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What's up, puma?By The Quail Bell Crew QuailBellMagazine.com We're not asking you to believe in unicorns (at least not today.) We're not asking you to hug a dragon (right now.) But we are asking you to entertain the thought that the mountain lion/cougar/puma/Puma concolor may very well exist in the Old Dominion. According to the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries, there have been 121 “unconfirmed” puma sightings in the Commonwealth since 1970. But it's getting dark mighty early these days and, heck, you never know what's lurking in those bushes. In fact, just last August, a Westridge resident claimed to have seen a mountain lion in Woodbridge. And with that scary thought—gulp—we wish you dear fledglings good night.
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Retro Looks Where History Never Gets OldBy Quail Bell Fashionista QuailBellMagazine.com In August 2012, downtown Fredericksburg's Beaucoup Vintage and Madeline Ruth made an important decision and, in October that year, had a baby (okay, they "merged." Business speak, whatever.) That baby was Forage Consignment & Vintage—and we might never have discovered these digs had it not been for Northern Virginia Magazine's recent tip-off. Forage is earthier than Rumors in Richmond and preppier, too, without being D.C.'s Secondi. Looking to downsize rather than fill your closet? Unload your fantastic vintage collection on Forage and make some money. Just read their 'wants' first.
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An Admission of WeaknessBy Lauren Hunt QuailBellMagazine.com “When I see people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other’s thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?” –Anaïs Nin When you told me it was over I thought I would be relieved. I had pictured this moment for a long time, and when I did it always felt like a weight had been lifted off me. And I was relieved—I am—but I was unprepared for the pain that accompanied it.
I’m not sure I ever even liked you, at least not more than as a friend. I wanted it to be over, and yet I felt rejected all the same when it finally was. Why does it hurt when someone I don’t even like, doesn’t like me back? Everyone keeps telling me that you are an idiot for breaking up with me. I want to scream that I’m the idiot for ever listening to them in the first place. Everyone pushes you to date someone, as if there was something wrong with being single. As if being single was a sign of a personality flaw or an admission of weakness. So you look for someone to date. Everyone tells you to date this guy, or that one, because he’s cool, or attractive, or has a good job. So you date the cool guy with the good job, and you don’t get too emotional or clingy because you’re not supposed to. Or maybe just because you aren’t an emotional person, or because you’re still not even sure if you really care about him. And maybe he breaks up with you because you’re not “emotionally invested” or “emotionally available” or maybe he can just tell that you don’t really give a shit. And then you end up feeling hurt and rejected by something you never even wanted in the first place. Why does not wanting to date me make him an idiot? He doesn’t think that I’m a bad person, or stupid, or selfish, or boring. He’s just not in love with me. And guess what? I’m not in love with him! And even if I was, it’s still not his fault. Where did this idea come from that love is about the kind of person you deserve? None of us deserve anyone. Love isn’t about being a good person, it’s about being happy, and making someone else happy. Love’s not something you deserve; it’s something you earn when you become a source of light for someone else. But we’re not all drawn to the same flame and some burn brighter than others in our eyes. You can’t help loving a selfish, arrogant miser any more than you can help not loving a saint. It is not about who they are. It’s about who you are, and who they make you become. It’s about finding someone that makes you happy in ways no one else can. No one ever tells you to find someone who makes you want to be more, do more, just to be worthy of their love. They don’t tell you to find someone who makes you want to work on your faults because you want to be the best version of yourself for them. No one says that the one who you don’t understand, who makes you question yourself and your convictions, is the one that will challenge you all your life. No one says that looks fade and popularity wanes and styles change and that no matter what there will always be someone who disapproves of your choice. And if you can never please everyone, what’s the point in trying to please anyone? Please yourself. Make yourself happy. Make yourself happier than you’ve ever been. No one tells you that that is what love really is—it’s the strongest kind of happiness, and you get to share it with someone else. Or at least most people don't say these things and even fewer follow such advice. It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. Contentment is not enough. We want bliss. Find your happiness. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Another Reason to the Love the River CityBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com DMV, here's Credit Donkey telling you what you already know: Richmond is an excellent place to live and work. After studying the violent crime rates, unemployment rates, employee wages, and restaurants per capita in urban areas across the country, the personal finance website ranked the top 10 cities in the U.S. not for vacation but for the everyday. (Sorry/not sorry you didn't make it, Fairfax.) In the words of The Huffington Post, Richmond is "a city of historical significance, emerging artists and great food." We're in agreement there.
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Mandela Died—And Anacostia is Still "Dangerous"“Black”—the whispered word in educated, politically correct, upper middle class society. Rub shoulders with certain people growing up and you're encouraged to say “African-American,” no matter that it's a white person telling you what a black person wants to be called. Three questions may at some point run in your head, though you're unlikely to ask your well-heeled company for an answer: 1. Do you prefer to be called European-American? 2. Have you ever asked a black person what s/he prefers to be called? 3. Why are you telling me this? Any of these questions would spark controversy and controversy is not welcome in country clubs. Just clench your teeth and nod. This person is writing your college recommendation letters. Or at least that's what your parents will likely advise you to do. Translation: Put your head down and mind your own business. It worked for us and it'll work for you.
Mandela is dead. 27 years in prison and a lifetime of activism, and the world still has a lot of changing to do. Today nearly a third a blacks live in poverty in the United States. Compare that to about 10% of non-Latino whites. 52% of black males in this country graduate from high school, compared to 78% of non-Latino white males. In 2009, the Department of Education stated that over 50% of black children in 4th grade across the nation do not read or write at grade level. Numbers, numbers, numbers, but what we really connect to are stories, faces, names. I remember tutoring Spanish in high school instead of babysitting because, frankly, it paid better. One of my regulars was a blond, blue-eyed boy named Alex.* Alex was a sweet boy who claimed he was failing Spanish because there were three blonde girls in his class. The implication was, of course, that these girls' beauty distracted him. Mine did not. By the end of the year, I'd helped him raise his grade to a B-. But all that really matters about this tale was that Alex is white and raised with a certain mindset common in our neck of the cul-de-sacs. One afternoon, in his usual effort to divert me from teaching, Alex started telling me about his weekend. He talked about piling into a car with his friends in our leafy suburban town—the People's Republic of Arlington—and catching a concert in D.C. Somehow, driving back, he and his friends ended up in the “ghetto.” I asked him what he meant and where he was. (I didn't really feel like going over the subjunctive case right away, either.) “Like, somewhere in Anacostia,” he muttered. I was shocked mainly because you'd have to get pretty lost to drive from downtown Washington and end up in Anacostia when your destination was North Arlington. Even if you were taking the Metro, they're almost at complete opposite ends of the Orange line. “Are you sure you were in Anacostia?” I asked. Alex nodded. “How could you tell?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fun for Grinches (and Non-Grinches) in Charm CityBy Quail Bell Social Butterfly QuailBellMagazine.com Let's be real: Not everyone's gung-ho about the holidays. And sometimes even the most sociable of us butterflies just want the parties to die down. It'd be nice to kick off the red velvet dress and matching heels and just lounge around in reg clothes on a Saturday night. Putting up the Christmas tree is such a hassle. Buying gifts for everyone? What's the point if half of them will end up in a Salvation Army donation bin within weeks? Caroling--are you kidding? Grinchy Mr. Grincherson here and not ashamed to admit it. It's SO tempting to just daydream about post-holiday bliss. THANK EVERYTHING THAT IS HOLY (and unholy) that there's a lot of it to be had in the ever charming Charm City not too long after the tinsel comes down. Examples, snatched with permission from Baltimore.org, the city's offish tourism site, in a kinda curated way: Roads to Rails: Early Railroading Month
B&O Railroad Museum January 2-31, 2014 Join the B&O Railroad Museum as it celebrates the birth and development of railroading from its inception in 1827 to 1860. Learn how the B&O Railroad overcame incredible physical and technological challenges to become an early success story during America's transportation revolution and why it was widely known as "the Railroad University of the United States." Programs will highlight the role of the B&O during this transformative period and feature the Museum's one-of-a-kind collection of early 19th century locomotives. Borail.org Absolutely Febulous Citywide February 14-23, 2014 Hibernation is out and celebration is in this winter in Baltimore. Visit Baltimore and the city’s tourism partners are teaming up to combine the great offers of Hotel Week, Restaurant Week and Museum Week into more than a week of savings. Look for money-saving hotel packages, fixed price menus at a host of restaurants and special offers and programs at museums and attractions. Baltimore.org 2014 CAA Men’s Basketball Championship Baltimore Arena March 7-10, 2014 The road to March Madness starts in Baltimore with 9 games, 8 teams in 4 days! Baltimore will crown another champion when the Colonial Athletic Association (CAA) Men's Basketball Championship takes place at the Baltimore Arena. The win-or-go-home event will crown one champion who will represent the CAA as its automatic qualifier to the NCAA Championship and the Big Dance. CAASports.com The Amazing Johnny Eck Maryland Institute College of Art December 13, 2013-March 16, 2014 The Maryland Institute College of Art will present a never-before-seen exhibition of personal objects, artifacts and artworks by sideshow performer Johnny Eck (1911–1991), one of Baltimore’s most famous citizens. Perhaps best known for his role as “the half-man” in Tod Browning’s film Freaks (1932), Eck later achieved worldwide fame as Robert Ripley’s “most remarkable man alive” and was a skilled performer, artist, actor, magician, puppeteer and woodcarver, amassing a cult following that exists to this day. The exhibition is the first ever of its size, showing hundreds of Eck’s works on paper, sculptures, drawings and paintings—including painted screens, a Baltimore folk art tradition. Mica.edu Milestones: African Americans in Comics, Pop Culture, and Beyond Geppi’s Entertainment Museum December 14, 2013-April 2014 Milestones: African Americans in Comics, Pop Culture and Beyond showcases the vast talent and wonderful innovation that came from or was influenced by African Americans, including the important contributions of publishing executives at companies such as Dark Horse Comics, DC Comics and Marvel Comics. This special exhibit will embrace the totality of Black comics. With a significant focus on Black creators and their art, the exhibit will pull together experts, essayists, filmmakers and creators from inside and outside the world of comic books to fully explore the successes, triumphs, failures and expectations for the future of this vital component of our national fabric. GeppisMuseum.com German Expressionism Baltimore Museum of Art January 29-October 2014 More than 30 vivid paintings, drawings, prints, watercolors, and sculpture present an overview of the revolutionary art movement that flourished in Germany during the first three decades of the 20th century. Artbma.org Designed for Flowers: Contemporary Japanese Ceramics The Walters Art Museum February 23-May 11, 2014 The Japanese art of flower arranging, or ikebana, has inspired the creation of extraordinary ceramic containers. This exhibition outlines the history of some of Japan’s major schools of ikebana and displays a wide variety of contemporary ceramics created in harmony with the most modern floral conventions. TheWalters.org The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Fortress for KeepsBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com Hey, Commonwealth birds, looking for a new place to roost? Consider throwing all your pretty pennies away on Casanova, Virginia's foreclosed Melrose Castle, now on the market for a mere $1.5 million. Check out the real estate listing just for giggles—unless you're far richer than the rest of us. Dream on!
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A Recollection of a Moment in ManhattanBy Eleanor Fisher QuailBellMagazine.com It was August. In August, Ray Ban sunglasses attach themselves around eyeballs like suction cups. I was living in Brooklyn for a month, interning for the novelist and television writer, Adriana Trigiani, a native of Big Stone Gap. Adriana was a busy lady with a booming personality, by which I mean she had money and was Italian. I remember that watching her talk to other people felt a lot like watching QVC. If ever you find yourself in New York City in August, notice how everything appears to be continuously yawning from heat exhaustion. This is an unrealistic illustration, but the poor suckers that you hear about walking through the desert swear to see oases. I do not contend to understand everything my eyes see. New York will not let itself resemble some sleepy baby for too long, though, regardless of how hot it is. The city does not stop because it cannot stop. It is a powerful machine that manufactures mainly two products: garbage and dreams. Like lots of little girls, I dreamed I would someday live in New York. Adriana Trigiani lives in a townhouse in West Greenwich Village, has a twelve-year-old daughter, a husband, and many purple lipsticks. If circumstances are ever such that I find myself engaged in a conversation about interior design, and find my contributions to that conversation to be lacking thus far, I hope I can remember to describe the Trigiani townhouse. Definitely a crowd pleaser. The décor is a chateau villa out of Alice in Wonderland. An abundance of white, pink and black stripes involved. Zero bathrooms on the main floor; two bathrooms in the basement.
The texture of the city at the conclusion of summer is a lot like a little kid’s flushed cheeks—smeared with boogers and sand. Not to say that the New York architecture won’t wow you, or that the pavements don’t glisten. In retrospect, everything shines in my memory like some dream sequence in a Hollywood movie. And yet, the boogers and sand of New York is the general lack of fresh air, feeling poor, and the squeezing my tucchus next to another person’s tucchus on the candy red seats of a subway car. My body fit into size 16 jeans at the time. Due to the chafing dance, which happened between my thighs when I walked, I put holes amidst the crotch regions of four different pairs of Target-brand jeans that month. My body was seeking revenge by attacking the clothes in which it was covered. I might as well have been a tattered pirate ship ambling my way amongst the crowds. People kept coming at me and passing by in different directions. My health had gotten wrecked on bagels, dark chocolate, Chinese and, God knows, everything else delicious. One night, while riding back from a book signing for Adriana’s new paperback novel, I noticed I was happy to be myself. Adriana, her assistant, and I were in a shiny SUV being chauffeured to Manhattan back from where her event had gone on at this bookstore in New Jersey. Adriana’s fans had been wowed by her stories and by her booming personality. I overheard their ooh-and-aah conversations from my spot next to the table with greeting cards on it. In the SUV I sat behind her and watched her face, which appeared to be stony and distant in the side rear view mirror. I don’t contend to understand everything my eyes see. It is hard to pinpoint what inspired that momentary relief—that things were okay. But I was relieved to be merely visiting this glamorous version of life. I was relieved to be watching from the backseat of that SUV. The city would appear like a dream again once I returned to Virginia. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wearing a Beautiful WareRaquel Lynne: Hello Carolyn! I am very excited about catching up with you; your art work has captured something quite unique. So tell me a bit about your work. Carolyn Becker: Raquel, I am so happy that you are interested in my work! My current body of work contends with ideas of self-portraiture, as it relates to fashion, and the body. I have always been in love with designer and vintage fashion, but I have also had a weird relationship with it. Because I am so petite, (4’9") I never have been able to wear the clothing that I really want to wear. This has always frustrated me. Despite my challenges, I have been able to make do. Somehow I have been able to find and alter clothing to fit my body type. Through my work, I tackle my interests and struggles with fashion in a new way. My current extra-small collages and extra-large oil paintings are essentially fragmented “self-portraits” that are composed of images I find attractive from magazines, fabric scraps from my closet, broken jewelry, glitter, and pictures of clothing from my closet. Although my face is not literally depicted in my works, the works still function as portraits because everything in my collages, and collaged painting represent me. I work with extreme sizes of my work, to further contend with the idea of my height and my physical capabilities. In all my work, I use as much bright color as I can. Since I was young, I rarely used the color black in my work; I want to make my paintings as bright and saturated as possible. Raquel Lynne: That is really quite exciting. Your art is amazing. Tell me how it is you use fashion in your art work? Why fashion? Fashion has always been a part of me, and who I am, partly because of my struggle with it. Because I have this struggle to find clothing that fits, I am even more motivated to conquer my issues, critique, and celebrate the subject. Raquel Lynne: Oh, lovely! So, tell me. I noticed a pair of jeans you designed, it is captured on the Urban Art Syndicate website—on each pant leg you had painted a leg. I want them!! Tell me more about this piece. Oh, yes! I made this piece ages ago! I can’t believe you found it! Even so, this piece still relates to my interest in clothing, and my body type. I have always felt uncomfortable with my legs, and pants never fit me. In this piece, I painted my legs, as they would normally fit into a pair of pants. The painted legs are shorter than the lengths of the legs of the pants. I did a series of three of this work, to play with different sizes of pants and see how my legs fit in each pair. Raquel Lynne: Oh my, tell me more…
Yes! I haven’t thought about this piece in a while actually, so I am glad you brought it up. I might play with this idea in the future, but only until my interest is collage and painting the collage is exhausted! Raquel Lynne: Who would you say has influenced you the most, and where could we see that influence? My interests include vintage and designer fashion designers such as Pucci, Marc Jacobs, Etro, Marni, Miu Miu, Jean Paul Gaultier, Versace, Alexander McQueen, Helmut Lang, and countless others. I love the colors and patterns that you can see in these designers' collections. You can see this appreciation in the large-scale collage-based paintings that is my current body of work. My paintings have tons of color, shape, and pattern. In terms of artists and their works, I love Matisse’s cut-outs, Rosenquist’s paintings, and Mickalene Thomas’s rhinestone-embellished paintings. Raquel Lynne: Is there anything else you want the reader to know that we haven’t touched on? The reader should know that I have a show up at Tabula Rasa called “Petite Chic,” on Capitol Hill! It is open through the month of November on Tuesdays and by private appointment. I can give personal tours. Also, don’t let size dictate what you wear. Wear whatever you want. There’s a way to make it fit. And for aspiring artists, make what you want and who cares what other people think? You got to have passion. Raquel Lynne: Well, thank you Carolyn, it has been lovely to hear a bit about your journey and have some of your insights. If you have been inspired by Carolyn Becker’s work, please find her online at CarolynBeckerArt.com. ***This post was originally published on Adonia Prada | The Skinny and was re-posted with permission.*** The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
What I Know about My HeritageBy Fay Funk QuailBellMagazine.com When I was a baby, I was given a nickname: Papoose. It was given to me by my grandpa, who gave all of his grandchildren nicknames that related to something noticeable about them. My bubbly cousin was nicknamed “Smiley” and her analytical brother was called “Numbers.” Papoose means “child” or “cradleboard” in Algonquin, and has come to be a general term of endearment for children of any Native American tribe. As a baby I looked very Cherokee, with a full head of thick dark hair that stuck straight up, a look my grandpa recognized immediately. He had seen it many times before. My grandpa is one eighth Cherokee Indian, which makes me one thirty-second Cherokee. I’m always a little edgy about telling people about my Cherokee heritage. I’m proud of it, and grateful for what I know about it. But I come to it from a very different perspective than someone who has lived on a reservation. I have never experienced systematic racism, and I never will. I am very grateful for that. I have also only experienced a small amount of Cherokee culture, and that makes me very sad. I do not consider myself to be a Cherokee Indian, at least not in terms of current life experience. Native Americans today are still directly affected by history, both pre- and post-Columbian in a way that I am not. It would be insulting for me to claim that experience. At the same time, my Cherokee ancestry is not nonexistent or unimportant to me. So I consider myself a white person with Cherokee heritage. I can speak to how historical oppression has destroyed my ability to really connect to my past and my feelings about that, as well as my feelings about the family members and cultural experiences I have had. But I have no place commenting on issues currently facing Native Americans, like cultural appropriation, or the recent Baby Veronica adoption case, except as an ally. It’s amazing how much can be lost in a generation. My mother recalls visiting her grandma in Oklahoma and attending pow wows on the reservation. My mom and her siblings would wear squash blossom necklaces and watch people dance in full ceremonial outfits. I have never been to Oklahoma, much less a pow wow. It’s the result of increasing distance, both literal and figurative. My grandpa was very intelligent. He did well in school, joined the army, and went to the University of Oklahoma, before moving to Oregon to work as a math teacher. While very proud to be Cherokee, he has never been highly involved in the tribe. As for my mom and her siblings, life just caught up to them as they got older. There was no time to revisit history.
Even with as much distance as there is between me and the Cherokee Nation I could, theoretically, be part of the tribe. There is no blood quantum to join the Cherokee Nation. A blood quantum is the degree to which you are a certain race, like one half or one quarter. Some tribes have a blood quantum, and some do not. Not having a blood quantum is a means of preserving the culture. The more people that can join, the longer the tribe can continue to exist, a real concern with so few Cherokee Indians left of any blood quantum. It is still not easy to join the tribe though, and it probably will never happen for me. In order to join, you must be a direct descendant of someone on the rolls, as in, a parent. For reasons I don’t know, my grandpa is not on the rolls, so our last relative on the rolls was his mother. In order for me to join the tribe, my grandpa would first have to join, then my mom, and then me. My grandpa is 80, and the process is not easy, so I don’t see it ever happening. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Things Are Different NowRyan Conrad recently pulled his film from the Frameline San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival because the festival, despite a robust budget and years of protest from filmmakers, audiences and activists, continues to accept money from the Israeli consulate. Conrad joins a growing list of artists who are taking a stand in the cultural commons, and reminding us that art can be political outside of its content. Art Threat asked Conrad a few questions over email. You can read that conversation and the filmmaker’s statement about his intervention adapted here for Quail Bell Magazine below. You can also find a link and password to his film, things are different now, which he has generously made available to our readers through this Friday.
PINKWASHING, QUEER CINEMA AND HISTORY Art Threat: Why did you decide to make a short on this topic? Ryan Conrad: As a young fag coming of age in a mill town in central Maine I didn’t have any connection to older gay men. I think a lot about why those generational disconnects exist, from the criminalization and stigmatization of intergenerational relationships between gay men, to urban flight and the literal decimation of an entire generation through the mostly deadly years of the AIDS crisis in the U.S. This short is a reflection on that disconnect and the differences in experience by younger queers like me who have never known a world without HIV/AIDS (or safer sex) and never experienced the loss of life on the scale of those gay men that came a generation before me. You say that now gay men are thinking about white weddings and military service, which definitely feels like a small jab at contemporary mainstream queer activism. Can you speak about this generational gulf between the queer and AIDS activism of earlier generations and what prevails now, including gay marriage activism? Contemporary gay and lesbian “equality” politics are pathetic. As if joining the racist neocolonialist military industrial complex, inviting the state into our bedrooms through a marriage contract (or arguing that gay marriage is a good way to access health care, or worse that gay marriage will end AIDS), or that the prison industrial complex is a helpful way to address the issue of anti-queer and anti-trans violence—like, when did our politics get so shitty? When did equality, which essentially means inclusion in the violently unjust status quo, become our only political goal? Looking back to the political organizing during the AIDS crisis in the 1980's and early 1990's that demanded “money for AIDS, not for war," universal health care, housing for all, and took an explicitly intersectional approach to political change is really energizing for me and deeply informs my present work with the radical queer activist group Against Equality. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
“Social equality is the only basis of human happiness.” By The Quail Bell Crew QuailBellMagazine.com Dear fledglings,
As believers in justice and simply as human beings, we are greatly saddened by the death of activist, politician, and philanthropist, Nelson Mandela. If you have not done so already, we hope that you will find the time this weekend to reflect upon the life of a humble but great man who accomplished so much for South Africa and the world at large. We also hope that you will find the time to do a good deed for your friend, neighbor, school, or whatever community you see fit. As Mandela once said, "A good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination." Don't just think—love. And act. We'll try our best to do the same. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
How I Came to Understand Linguistic Injustice in VABy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com The following is a brief expert from the interactive photo and word book, Mixteco/RVA, produced by Christine Stoddard and designed by Kristen Rebelo. The book was generously supported by a grant from The Puffin Foundation and will be premiered at the Virginia Center for Latin American Art tonight. Uno. Había una vez—August 2010
Angloparlante. This word captures the privilege I have known since I learned to speak. I can pronounce all twenty Standard American English vowel sounds with the slight drop of my jaw, the pursing of my lips. English is my native language. It is not my mother's. Yet she is completely fluent in this tongue she first heard in rock songs on the radio as a girl in El Salvador, and therefore one of the lucky ones. This was the summer I studied with my sister in Glasgow, Scotland, where class seemed unmistakeably linked to one's ability to mimic the Queen's English. I also noted, perhaps with some bitterness, that the Spaniards I overheard in the Glaswegian streets and the cafes did not speak the same Spanish as my mother. Meanwhile, in Virginia, the Arlington I knew as a child was disappearing and becoming increasingly multicultural, while my new neighborhood in Richmond was one of the many “hush-hush” segregated variety. Everything looked black and white. Where was the brown? The olive? In the shadows, on the fringes. My heart started to pound like the non-diegetic sound effects in a horror film. The guilt of my privilege began to overwhelm me. Apparently it had been building up for years. I enrolled in my first translation and interpretation courses. Dos. Newsprint—August 2011 One newspaper article I will never forget is Melissa Scott Sinclair's “The Rain People.” It ran in Style Weekly, Richmond's alternative weekly newspaper, and introduced the particular plight of Richmond's Mixteco community. I had never heard of Richmond having any significant Amerindian population, let alone one from Mexico. Many European-Americans and African-Americans would see Mixtecos out in public and assume they were Hispanic. But Richmond's Hispanic community ostracized them because they were Indian and did not speak Spanish as their native language. They were—and remain--othered by the other. Shortly after reading the article, I called my mother to tell her about it. She said she had heard a group of people who looked Latin American speaking a language she did not recognize while out shopping in Richmond one day. Throughout the fall, my mind would occasionally wander back to the Mixtecos, but my heart had other pulls and distractions. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sparkles and GrimeBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com You know your Friday's going to filled with unbelievable fairy punk adventures (or at least get started right) if:
• you're already wearing your favorite leather jacket. • the word "free" is involved. • you put on your black eyeliner right in just one go. • you had more than bubblegum and coffee for breakfast this morning. • you listened to The Cranberries or Nirvana during your morning commute. • you're full of hugs and daisies just thinking about the fun you'll have after work/school. Happy Friday, fledglings! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
An introduction to the concept of the Heaven's HingeThis introduction shows the mathematics and engineering behind the storyline of The Broken Stone and the secret of the Heavens’ Henge at Stonehenge. The images in the following text were produced using a 3-D computer model which was found to replicate the stones at Stonehenge as they may have been when first constructed. Stonehenge’s plan layout is shown to be the same as an idealized geocentric description of the Universe. Its inner stone monument is demonstrated to be capable of producing a spectacular public display of solar movement. The arrangement of this system is shown to be based on a simple method of tracking celestial objects. The contention of this paper is that Stonehenge was both a depository of knowledge about the Universe and a place of learning designed for popular interest. Stonehenge is one of the most enigmatic monuments in the world: A perfectly level ring of circular lintels set on massive upright stones, it has faces which were laboriously worked using stone tools. The worked faces look to the centre of the monument rather than outward. Inside the ring is a set of taller stones, also with worked faces and lintels, which is arranged as a horseshoe. Outside the monument, strategically placed stones are contained within a circular bank and outside that bank, a great Avenue extends to the river. The monument was built at the dawning of a new age. In Egypt, the Pharaohs would soon start to build pyramids and in Britain, metals technology had just been introduced. A few hundred years later, tin and copper would be mixed to form bronze. With the discovery of alloys, the British Bronze Age would start and the Stone Age would become a thing of the past. Every feature of Stonehenge is shown to be explainable using a very old and little known way of scientific thinking combined with engineering principles. This introduction describes how the search for knowledge could have resulted in an early fundamental view of the Universe and the subsequent creation of Stonehenge itself. It has recently been discovered that metals were in use at the time Stonehenge was built. Metal has unique properties which, in addition to making good weapons, can be used in inventions. One such invention, a hinged mechanism which concentrates light, fits precisely into Stonehenge’s structure. This light-concentrating system could be used to demonstrate how the Sun seems to move if the Earth is believed to be fixed at the centre of the Universe. The design requirements of this arrangement are identical to Stonehenge’s enigmatic features. Read more, with diagrams in the PDF document: Stonehenge - an introduction to the concept of the Heavens’ Hinge ***This post originally ran on The Megalithic Portal and appears here with permission.*** The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Gesture Purely HumanBy Lauren Hunt QuailBellMagazine.com Home is never about a place. Home is always people. Whether you call home a city, a back road, a house or a coffee shop, your bedroom or a seat next to the fireplace, it is not the place that defines it—it’s the way you feel when you’re in that place. It’s the place in the world where you feel secure, where you are closest to the person you want yourself to be. For some that means going back to the place you grew up. Every building in the town could have been rebuilt from the ground up, or the shop windows might still have the same items that were on display when you were 16. It’s not the buildings and it’s not the geography that comforts you, it’s nostalgia. It’s trying to return somewhere, to a past time and place, when life was simpler and the world was wide open, when your sense of self was strongest and the truth had not left found jaded with doubt.
For some that means getting as far away from where you started and who you once were. The high school that made you feel like you would never know what it was to belong, the parents that dismissed your dreams and never appreciated your accomplishments, or maybe just the painful memory of someone you lost, someone who hurt you, or a younger self you abandoned and buried there. It’s not about where you were, it’s about who you were and how far you’ve come to escape the way that you were, the way that you felt, the way that you lived. And sometimes moving on and distancing yourself from that version of yourself and those feelings needs physical distance between you, too. Home might be your new life; your job, hobbies, your favorite bar, your friends or the new family you created for yourself, or the new self you created in pursuing and realizing your dreams. Home might be the road; the constant pursuit of new places, cultures, philosophies and people. Home might be the city; any city, any concrete jungle where man builds stairs towards the sky and chases tirelessly after progress and innovation. Home might be a cottage on a plot of land that rolls out of sight, where nature is pure, neighbors are further away and more familiar, and days start early and pass simply. Home might be the little brick house in a line of identical brick house that is somehow completely unique and all your own. Home might be a bench beside the river where you watch the sunrise or the corner of the couch where you gather around the television every Tuesday night. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Welsh Rockers Hark Back to American '70's Sounds By Alexander C. Kafka QuailBellMagazine.com Buffalo Summer Rating: 3 of 5 "She’s All Natural" "Down to the River" "Truth From Fable" "A Horse Called Freedom" "Rolls on Through" "March of the Buffalo" "Ain’t No Other" "Keep on Runnin’" "Typhoid Mary" "Ol’ Duke" From South Wales comes wailin’ a retro outfit inspired by '70's blues- and Southern rock. Brothers, singer Andrew Hunt and drummer Gareth Hunt, along with guitarist Jonny Williams and bassist Darren King, celebrate the primal energies of Free, Deep Purple, Skynyrd, and Zeppelin, but now and then shift into fifth gear with a turbo-grunge charge, or a Black Crowes-y up-tempo swagger. Formed just a couple years ago, the group has superb ensemble, instrumental chops, clean vocals, and infectious energy that are well represented on this, their debut, eponymously named, and self-produced album. Sometimes, though, their sound gets a little monotonous, making us long for a slow tune and some acoustic changeups.
“She’s All Natural” is a love fete: “I never knew we’d be walking down a road that’s so divine...She’s all natural, organic and factual!” Over incorrigible freight-train drumming, two lines of guitar licks entice each other into a hard-charging solo, and the lead vocals are contoured with some nice harmonious overdubs. From an acoustic, folksy intro, “Down to the River” oozes into a swampy, Skynyrdy realm of sins assuaged by the restorative river, mountain, wind--all illuminated by an otherwordly light show of fireflies. Slightly distorted lead vocals are again harmonized, and an instrumental bridge erupts into a Celtic-singed guitar solo, easing into a strong a capella finish. Atmospheric grungy, pugilistic hooks open “Truth From Fable,” with guitar-doubled vocal harmony enhancing angry refrains. A blistering guitar solo and gunshot drum-guitar triplet rhythms bring the last chorus home in a huff. A restless search for truth, the song asks, “Waiting for this light to shine / There’s nothing else that I can find / Can you tell me truth from fable?” A stutter-funky “Light Your Candle” style vocal propels us into “A Horse Called Freedom.” This isn’t my favorite track, in part because of the somewhat tired lyrics and imagery (“Dance under moonlight, by the water’s edge /...Let’s get it together”). The slow head banger is a little repetitive, and even the guitar solo, with a touch of wah, feels sluggish. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
La Cocina SalvadoreñaTo some, the stretch of Glebe Road just before Route 50 in Arlington, Virginia may look like nothing more but a smattering of rundown buildings with faded signs and touches of neon. Perhaps the bricks and concrete blocks ought to be re-painted or at least power-washed. Maybe the dated dark green awnings should go. Or maybe most of the drivers zipping past have no opinion about the businesses. The center blends into the landscape and this is Northern Virginia, the inner suburbs of Washington, D.C., where the pace makes Speedy Gonzales look like a slowpoke.
But to those who do actually think about this shopping center, it may represent a culinary destination, especially for the Washington Post darling, Ravi Kabob House. To me personally, this shopping center on the fringe of Arlington's Ballston neighborhood does bring food to mind and food reminds me, like many Latinas, of home. The sight of more than one Salvadorian restaurant in an American strip mall, after all, is not a common one. The presence of two or more of something normalizes it. And everyone wants to fit in, at least if fitting means being allowed to be who you are with no negative consequences. Ordering a pupusa or an horchata with nobody looking twice at me is a comfort. When I was growing up, my classmates did not recognize the pupusas my mother packed me for lunch—seemingly no matter how many times I explained to them that this dish was simply a thick tortilla stuffed with anything from cheese to pork to beans to loroco, a vine with edible white flowers. But they did not want to understand and picked on me because I was the only one in my grade with a Salvadorian mother. The only others in the school? My younger sisters, one a grade below me and the other three grades below me. Though our father was American, you wouldn't have guessed it by our school lunches. We weren't known to just have a PB&J, a bag of Lays chips, a pack of Gushers, and a Capri Sun pouch like most kids. This made fitting in hard. I'll never forget the scrunched up troll face my first grade classmate Lizzie made when I opened up my Tupperware container to reveal a fried egg floating on top of rice and beans. I probably shrugged, ignored her, and ate my lunch anyway. It was either that or deny myself something I liked and starve. I have never been an immigrant, but I have been the child of an immigrant and have had many friends who were either immigrants themselves or children of immigrants. Some of these friends have been Hispanic—whether Bolivian, Mexican, Colombian, or Spanish—while others have been Asian or Middle Eastern. Something that seems to unite all immigrant communities is food. When you miss your home country, food from the place you love can distract you from homesickness. When you've grown up in the U.S., eating the food your parents grew up with in their country can connect you to their culture, their past, and your shared heritage. When I drink guava nectar, I imagine my mother as a little girl doing the same, but instead of her sitting at a table in Virginia, she's sitting at a table in El Salvador, where fresh fruit abounds, and I'm not just talking apples and oranges. Even if it meant not fitting in at times, I'm glad Pollo Campero had a bigger presence in my childhood than KFC. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sunrise Over BelmontBy QB Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com A crisp start to the day in Charlottesville's Belmont neighborhood, which—bounded by the CSX Railway, Moore Creek, and 6th Street SW—dates back to the 1890's.
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Tell me again, was it love at first sight?By Eden Haney QuailBellMagazine.com I went exploring Annandale, Virginia this weekend and came across the itty bitty Fairfax Hills Park with a lovely little creek going right through the middle. It was the perfect spot for a shoot. While I was photographing, a few deer came down to the creek to stare at me. I can only imagine what they were thinking—I mean, what kind of weird person takes pictures in the middle of their home wearing almost nothing in near freezing temperatures? Probably hasn't happened that often in the past. She must be nuts, thought the deer. I'm kicking myself now for not getting pictures of the hoofed critters, but you'll have to take my word for it: The whole experience was magical. Top: Lace Bustier Skirt: American Apparel (chiffon) Necklace: Vintage Earrings: Indie designer, Steampunk style "The deer my mother swears to God we never saw, -From "Deer" by Helen Mort
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Donkeys and Elephants? Throw in Owls, too.The Whigs, the 19th century political party that disbanded before the Civil War over the question of slavery, is trying making a comeback as the voice of reason between embittered modern day Republicans and Democrats. In Philadelphia, the election of Heshy Bucholz, a software engineer and first candidate to run and win as a Whig in that city in 157 years, has brought national attention to the party and spurred hundreds of new members to sign up. In Maryland, where the Whigs held four of their national conventions in the mid-19th century, the hub of the renaissance is in Cecil County. Tim Zane, a registered Republican and a former vice president and senior cash manager at a large international bank, is in talks to be in charge of the Maryland branch of the new and improved Modern Whig Party. Like Maryland, Virginia, Idaho, Arizona, and Hawaii are seeking new chapter leaders. There are about 200 members of the Modern Whig Party in Maryland, and another 200 support the group by receiving its newsletter. Maryland would benefit from a third party because of its problem with representation, Zane said. “Maryland has two major parties and two minor parties. It’s a strange way of looking at it,” Zane said. The major parties, in Zane’s view, are the progressive Democrats and moderate Democrats, while moderate Republicans and conservative Republicans form the minor parties. He cites tax increases, including Governor Martin O’Malley’s infamous “rain tax,” a stormwater fee, as evidence that a Democratic monopoly on decision-making is bad for Maryland’s citizens. “Everything in Maryland is controlled by the counties between Baltimore and Washington,” Zane said. Four Whig National Conventions were held in the old Maryland Institute in Baltimore, a grand building which stood at the corner of Market Place and East Baltimore Street. It burned down in 1904, and now in its place is the Power Plant Live! entertainment center. After a century and a half of dormancy, the Modern Whig Party was relaunched in 2007 by veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, and claims 30,000 members. Historically a party of compromise, the Whigs believe in incorporating ideas from multiple viewpoints to arrive at the best solution. Modern Whigs favor allowing issues to be decided at the state and local level, painting themselves as the party of logic, research and reason. The Whigs see themselves in stark opposition to the two main political parties, which brought about the recent government shutdown. In Washington, D.C. today, “one side shuts down so the other side doesn’t talk,” said Brendan Galligan, chairman of the New Jersey chapter of the Modern Whig Party, and an elected school board member in Westfield, New Jersey. Galligan’s own foray into Whigism began after he discovered the Westfield, New Jersey, school budget had increased by nearly 30% in five years. Propelled into action, he ran unopposed as an independent in 2012 and was elected to the Westfield School Board with 7,000 votes at age 23. “They haven’t done anything for a couple hundred years, but let me click on their link,” Galligan said about his discovery of the Whigs. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Day-tripping in the Tar Heel StateAlright fledglings, no matter where you live in the DMV, North Carolina isn't that far (please pipe down, you Northern Marylanders.) And Historic Hillsborough in particular—in all its 250-year splendor—offers plenty of history nerd stimulation. In other words, it's perfect for Quail Bell(e)s of all feathers. What's there to see, you ask? Why, there's all this:
The Alexander Dickson House (c. 1790) serves as the location for the Hillsborough Visitors Center. The site includes an antebellum farm office used by Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston before he surrendered his troops to Union General William T. Sherman at nearby Durham Station in April 1865. Ayr Mount is a hidden gem located off the Old Indian Trading Path. Home to merchant William Kirkland of Scotland, this 1815 house was restored in 1985 to its original splendor. Owned by Classical American Homes Preservation Trust, the property is laced with beautiful walking trails along the Eno River. The Burwell School is a historic house museum. The Burwell School, from 1837-1857, was one of the earliest female academies in North Carolina and served as a refuge to the prominent Collins family during the Civil War. Today, writers like Lee Smith and Allan Gurganus come to read from their recently published works. The Orange County Historical Museum is located on the site of the 1788 Constitutional Convention. The Museum houses and interprets a unique collection of artifacts and stories from Orange County. The House at Moorefields, three miles from downtown Hillsborough, was built in 1785 as a summer home by Alfred Moore, an educational leader and prominent justice who served as the second and last North Carolinian on the U.S. Supreme Court. For a free copy of a brochure for Historic Hillsborough, or for more information on Hillsborough for the Holidays, call the Alliance for Historic Hillsborough at 919-732-7741 or visit VisitHillsboroughNC.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Reflections on the Nana I Never HadIona McLaughlin | My Paternal Grandmother I never met her, but I heard about her. My mind conjures up an image of her drawn from the many descriptions given of her. Her elegance, beauty, style, mannerisms, diction, speech and ladylike moves. She wore dresses mostly, never flats, always heels. She wore pearls of all lengths and sizes. Her hair neatly combed back to show her delicate features and high cheek bones. Her hair was long and she braided at bedtime. I imagine her in her garden dressed in her finest dress and heels, or in her sitting room creating delicate doulies that found its way into my bedroom as a child. I always believed that if I had met her, if I had known her, how much she would have taught me. I feel that I embody her essence with what I choose to wear, and how I present myself, to include my speech and mannerisms. If I had a chance to have gotten to know her, I would have studied her, learned more about being a girl, a woman. She met her husband at a garden party, a cricket match. They danced, loved and traveled to faraway places in search of adventures. They lived a good and happy life. They bore two children, sons, one died in a plague, the other survived. She loved her surviving son more than anything else on earth, and she sheltered him from all harm, in all of her grace. She was at an epic high, with happiness until the death of her son. Though with sadness surrounding her, her elegance and beauty never faded, her strength made her stronger, more vibrant. When she arrived in the U.S. to visit her son, she had cut her hair, and was wearing pencil pants. Times had changed, women chose pants over dresses. She never retired her heels though, and between her pencil pants, she changed and wore her dresses at dinnertime. She was a lady of her time. She was my paternal grandmother. I often times wonder what she’d say about my choice of clothes, or the bright blue toe nail polish I wear. My hair goes wild with curls, or long and straight with effort. I am not comfortable in heels, and my daily dress wearing days ended in middle school. But everything else about me is her. I cut my hair, its growing back. I wear my pearls, I have sons, and I wear pencil pants. Our beauty has been described as “vintage.” It’s genetic. Her eyes would ache to see how children dress these days: girls in yoga pants, boys in PJ bottoms —and flip-flops no matter the weather. My eyes ache on her behalf. But as it happened to her back then, it continues to happen. Styles change, people change, circumstances happen. But what never changes is your core, your sense of self-style, presentation, speech, diction. I wish she could tell me her thoughts, give me lessons in walking in heels. Teach me the fine art of doilies making. Help me to love dresses again. Would she like my bright red lipstick, I wonder? ***This post was written by Raquel Lynn for Adonia Prada | The Skinny, where it originally appeared, and was re-published with permission.*** The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah PIGMAN!A couple years ago, on my blog New England Folklore, I posted about the Pigman of Northfield, Vermont. It was one of my more popular posts, but I didn't think I had much more to say about this porcine creature of the night. However, while poking around on the web recently I found some more Pigman stories. I usually try to cite books or other traditional sources for my blog for credibility's sake, but even though the Pigman stories are just on message boards, they are too good to resist. I like to think of these as good campfire stories, but the campfire is my computer. (If you're not up to speed on the Pigman, you can read my original post here.) The newer version of the Pigman story claims that way back in 1951 the Pigman was just a normal teen boy named Sam Harris. On October 30th, the night before Halloween, Sam set out with some eggs and toilet paper to cause trouble and vandalize his neighbors' houses. It was a tradition for the local teens. You see, in Sam's hometown of Northfield October 30th was called Picket Night, and it was the designated night for mischief. Unfortunately, Sam never returned. His concerned parents called the police and hundreds of volunteers searched the woods around Northfield, but they found nothing. Sam Harris was never seen again. But something else was seen that gloomy autumn, something disturbing: a hideous humanoid with the head of a pig. The creature was seen lurking in the woods at night, particularly in an area called the Devil's Washbowl, where he terrorized teenagers in parked cars. The rumor began to spread that this monster was really Sam Harris, and that he had given himself to Satan. People said he ate the raw entrails of pigs, and wore the head of one over his own. Sam's family and friends were outraged at the rumors, and a local historian wrote an article debunking them in the local newspaper. She disappeared shortly after it was published. Her body was found several years later in the Devil's Washbowl with the words "Picket Night" carved in her skull. One morning in 1954, Sam's mother told a neighbor that Sam had come to her house the previous night. He had dragged a pile of pig entrails across the porch floor as a gift for her, and squealed with feral glee at the bloody organs before disappearing into the darkness. His eyes were like an animal's. Thirteen days later, Mrs. Harris committed suicide by throwing herself into a neighbor's pig pen, where the hungry swine devoured her. Ever since, the Pigman has roamed through the dark woods around Northfield. The creature has been blamed for many animal deaths and several human disappearances, but has never been caught. There's the new Pigman story. It's entirely possible this tale is just being spread by one person on message boards across the web, but there are some things about it that I find interesting. As I've mentioned before, the nights around Halloween often have different names in different areas. I find it interesting that October 30th is called Picket Night in this story, which seems like it could refer to a real tradition in Northfield. If you know anything about Picket Night, please leave a comment—I'd love to know more! It's also significant that the Pigman lurks around the Devil's Washbowl. Areas named after the Devil tend to accumulate legends about supernatural happenings. Finally, there seems to be some implicit message about men and women in this story. Sam Harris begins the story as mischievous teen, and then devolves from boy prankster all the way to a hideous man-beast that lives outside of society and eats raw flesh. The female historian who tries to defend his reputation and symbolically reclaim him as human meets a horrible fate, while poor Mrs. Harris is destroyed by the realization that her son really is an animal who has resisted all her years of mothering. I don't think it's true, but the message seems to be that men are wild, and women are doomed in their attempts to civilize them. It sounds like a great topic for someone's Master's dissertation! Quail Bell Food for Thought: What similar folk tale(s) do we have in Washington, D.C., Maryland, and/or Virginia? How do we treat the night before Halloween? And why the heck is The Quail Bell Crew asking you about this a month after the holiday? ***This post was written by Peter Mulse for New England Folklore, where it originally appeared, and was re-published with permission.*** Follow Quail Bell Magazine on Facebook for behind-the-scenes looks, shout-outs, calls to action, giveaways, and more! |
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