Weekly Featured Essay
We feature new essays every Wednesday; make it a weekly habit to stop by and be enchanted by our eclectic content.
This week we revisit “Scraps”, and experimental “collage” essay fitting for its Egyptian setting.
Scraps
Cairo, Egypt. July 2005. 98°F
I was in Egypt during the hottest and most humid time of the year. In Egypt, I had experiences unlike any I’d known before. I struggled to find a way to write about them.
“Collage” is a term derived from art and refers to a picture made up of pieces of found objects: scraps of newspaper, bits of old cane backing, a gum wrapper, lengths of string, and tin cans. [Writers] perform a similar act.[1]
My guide, Ramez, was a young man who graduated from American University. His English was good, and he had connections to people I wanted to interview for my research on the status of Egyptian women and girls. He told me he had wanted to be a guide since he was seven.
As we walked through a traditional market in Old Cairo, Ramez said, “Those three policemen have been following us. Let’s buy a slice of watermelon for each of them for protecting you.”
“Why are they protecting me?”
“Last week, a bus of American tourists was bombed.” I dug my Canadian flag pin out of my backpack and pinned it on.
MORE ESSAYS
The Pugilists
by Sharman Ober-Reynolds
My husband and I attend a boxing class in Mill Creek, Utah, three times a week. My husband has Parkinson’s Disease, and the class is designed to make us “rock steady” to fight against it. Our coaches are mostly young and enthusiastic. To keep us motivated and help us get acquainted, they ask silly questions at the beginning of each class. Some of our answers have included: “What would you be if you lived in the ocean?” Dory and Marlon. “What historical figure would you be?” Fred and Wilma. My husband, a retired philosophy professor, loves questions and comics. He has large compilations of Pogo and Krazy Kat, which hereads almost daily alongside philosophers Quine and Putnam.
The boxing class is more practical than philosophical. It reminds me of kindergarten for seniors in slow motion. There are lockers and mats, and the gym is festively decorated for the holidays. Strings of colored lights hang between punching bags in the winter, brightening up the gym, which is tucked away in an ice-encrusted strip mall. On Valentine’s Day, we saran-wrapped pictures and words of things we want to fight against onto our punching bags; political tyrants, various exes, insomnia are popular targets. Ours is Parkinson’s.
Gone Missing
by Mark Cyzyk
Long ago, a high school classmate of mine disappeared.
There was no reason to believe he had run away or committed suicide. No apparent connection with illegal activities. He just disappeared.
As the years passed, our County Police came to investigate his disappearance as a homicide. They had a suspect but not much evidence, nor did they have a body.
They did not find the body for eight years.
I’ve often thought, then and now, how excruciating those eight years must have been for my classmate’s parents. Your son has disappeared from your lives. There is no body to indicate that he’s dead. He’s simply gone missing. The terrible abyss of loss yawns open, right to the tips of your toes. And this is something you stare into, day after day after day.
Slipstreamed
by Leanne Phillips
We enter the Salinas Valley from the south. As we drive into King City, California, it feels as if we are passing through a heavy curtain—the air feels old somehow, the way nostalgia might if it had an odor. It smells of mild onion and sweet dry grass and freshly-turned soil. John Ernst Steinbeck Sr. helped settle this town in 1890, and his son and namesake set his novel East of Eden here in 1952. He felt it, too, what I am feeling now. “I remember … what trees and seasons smelled like,” Steinbeck wrote. “The memory of odors is very rich.” This is the place where I was born, the place I reluctantly came home to when I had nowhere else to go.
King City is a small town at the southernmost end of Monterey County, population a little over twelve thousand. Not much has changed here since my mother graduated from King City High School in 1959. Many of the buildings on the south end of downtown are the same buildings that stood over a century ago—squat, square structures painted off-white, beige, red-brown. There are taller buildings with false ceilings and high, arched facades to make them look more majestic. The Reel Joy Theater, a movie house built before 1922, now accommodates a market; the marquee still towers over the entrance, but today it is a blank slate, and the theater’s poster cases act as community bulletin boards. The newspaper, The King City Rustler, was founded in 1901, its name drawn from a hat in the local barbershop. Fast food restaurants, gas stations, and a shopping center are exiled to the west side of town. My three grandchildren and I are passing through on our way to northern California for spring break.
The Plaza
by Doug Hoekstra
I recognized the Plaza in Santa Fe from the movie
Two-Lane Blacktop, the one with James Taylor and Warren Oates
racing down Route 66. Dennis Wilson was in it, too.
Warren Oates was underrated.
I’d been there once before with my ex-wife.
At the time she wasn’t my wife yet, but Uncle Felix died
left me a little money, just enough for a vacation
so we drove from Chicago to New Mexico, although…
we didn’t take Route 66 because I wasn’t nostalgic at the time.
I think I thought I knew everything back then.
I’ve Got You Covered
by Sharman Ober-Reynolds
When I turned five, I won the Bozo the Clown Home Birthday Prize. A girl in a red shirtwaist dress and Cat-Eye glasses picked my name out of a barrel spun by one of the show’s participants on TV, and I felt like a star. KTLA-TV must have notified my mother when the truck was scheduled to deliver my toys because, somehow, I knew. That’s why I faked a stomach ache. I wanted to be home when they arrived.
Mom settled me in bed with a dinner tray, crayons, and drawing paper and went off to sell magazines over the phone. She was a natural salesperson, likable, trustworthy, lively, and forbearing, listening more than she spoke. My dad used to say, “Your mother could sell bikinis in Alaska.” I heard her voice rise and fall in a reassuring sales pitch, so I slipped out of bed, crept into the living room, and kept a lookout for the Bozo the Clown truck. Before long, boredom, dull, and self-imposed enveloped me. So, in my pink chenille bathrobe, I wandered the house and poked through the kitchen junk drawer until I found a box of matches. Pushing open the small square box, I picked out a broken, slender piece of wood tipped with a perfect green bulb. In my bedroom, I struck the broken match against the wall, and it sputtered to life. I dropped the broken match in the trash when the flame reached my fingers. Within seconds, a fire blazed, incinerating the discarded pictures of horses and ballerinas I’d drawn that morning.
Island Party
by J Bryan McGeever
It’s my daughter’s first school dance, an informal gathering of parents and students at an elementary school playground in East Setauket, Long Island. Tonight’s event has an 80s nostalgia theme. Songs from various John Hughes films blare from the DJ’s speakers, transporting this bustling suburb back to a simpler time of big hair, MTV, and voodoo economics. Along the edge of the ad hoc dance floor stands a solitary fun-dad in an Adidas tracksuit and Kangol bucket hat. The party is just beginning.
As more people arrive, a pleasant carnival-like atmosphere takes over, kids zigzagging between the playground and the dance floor. Frankie Goes To Hollywood tells everyone to Relax as security guards in yellow windbreakers sift through the crowd. Some are retired NYPD. I discreetly eye their waists and the linings of their jackets. I don’t think they’re armed, and it troubles me that I wish they were.
Most parents chat amiably while their children roam the grounds. I trail mine from a comfortable distance like a devoted member of her Secret Service detail. The prospect of her vanishing into a crowd gives me short panic attacks. Her crew wants to know why she keeps pointing to different sections of the schoolyard, and I overhear her saying, “My dad needs to know where I am.” One of her cohorts looks at me, raising two fingers in the shape of an L before scampering off. Fair enough, Junior, but some situations call for excess.
Bowling Lessons
by MerriLee Anderson
On a Tuesday evening in 1969, Mrs. Donald L. Anderson was not making dinner for her three daughters and husband. She was not stuffing laundry into the avocado green washing machine. She was not sewing a dress from the McCall’s pattern book. She was not preparing a Sunday School lesson. She was not ironing dress shirts and pillowcases. She was not vacuuming the green shag carpet of her San Antonio home. She was not thumbing through Vogue pondering the latest dress style. Jeanne Anderson was bowling.
Tuesday nights were the only night of the week when the Anderson family’s plans revolved around Mom. League play started around dinner time, so Dad was charged with feeding my teenage sisters while I accompanied Mom to the bowling alley. She hoisted her gray hard-sided bowling bag with the gold “B” Brunswick logo into the Pontiac Bonneville and we headed ten minutes down the road to Oak Hills Bowling Alley.
Memories without a Home
by Nicole Alexander
A disheveled man hobbles toward me wearing tattered jeans and a dirty cap. He holds a plastic bag, which I assume contains all his possessions. I become aware of the designer sunglasses on my head, keeping the hair out of my face. I push them down over my eyes. Disdain fills me and expands into rage. I lower my eyelids for a moment, and he disappears from view. When I lift them, our gazes meet and I peer into familiar, wounded eyes. They steal the air from my lungs. I never fully understood the phrase “It took my breath away” before a soccer opponent, back in high school, slammed into me. I dropped to the grass, stunned and listless, as I waited for oxygen to return to my lungs. My own teammate, unaware of the hit I had taken, shouted at me to get off the field if I couldn’t play.
According to science, the brain stores painful memories to keep us safe so we can prevent similar experiences from occurring again. My teammate’s words stung more than the physical hit.
Get off the field if you can’t play.
My Forgettery
by Paul Graseck
Born and raised in Brooklyn, my parents loved New York, and they knew the city from the inside, frequently taking me on outings throughout its five boroughs. In the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan, we moved about the city underground, by subway.
Returning home from one excursion, the commuters on the stairs we climbed pushed passed us, seemingly unconcerned about me. On foot, New Yorkers move quickly from place to place; I felt small inside the horde of people on the move. Looking up at their feet racing ahead, I lost contact with my mother whose hand shortly before tightly gripped mine. Only four- or five-years-old, now suddenly alone and bewildered, I felt penned in, unsafe, nervous as I stumbled forward in the press of people. I panicked. Anxiety flooded my system. Lurching upward with the crowd, I felt a tug on the back of my shirt collar. I turned and saw Mom and Dad. Secure again, our threesome made its way to the top step where we stopped, and I cried.
Through the years, whenever I think of that period of separation—a brief flash in my life, undoubtedly no more than several seconds—I relive the experience in memory, adrenaline pours through me, my heart races, and my face broadcasts fear. I still recall with horror losing touch with Mom.
That scary stairwell moment evolved into a core memory, becoming a story I tell often in situations that provoke me to shake it loose from the filing system in my brain. It grew into a piece of my larger life story, the personal legends or lore that I use to help define myself.
