted for submission. Writing is in your future. Let Andrea help you get there.

Workshop dates and times:

Sept. 25, 6-9 p.m.

Oct. 2, 6-9 p.m.

Oct. 16, 6-9 p.m.

Oct. 30, 5-6 p.m. (optional meeting)

Nov. 13, 6-9 p.m.

Nov. 20, 6-9 p.m.

All workshops will take place at CSUSB in the Pfau Library, room PL4005A (4th floor).

This workshop is limited to 15 participants. The only requirement is that only people who are sincerely willing to commit the time and effort take one of the places. You will essentially be writing, rewriting, and editing a short story in under two months. If you would like a place in the workshop email jvlong@csusb.edu, and include a phone number that she can reach you with. Reservations will be made on a first come, first served basis. If you are interested, please email today.

The BIG READ at Corona Public Library – Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 by Cati Porter

This fall, the Corona Public Library is hosting an array of events related to the Big Read, featuring the book Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. The library will be handing out free copies of Fahrenheit 451 in anticipation of these events.

Join Inlandia Institute presenters in exploring this incredible book. Upcoming event dates:

September 10, 2014, at 7 pm join Lawrence Eby for a talk on the future of publishing.

September 23, 2014, at 7 pm join Suzanne Maguire for a book discussion.

October 1, 2014, at 7 pm join Jennifer Williams-Dean for a book discussion.

These events are free and open to the public. Stop by the library to pick up your copy of the book and we hope to see you there!

“The Big Read is a program of the National Endowment for the Arts in partnership with Arts Midwest.”

Inlandia’s Fall Creative Writing Workshops Set to Begin by Cati Porter

The Inlandia Institute’s Fall Creative Writing Workshops are set to begin. Led by professional writers and writing instructors, each workshop is designed to meet the needs of writers working in all genres at all levels. Currently there are six different workshop locations:

Ontario, led by Charlotte Davidson [*Closed: Full]; Riverside, led by Jo Scott-Coe; Corona, led by Matthew Nadelson; Idyllwild, co-led by Myra Dutton and Jean Waggoner; Palm Springs, led by Alaina Bixon; and San Bernardino, led by Andrea Fingerson.

Each workshop series is approximately 10 weeks long, meeting every other week unless specified. Workshops are free and open to the public but registration is required.

Please RSVP to cati.porter@inlandiainstitute.org. Registration forms will be emailed prior to and/or distributed during the first session.

And, while these workshops are free and open to the public, in order to keep them that way, we do ask that you consider an optional but suggested donation of $25 for the entire series. Information about why this is necessary is included in the registration packet.

Dates and times vary by location:

Ontario [*Closed: Full]

Led by Charlotte Davidson

6 pm – 8 pm

September 10 & 24, October 8, 22, and November 5

Ovitt Family Community Library

215 E C St

Ontario, CA 91764

Idyllwild

Led jointly by Myra Dutton & Jean Waggoner

2 pm – 4 pm

First Friday of every month

Idyllwild Public Library

54401 Village Ctr Dr

Idyllwild, CA 92549

Corona

Led by Matt Nadelson

7 pm – 8:30 pm

September 9, 23, October, 7, 21, and November 18

Corona Public Library

650 S Main St

Corona, CA 92882

Riverside

Led by Jo Scott-Coe

6:30 pm – 8:30 pm

September 25, October 9, 23, November 6, and 20

Riverside Public Library

3581 Mission Inn Ave

Riverside, CA 92501

Palm Springs

Led by Alaina Bixon

2 pm – 4 pm

October 8, 22, November 5, 19, and December 3

Smoke Tree Racquet Club

1655 E Palm Canyon Dr

Palm Springs, CA 92264

Free parking, accessible from E Palm Canyon or the Citibank lot on the corner of Sunrise/Hwy 111.

San Bernardino

Led by Andrea Jill Fingerson

3:30 pm – 5:30 pm

September 23, October 7, 21, November 4, and 18

Feldheym Library

555 W 6th St

San Bernardino, CA 92410

Alaina Bixon leads writing workshops, including Inlandia’s creative writing workshops in Palm Springs, edits books, and reads for the online journal The Whistling Fire. She is working on an article about women at MIT.

Jo Scott-Coe is the author of Teacher at Point Blank. Her essays can be found in Salon, Memoir, TNB, River Teeth, Hotel Amerika, Fourth Genre, and the Los Angeles Times. Jo is currently an associate professor of English at Riverside City College and the faculty editor of MUSE.

Charlotte Davidson received a Masters in English from Syracuse University followed by an MFA in poetry from UC Irvine. Her first book, Fresh Zebra, appeared in 2012. Charlotte leads Inlandia’s creative writing workshops in Ontario.

Myra Dutton is the author of Healing Ground: A Visionary Union of Earth and Spirit, which was a 2004 Narcissus Book Award finalist and a 2006 selection for “Ten Books We Love” by Inland Empire Magazine.

Andrea Fingerson has taught preschool, reading, and high school English. Currently, she teaches Child Development classes to teen parents. She received her MFA in Fiction from CSUSB. During that time she was a Fiction Editor for Ghost Town and the high school Outreach Coordinator for The Pacific Review. She is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and is currently in the process of editing a young adult novel.

Matthew Nadelson teaches writing at Norco College and leads a creative writing workshop at the Corona Public Library (every other Tuesday from 6 pm to 8 pm) through the Inlandia Institute. He has lived and worked in Riverside County since 1997 (with the exception of a brief stint in San Diego at SDSU, where he earned his MFA in creative writing, from 2002 to 2005). His writing has been featured in more than 20 journals and anthologies, and he was recently featured on the Moon Tide Press website as their “Poet of the Month” for December 2013. His first poetry collection, American Spirit, was published in August 2011 by Finishing Line Press.

Jean Waggoner, a published fine arts reviewer, poet, essayist and story writer, has taught college English and English as a Second Language in Riverside County for the past thirteen years and co-leads the Idyllwild poetry and creative writing workshops for Inlandia Institute. Jean is an advocate for part time faculty equity and co-author of a book on the part-time professor experience, The Freeway Flier & the Life of the Mind.

* Charlotte Davidson’s workshop is now CLOSED due to maximum enrollment; please check back in winter to see if openings are available or join one of our other upcoming workshops that still have seats. San Bernardino and Corona both have openings.

E.J. Jones

Cheating

It was early Saturday and my son, Wesley was already at the park with his friends. Like everyone around Blythe, he started his October mornings when it was still cool, before the desert heat set in. Tanya, my wife, was in her garden doing the same. The house was all mine. I picked up the paper grinning about having the morning to myself. No honey-do’s, just me and twenty-four hours till the next football game.

Yesterday’s mail was on the counter next to the coffee machine. Under a refinancing mortgage flyer, there was a letter with Georgia on the return address. I didn’t dare touch it, but nudged the flyer away with my coffee cup. I hoped the letter was either a mistake or a bad joke because up until then I was having a good day.

It’s weird how things jump in my head. A bad pass interference call will make me remember I left a fountain pen in my favorite shirt. My home address written in my mother’s hand reminded me I’d hid a bottle of good bourbon in the garage two years ago. It was a gift from my boss, and I could give a million reasons why I’d kept it, but the truth was that Ten High was good liquor. I was taught to never throw things like that away.

Staring at the envelope made me sweat, so I dumped my coffee and poured me some of Tanya’s grapefruit juice. I didn’t want to touch the letter, but poked at it with a spatula like it was something that might bite. After flipping it like a pancake, I saw red lipstick where the ‘V’ sealed it shut. I knew those lips; I’d wiped the same imprint from my forehead and cheek a hundred times as a kid. Momma was big on kisses before school.

The juice didn’t help my sweat or the cotton in my mouth, and I figured I better do something before Tanya came in asking questions. It was dumb, I know, but I went to get the bourbon. Tanya nodded as I walked by. I hadn’t had a drink without her for more than fifteen years.

The bottle was in my tool box, somewhere Wes would never be without me, and somewhere Tanya’d only be if I died. It was a bonus from winning the company football pool, close to six-hundred dollars that went mostly to a BMX bike and pearl earrings. I bought socks and underwear for myself because you can never really have enough. My regional manager, Keith had tossed a lump of rubber-banded twenties on my desk and put the bourbon down next to the money. Enjoy it, you lucky bastard was written on a post-it stuck to the bottle. Keith was a good guy, but he was the dummy that bet Seattle every year. Him giving me the bottle made me realize no one at work really knew me. I thought about giving it away, but only real friends deserve quality and Tanya was my best friend.

I sat on my tool box and rested the bottle horizontal across my knee, whacking it on the ass a few times. I’d never liked the smell of liquor and took a swig without putting it to my nose. The heat in my stomach gave me courage I didn’t really have, and I went back for the letter.

Tanya barely looked up at me on my way back inside, so I hid behind a bush to watch her. Turning over top soil and clearing weeds was what she loved most next to me. She dug into the ground hard, stabbing into it like she’d been wronged. And then real gentle she spread fresh soil around her marigolds like she was putting on a band aid.

Her braided hair was away from her face and wrapped inside my old UC Riverside cap. We always joked that her two years there plus my two made us an educated couple. Standing there with the bottle in my hand was stupid because if Tanya saw me peeking around the bush at her, she’d have known something was wrong, even at a glance. I loved watching her though, especially if she didn’t know I was looking. Whenever she felt she was alone, her beauty was effortless, coincidental. Hell, maybe even accidental. I was never smooth with women, but when I saw her at The Getaway, the campus bar, nursing a Jack and coke with that all alone look, I had to talk to her. We both had a few more drinks, and I asked if we could do it again sometime. She leaned towards me and put her hand over mine, her smooth dark skin covering my pale knuckles. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” I couldn’t accept her saying no; I was hooked. Tanya claims she didn’t know it, but I’m sure she did.

It was hard a first: black guys looked at her like, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ White girls glaring at me asking, “Why would you even do that?” Not Georgia bad, but it did start fights. We’d worked through a lot.

Seeing Tanya in her garden made me want to get on my knees beside her, bury the letter unopened, spray it with weed killer and wait to see if something beautiful would grow. If I’d had the courage to pick up the letter earlier, I might have done just that. But she’d smell the bourbon now. Her nose was a good as mine. There was a fight coming, but I didn’t want to have it just then.

Our house was a modest three bedroom, most in Blythe are. Wes’ room is closest to the front door, but he’d never seen me take a drink and I aimed for him to never have to. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, but it seemed a long ways off. The office was in between and the coolest anyway. His and her desks were pushed up against the walls. I sat the bottle on the floor next to mine in case I decided to try and hide it if Tanya came in. When the silver blade slit the crease in the envelope, I saw sweat beads racing down my temple in the reflection.

The letter was only one page. I turned it over and the back was white, blank. If there were words that could make up for sixteen years of silence, I knew damn well they couldn’t fit on a single page. The very first word was, Son, and it was the worst word to start with. I dropped the letter in my lap and took a good swig.

My parents never called me, Son. Hey You, maybe. Boy, I heard several times, but not a word that tied us together as family. Not since I showed up with Tanya and a wedding ring on my finger.

The third line said my father was alive, but doctors couldn’t say for how long. I don’t understand why, but I sympathized, a lot. I knew he was afraid to die. And neither one of us faced our fears very well.

There was a big ink splotch in the L of We Love You. The pen bled ink while they wondered whether love was the right word. Momma wrote it, but I knew my father was looking over her shoulder, dictating. She’d stopped, and then looked at him for approval. Who knows how long before he answered. I took my time, too, had a few drinks before reading on.

If you want to see him, it will have to be soon. The words were supposed to be an invitation. Leaving the front door open was as far as he was willing to go. I wasn’t sure how far I’d go. I put the letter and the bourbon in my lap. Looking at them, I couldn’t tell which was worse.

“Hun?” Tanya’s voice was still outside, but close. “You didn’t turn on the AC.”
One of the things I’d hated most about drinking heavy was that time slipped. Heat had invaded the house, and I was sure it was almost afternoon, but it felt like only minutes had passed. I hadn’t moved except to lift the bottle to my mouth. She was beating the dirt off her sneakers before coming inside, something neither one of us could get Wes to do regularly. I didn’t run, but I wanted to.

“You in there, Babe?”

I took one more good swig and capped the bottle; not much could have made the situation better and nothing could have made it any worse. Tanya stared at me from the doorway, her arms pressed against the arches like she was bracing for an earthquake.

“What happened?”

She was asking whether she should hug or kill me. I blinked and she’d covered the ten feet from the doorway to my side. She snatched the bottle when I didn’t answer.

“My fathers dying,” I said, pointing to the letter. “Wants to see me.”

“We’ll send a card.”

Tanya had a way of closing herself off when things got bad. It was how she coped with her father’s drinking. Everything about her became rigid, stone. Nothing could penetrate and hurt her then. She’s a good cop because of it, but I swear I don’t know her when she gets like that. She knew she was hurting me.

“I’m going.”

“Bye.”

There was no hesitation in her response, just a reaction, concrete bouncing back a rubber ball. She walked out with the bottle, and I heard her pour the rest in the toilet, flushing it twice, and then running water inside and pouring that out. Without the liquor, it was just a bottle. We both knew that.

“He’s my father,” I said when she came back.

“I’m your wife.”

I couldn’t explain what I was feeling. She saw the confusion in my face, sighed and left. I didn’t tell her that I was thinking about taking Wes with me. That was for the best; she’d have handcuffed him to the frame of the house.

Looking out the office window, across Seventh Street to the hard and hilly dirt where Wes practices his bike jumps, I saw the melon fields, honey-dew. I tried to think about something else, but couldn’t get away from the smell of alcohol on my own breath. The tiny skeleton-like trees beyond the melon fields made me think about sitting on my porch in Georgia, listening to my father. Funny how things pop up, huh?

You know that Nigra round over there got a piano in his house? People nowadays rather pay a monkey a quarter what they should pay a real man to do for fifty cents. My father was never happier than when he had someone to blame for something he’d done. He never kept any job very long, and the reason was always the same: Niggers. I loved him, but he was an average man. He couldn’t accept it and spent half his time pretending he was rich, and the other half making damn sure everyone knew he wasn’t as poor as a nigger. It made him drink. And drinking made him mean. I’d never told Tanya, but until high school when I got a job and saw how easy is was to keep it, I blamed them, too.

When I walked into the kitchen, there was an empty Jack Daniels bottle on the counter, probably a gift to Tanya from someone who didn’t know any better. I couldn’t imagine where she’d hid it, but I knew she’d been faithful and hadn’t drunk hers.

“What are you thinking?” Tanya said softly, rolling a baby tomato around the salad in front of her. She didn’t look at me, and I knew that meant she was giving me a chance to apologize for breaking our sacred vow.

“No brain cells left?”

I tried to walk out, but something hit me in my back. Not a big something, but an attention getter. If it wasn’t her wedding ring, it was a hell of a bluff. I stopped dead in my tracks.

“You don’t like it, I know, but I’ve got an obligation to–”

“You made a promise!” she screamed. “And you have an obligation to me, to Wes!”

I couldn’t get past not seeing my father before he died. I saw how much it hurt him when his father passed, saw how hard he drank and how it never helped. I owed him that much.

“I just wanna see him, okay?”

“Not okay. No drinking without one another,” Tanya said. “No Georgia…remember?”

“I know what I said, but try and understand.”

“Every mile of that three-thousand on the way back, I cried, and you promised. You swore.”

My father’d called Tanya things we never repeated. Tanya’d never been to the South, and I’d convinced her it wouldn’t be that bad; she believed me and wasn’t ready for it. The trip back from Georgia was rough. We didn’t really talk until the car overheated near Blythe, eight miles into California. In the seventy-two hours we waited for a new radiator, we went from being a zebra-couple to just Warren and Tanya: steak eaters, iced tea drinkers, good tippers, two polite and quiet people, that’s all. People stopped staring and started waving. The Gas Company and the city police were both hiring. We dropped out after the semester ended and moved. Blythe seemed like a good place, and we both needed someplace good.

I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I told her what I thought was the truth. “He’s still my Daddy. I love him.”

“He’s not worth it!”

For some reason, probably the alcohol, hopefully the alcohol, I turned and looked at her, hard. Everyone in my family knew how to look down at black people. The Hughes glare, my father called it; he said I had it better than most. I leaned my head back, so she had to look up into my nose, gave her an ugly sideways frown. Her eyes grew wide with pain.

“Don’t…look at me like that.”

I was wrong, but I was mad. And drunk. “Look at you how?”

“Like you just noticed what color I am.”

I’d broken through the wall her father and the hoodlums she arrested couldn’t get through. I’d hurt her with her defense up. My backbone went limp and all I saw was the floor. Tanya disappeared. It didn’t matter if I’d looked how she said. I’d hurt her. If I could have, I would have swallowed a match and burned from the inside out. Shame hurts, and I was as ashamed as I’d ever been from what I’d done. But I still wanted to believe that my father felt my kind of shame, not the shame forced onto you by other people, the shame that makes you sorry, makes you change.

Blythe isn’t an easy place to hide. Anybody can be found with a few phone calls and a description of what they drive, so I made the forty mile drive to Parker, Arizona. Keith sent me there two years ago to oversee the construction of a gas line. The crew always talked about a local bar called Bruce’s, and that regulars could bring in their own bottle. It was down the street from Quicker Liquor on the corner of Choctaw and Main. Funny how things come back.

The clerk at Quicker Liquor was a fat bald man, the kind you see buying alcohol, not selling it. I found what I was looking for and put it on the counter.

“Good choice,” he said. He held up the bottle like he was asking for an invite then slipped it into a brown bag. “Occasion?”

“Reunion of sorts.”

“Ahhh, catching up on old times, huh? Good memories, good times.” His voice was scratchy from smoking, but I could tell he loved to talk. I grabbed the bottle and walked out.

Bruce’s wouldn’t let me in with the bottle, but someone at the bar gestured to go around back. Five people, three old couches, one big cactus and a steel barrel bonfire was all it was. But it looked like a place cops tolerated rather than disturbed. I sat down on an empty couch and made the mistake of pulling my expensive bottle from the brown bag. It drew the attention of an old Indian woman, a mustache above her lip and what looked like a five-O’clock shadow.

“White man,” she said, pointing. “Give Crazy Lucy some. You drink on my land, you pay tax!” Drinkers like to talk, but drunks like to be left alone. I was surprised this drunk didn’t know the rules. “All of this,” Lucy said holding her arms up and spinning around, “is mine. Mine!” She held out a Styrofoam cup. I looked at a man and a woman sharing a cigarette for what to do, but they minded their business. After I poured her about three fingers, she gave a toothless grin and danced away. It reminded me of my father’s drunken dance and how at times, he was good.

I don’t remember driving home, but I woke up parked in front of my house. It scared me to think that driving drunk was something I couldn’t unlearn, a stain. The moon’s glow lit a brown-bearded face peeking into my car window.

“You okay?” It was Juan from next door. He had a dog leash in one hand and a cigarillo in the other, an average night for him. “Want me to get Tanya?”

I shook no, and he walked away. The alcohol was wearing off, and my back was killing me. I couldn’t have gone back to sleep in the car, not without another bottle. I had to face Tanya.

The porch light was out, and I got the feeling I wasn’t welcome because at night it always glows. The house was pitch-black, but Tanya wasn’t asleep. She snores something awful, and the only sound was the big oscillating fan rattling the blinds in the living room.

I checked on Wes. He was asleep, but he’d left his TV on again. I’d told him about the electric bill as many times as Tanya’d told him about washing and not just rinsing the dishes, but I smiled turning it off. He was a good kid. I tip-toed in the bedroom.

“If you start drinking heavy, I’ll divorce you. I swear to God!”

Tanya’s father was Jack Daniels man before he died. She hated being close to him. Even in the hospital right before the end, she said she could still smell it on him. In the dark, Tanya probably saw her father, not me. Since we’d been together we only drank with one another, and never too much, wine at a friend’s party, a beer a piece watching the Super-bowl. It kept both of us sober. We called it ‘really small group therapy’.

I sat on the bed and used my feet to peel my shoes off, hoping the silence would last. But cheating’s cheating. I didn’t blame her for being mad.

“Say something.”

I was facing the wall, and she came up behind me and hugged me tight. The shame I was carrying was too heavy, and I had to let it go.

“In junior high I was suspended for throwing a rock.”

“What?”

“Her name was Kenya.” Tanya didn’t stop hugging when she heard the name, but I felt her grip loosen. “I didn’t know it was a girl. I just saw black. Daddy’d been saying all week how it wasn’t right…integrating my school…”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Walking home I couldn’t think about anything else but how I’d done wrong. Mama always told me to never hit a girl. But Daddy was so happy. Waited for me on the steps with a bottle in one hand and two small Dixie cups in the other. Held out the bottle to me and said, ‘Well, spank that som’ bitch. You drinking wit’ me or not.’ I hit the bottle; he laughed. I hit it again, and he laughed harder. We sat on paint cans by the garage and got drunk.”

“Warren, I’m not sure this–”

“And then he was good…for a while. Kept a job almost a year. We played catch in front of the house. He kissed Mama before breakfast and after dinner. He told me he loved me all the time. ‘Proud’ he said, ‘damn proud.’ It ain’t right, but a lot of stuff ain’t right.”

Tanya was still hugging, but I could tell she didn’t know what to do. I turned around, looked her in the eye and rubbed her cheek with my hand. “I know I made a promise,” I said. “But I’m making another one right now. Two days and I’m coming back.”

She kissed me soft, and I felt her relax in my arms. “You better.”

“I will, Darling. This city, this house…this is home.”