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Wild and Wonderful West Virginia
By Gretchen Gales
QuailBellMagazine.com
As summer wraps up, you’re probably fondly remembering the places you went over the summer…or noticing you didn’t do too much at all.
Either way, there’s always an opportunity to plan the next trip. Tired of the beach? Want to go somewhere with a high altitude but can’t handle Colorado? Look no further than West Virginia. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Why the Movie Raanjhanaa Ruined My Ideals of Love (And Why I Don't Care)
The first Bollywood movie I ever saw was Raanjhanaa. I watched it on the plane on the way to India, and I remember not having strong feelings about it. I even fell asleep. I was just fourteen then, and I suppose I didn’t care that much about love and dramatic romances that ran parallel with equally dramatic political plots, and I didn’t know enough about religion to care about the drama that existed between the Hindu boy and the Muslim girl. But that all changed when I grew up just a little bit, and fell in love with many aspects of Indian culture.
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You Have the Wrong Number
By Gretchen Gales
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This piece orignally appeared on Life In 10 Minutes on June 30th, 2015.
I get a little irritated with telemarketers. So when a representative from a marketing company called (for the second year in a row) claiming that one of my friends recommended me for a position, I knew right away that was not the case. The previous year a friend applied for a position with the company and gave my name strictly as a reference. Instead, the company called and claimed that my friend recommended me for a job instead.
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Inside Out
By Andi Chrisman
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This review contains minor spoilers. It has also been republished from On the Grid Zine August 9th, 2015.
I had been wanting to see Inside Out since I first saw the commercials, because it was obvious the story was about a fictionalized version of of how the brain works. I was blown away by how much it covered for a children’s movie and how much it moved me. I’m not going to talk about the normal review stuff, like cast and animation (which were all great), but just my thoughts from watching the movie without revealing too much.
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Hill of the Hapersnoks
Here at Quail Bell, we love to spotlight exceptional artists and filmmakers. Our staff film critic Alex Carrigan recently interviewed Rinny Wilson, a director and member of Traveling Cartwheel Circus. She recently released a crowdfunded short film titled Hill of the Hapersnoks:
Hill of the Hapersnoks from Rinny Wilson on Vimeo. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Behind Every Storm Cloud
By Richa Gupta
QuailBellMagazine.com
“Appearances can be deceiving,” I told myself resolutely, as I walked down a shabby street of Ensenada, Mexico. I held the bitter chill as the reason for the disappointment and slight resentment etched into every line of my face, although I knew better than to fool myself. I looked back longingly at the massive white ship that was stationed at the harbor, with its resplendent halls, shining lights and warm arms of luxury. I found myself comparing the glow of the cruise lights to the hostile gray of the city, of the welcoming familiarity of the cruise to the nonchalant “greetings” of my first few moments in Mexico. “Stop,” I told myself firmly, as I pulled a thin scarf firmly around my shivering neck.
To a teenage girl who had lived in a bustling, metropolitan city in India for a vast majority of her life, the anticipation of escaping the ordinary and setting foot into a new country was stronger than ever. While looking out of my balcony onto the deafening traffic nine floors below, I would catch myself daydreaming about the beckoning waters of Mexico, the new people I would meet, the cultural influences I would be immersed in, and most of all—the excitement whose cause cannot be clearly named. To be honest, to say that I was devastated upon reaching Mexico would not be an overstatement. The shops, stalls and diners looked similar to those I kept seeing at home—and with that observation, my high expectations were crushed. Certainly, some shops caught my attention—those selling Mexican garments and dolls—but by then I had found it painfully difficult to return to my old state of anticipation and positive suspense. As I walked quietly alongside my family, I decided to ascribe my stony indifference to hunger. Since I am a vegetarian, finding a suitable place to eat became a demanding task. We finally settled on a dark, compact diner that was run by three young women. I closed my eyes tightly as one of them led us to one of three tables, of which the other two were starkly unoccupied. I sat down primly, glaring at nothing, as I ordered the first vegetarian dish I could lay my eyes upon. I had envisaged my first meal in Mexico to be bright and cheerful—a contrast to the place I was sitting in. Sheer disappointment gave way to anger, and as each long minute of wait grew, so did my exasperation. At last, the food came. I felt blood rush to my cheeks as the woman gracefully departed after serving us. Waves of shame overwhelmed my conscience as I stared in awe at the work of art that adorned my plate—triangular chips burned to a golden crisp, trickles of brown beans, dots of bright red tomato salsa, the occasional, pale purple dice of onion, a delectable green guacamole paste, dollops of fresh cream, elaborately applied strokes of melted cheese… To my slight surprise, I found my hands, always so eager to dive into a new dish, remaining firmly by my side—and I realized it was because I was reluctant to disturb such a masterpiece of cookery and skill that had been so humbly placed before me. I hesitantly extended my arm and took a chip. Strong contrasts of flavor exploded inside my mouth, as I felt the cool, soothing cream cancel out the spice of the lashing sauce, the avocado paste add substance to the lapping waves of cheese, and the caramelized onions add sweetness to the acidity of the salsa and jalapenos. The aromas wafting from the Mexican plate attracted the likes of my family, and I felt a strange sense of possession as I politely reminded them of the dishes they had ordered for themselves. Contrary to the usual decorum I exhibit when eating, I ate voraciously, consciously basking in the savor of contrasting elements that ultimately combine to create a plate of harmony. By the time my cracked plate was licked clean, my hunger was appeased. But not my mind—it was racing. All this time, ever since I had set foot in Mexico, I had been judging everything based on the superficial knowledge I had acquired through my discriminating sense of sight. It was only now did I realize how utterly wrong my perceptions and opinions had been. The dinginess of the restaurant had been entirely cancelled out by the delicious food it served to its few consumers. And if this old, tiny diner with poorly painted walls, peeling plaster and little business could present its taster with a gustatory delight, who knew what other surprises Ensenada treasured? As mentioned before, my mind was racing, adamantly refusing to come to a halt. It was leaping to all the small stalls I had passed by, due to my lofty belief that they presented us tourists with nothing extraordinary. Overcome by a sudden burst of zeal, I leapt up. After wholeheartedly thanking the three owners of the restaurant, I ventured out onto the streets of Ensenada, hungry for more—but not for food. And from that point of time, I unknowingly entered one of the most memorable afternoons of my life. After a rapt conversation with a middle-aged, sprightly woman selling Mexican shawls, I learnt that her small garment business had been started by her great-grandfather ninety years ago, and that she was poised to pass on this venture to her son. She had been knitting and creating beauty all her life, and believed that her son was destined to take her business to great heights. After careful consideration, I finally settled on a lovely black serape, adorned with red roses and leaves, and was gifted with an elated smile in return. As I pulled the warm shawl over me, I was amazed that I had never given her roadside stall a second thought when I had seen it first. Another seemingly insignificant store sold Mexican jumping beans, much to my wonder. I looked at the little beans in transparent, plastic boxes leaping when exposed to the sunlight, and was also given an in-depth, insightful explanation of the reasons behind their behavior. By the time I boarded the ship in the evening, it is fair to say that I was a much more enlightened person. Nowadays, I don’t remember the trip to Ensenada solely for what I saw, but rather for what I learnt. The principles behind the phrase “don’t judge a book by its cover” became paramount components of my life, because I discovered that regardless of how uninteresting something may appear, there is color artfully concealed in it. I now abide by this maxim: behind every storm cloud exists a rainbow, and it is up to us to find it. #Real #Essay #Mexisco #Enlightened #HumanCondition #Travel Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Animal Cruelty: From Cecil The Lion To Factory Farms, The Dairy Industry, & Life Before Veal8/18/2015
Milk Is MurderAnimal rights and animal cruelty have recently entered the public consciousness in a tragic way. After Minnesota dentist Dr. Walker Palmer killed #CecilTheLion, international outrage and fear ensued. Despite the fact that Jericho is not Cecil’s blood relative, he was acting as Cecil’s successor and a surrogate parent by protecting his cubs. Rumors concerning Jericho’s mortality cropped up, raising widespread concern about the fate of Cecil’s children. Fortunately, the Oxford University researcher confirmed that they were were false; Jericho is alive, well, and protecting the cubs who survive Cecil. Cecil’s cubs, however, aren’t as fortunate as Jericho, who has since abandoned the “guardian” role. Since then, one of Cecil’s 8 offspring has been mauled to death by a lion attempting to mate with their mother. Losing a parent is a traumatic experience for non-human creatures. It reduces their chances of survival, which is why the death of Cecil’s cub is especially tragic.
Now that the world’s attention has shifted to animal welfare, I think that it’s essential to remain aware of how the meat industry destroys animals’ lives and families. While Dr. Walker Palmer paid $50,000 to murder a lion, Americans collectively pay millions of dollars to go about this sick business. I know so many meat-eaters who refuse to eat veal because the meat is that of a calf’s corpse. If you think that’s guilt-inducing, then I regret to inform you that you support the veal industry every time you buy a dairy product. And yes, the baby cows are crying. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Yonder Stands The Orphan, or; The Discreet Charm of the Semicolon
By Christopher Sloce
QuailBellMagazine.com Imagine we’re on the Titanic and we have to save punctuation marks. Periods, commas, and question marks are our women and children. Think: who is left? I know one you’re thinking of. The semicolon, mumbling non sequiturs to itself, eyes darting around. Can you blame the semicolon? Kurt Vonnegut called it a “transvestite hermaphrodite that only proves its user went to college” (which, by the way, yikes). According to Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, someone thanked Umberto Eco for not using one in The Name of the Rose. Cormac McCarthy said, “No semicolons, ever.” A google search brought up some writer, unnamed, saying that they were unnatural in dialogue. The semicolon bears the weight of a thousand derisions and is waiting for yours. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Trail Blazing Past Gender Norms
By Ren Martinez
QuailBellMagazine.com
I suppose I should kick off this column with something of a disclaimer.
Many of us are likely familiar with the quote which inspired the title of this column. “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” Marilyn Monroe, Eleanor Roosevelt, and many others have had this prolific quote attributed to them. But, it was actually Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, a Harvard professor of history, who originally penned it in an article focusing on those whose history often ignores. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Thoughts on Color and Consciousness
Color has become such a subtle component in our lives that most of us cease to truly appreciate its presence. Waking up to golden tinted skies, working under the pale, pellucid clouds, and bidding farewell to consciousness beneath the indigo heavens all add meaning to the very foundation of our existence. Nevertheless, the varying hues have become so painfully commonplace, like air to inhale and rays of light to bathe in, that they’ve become yet one more banality in a world of unending banalities.
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Musings on Moments of Clarity
“Mystics are not themselves. They do not exist
in selves. They move as they are moved, talk as words come, see with sight that enters their eyes. I met a woman once and asked her where love had led her. ‘Fool, there's no destination to arrive at. Loved one and lover and love are infinite.’” - Farid ud-Din Attar I discovered myself among the soft green rolling hills of Glastonbury, by the ancient and mysterious shape of Glastonbury Tor rising up from the early-morning mist, on top of the rocky cliffs of Cornwall. I rediscovered myself again among streets that coated my feet in a distinctive layer of dust, which I had to be sure to wash off before setting foot in a temple. I discovered myself yet again, on the bank of a river in Virginia, droplets of water and plant material running over my shoulders, surrounded by almost all of my favorite women in the world. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Is Fundamentalist Christianity to Blame?
I recently read an article by writer Amanda Marcotte that addresses a platter of controversial issues. “Rachel Dolezal Was Raised by Christian Fundamentalists. No Wonder She Wanted a New Identity” was published by Slate on June 17th. The article covers the recent Rachel Dolezal scandal and addresses the possibility that Dolezal’s upbringing in a radical fundamentalist Christian environment had influenced Dolezal’s behavior.
Marcotte cites Homeschoolers Anonymous, a blog that collects stories of those that fled radical, religious households. The website, as noted by Marcotte, claims to have evidence of the Dolezal family’s bizarre and abusive behavior through first-hand accounts of those that knew the Dolezal family. “These sources paint a picture of the Dolezals as adherents to a fundamentalist theory of child-rearing that puts an emphasis on adoption—the Dolezals adopted four children—and basically advises beating children into submission, following the rules established by the infamous Christian child-rearing manual To Train Up a Child.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sara-la-Kali: The Gypsy Pilgrimage
By Tatiana Eva Marie
QuailBellMagazine.com *Author's Note: My francophone tongue is translating the word “gitan,” which simply designates Roma from the South of France and Spain, into “Gypsy.” There is no negative connotation here.
There is no place in the world that speaks more of my childhood than the wild and mysterious region of Camargue and its emblematic village, Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer (Saint Marys of the Sea). I spent many a summer there chasing lizards and daydreaming by the misty saltwater lagoons. It is a region of Provence that stands apart from the rest of the South of France and is revered as a land of legend, mysticism and revelation. Camargue is a national nature reserve listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site situated between the Mediterranean Sea and the two arms of the Rhone Delta, which explains its fascinating geography comprised of lagoons, sandbars and marshlands. This kind of exotic landscape is very unusual in France and has worked wonders on the imagination of its people. It is a land of freedom, inhabited by pink flamingos, white horses and undaunted natives whose somber stares and rugged grace betray the secrets they have learned from their magic earth. Never have I felt more purity and nobility in any other place in the world, it is like trespassing into a fairytale and finding every living plant and creature sharing the same essence and cry for liberty.
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Writing Locally, Thinking Globally
By Jody Rathgeb
QuailBellMagazine.com
The subtitle of Kristen Green’s Something Must Be Done About Prince Edward County outlines the book’s focus: “A Family, a Virginia Town, a Civil Rights Battle.” Her mixture of history and memoir is a fascinating and significant work in part because it maintains that tight focus, bringing in the larger background of the Civil Rights Movement and racial prejudice only as it affects or applies to the people at the center of her true-life drama.
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My Dear Captive Princess: The Dark Patriarch of Shirley Jackson's Hangsaman.
By Julian Drury
QuailBellMagazine.com
Shirley Jackson’s novel Hangsaman does great work to portray the main character, Natalie Waite, as a book-smart, though awkward and somewhat disturbed young woman. As much as the novel focuses on Natalie, and her slow descent into the darkness of her mind while attending college for girls, she does not come off as the most disturbed personality at play in the novel.
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