Happy 72nd Anniversary, Nana & Pop
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
High School Journalism: February 10, 2005
My dear friend Ashley asked me if I could dig this article out for her clinical psychology program to show "what she brings to the therapy room" and to explain her culture. Pregnant teenagers in Dillsburg, PA, circa 2005. Dillsburg Banner. Click to Enlarge.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I was fifteen.
My sister Katie is getting married this weekend. I'm home, my whole family's home, and I'm writing a speech. Searching for blank paper, I opened an old notebook in my girlhood bedroom, found this journal entry. Before I could drive, when I'd get wanderlusty, I'd take walks down the road, past the drive-in movie theater, to the park and the nearby housing development, hoping to see someone I knew. I'd take my notebook and a pen, and I'd write down what I saw. Tonight, something otherwise unremarkable feels even okay.
If I stare at a certain pont in the ground, I feel as if I'm drawing back from the world and the rest is moving forward.
Young dads with dark hair and goatees driving their daughters to soccer practice.
Freshly cut green grass in front of a house, trees planted a few years earlier with orange, yellow, blue plastic Easter eggs among the small, barely firm but budding branches.
Decorative flags blowing in the breeze, their bottoms torn from the wind.
A boy and a girl, fifth grade, playing basketball in a driveway with a grey minivan.
Yellow ribbons hanging from a white porch post, five miniature American flags on the post beside.
Weeping cherry tree. Bush, small and blob-like with seven yellow flowers blossoming beside.
Houses so carefully and artistically laid out, as if begging one to wonder who's inside, when they were married, how old their children are, and when they gave up hope of having the perfect life and family.
A small dark-haired girl riding her bicycle with white rubber wheels, fringes hanging off the white plastic handles. What's she thinking? Is she humming to herself? Blue pants, zip hoodie. I walk past, she smiles at me. Curious. Does she look up to me, want to be me? As I so longed to be old in my younger days of youth.
A girl tap-dancing on the sidewalk in school clothes and black tap shoes, her mother holding a puppy from leaving vicinity of the house. Girl and boy (playing basketball earlier) ride bikes past scene. I glance at a boy who looks about my age. I don't get a good look, but I know he keeps staring as I approach from the other side of the road. As I walk away, he comes out from the garage and walks; for a second our feet step in time.
If I stare at a certain pont in the ground, I feel as if I'm drawing back from the world and the rest is moving forward.
Young dads with dark hair and goatees driving their daughters to soccer practice.
Freshly cut green grass in front of a house, trees planted a few years earlier with orange, yellow, blue plastic Easter eggs among the small, barely firm but budding branches.
Decorative flags blowing in the breeze, their bottoms torn from the wind.
A boy and a girl, fifth grade, playing basketball in a driveway with a grey minivan.
Yellow ribbons hanging from a white porch post, five miniature American flags on the post beside.
Weeping cherry tree. Bush, small and blob-like with seven yellow flowers blossoming beside.
Houses so carefully and artistically laid out, as if begging one to wonder who's inside, when they were married, how old their children are, and when they gave up hope of having the perfect life and family.
A small dark-haired girl riding her bicycle with white rubber wheels, fringes hanging off the white plastic handles. What's she thinking? Is she humming to herself? Blue pants, zip hoodie. I walk past, she smiles at me. Curious. Does she look up to me, want to be me? As I so longed to be old in my younger days of youth.
A girl tap-dancing on the sidewalk in school clothes and black tap shoes, her mother holding a puppy from leaving vicinity of the house. Girl and boy (playing basketball earlier) ride bikes past scene. I glance at a boy who looks about my age. I don't get a good look, but I know he keeps staring as I approach from the other side of the road. As I walk away, he comes out from the garage and walks; for a second our feet step in time.
Monday, July 19, 2010
An Open Letter to the Editor of the Daily Item
Sir—
Regarding your article on Joel Snider’s 2nd targeted victim (“Detractors: 2nd Snider target runs cult retreat,” July 18th), you were wrong to link Sudharman’s intentions to those of Andrew Cohen—a man he did not know. Ms. Petryk used faulty logic to equate Sudharman to Cohen, citing murderer Joel Snider’s own manifesto as evidence against Cohen, and using these invalidated statements (made by a man on anti-psychotics) to tarnish the name of a deceased community member.
Ms. Petryk also erroneously reported that “Sudharman was clearly worshipped by those who rose at his memorial service.” Sudharman was no more worshipped by his friends and students than any person who is honored at his or her funeral. Do we not all sing praises of the dead upon their passing? Is it wrong to honor the memory of a murdered man by discussing his influence? Sudharman was human and he, as well as those he knew, did not pretend he was otherwise. On the contrary, he put others’ needs and wants above his own. If, as Ms. Petryk reported, “…there was no one who said he was trying to set himself up as a god,” why did she imply otherwise?
I am offended by this sensationalized and under-researched story. It is a shame that Ms. Petryk never met Sudharman—she would have remembered him for his kindness and willingness to do what he felt was right instead of what was common. Instead, she crafted him into a cartoonish cult figure. Poorly researched journalism is not just a travesty to the art of writing; it also warps truth and, sadly, in Sudharman’s case, unapologetically mars the memory of one of the kindest people I have known.
JULIE LOUISA HAGENBUCH
Photographer
Lewisburg
Regarding your article on Joel Snider’s 2nd targeted victim (“Detractors: 2nd Snider target runs cult retreat,” July 18th), you were wrong to link Sudharman’s intentions to those of Andrew Cohen—a man he did not know. Ms. Petryk used faulty logic to equate Sudharman to Cohen, citing murderer Joel Snider’s own manifesto as evidence against Cohen, and using these invalidated statements (made by a man on anti-psychotics) to tarnish the name of a deceased community member.
Ms. Petryk also erroneously reported that “Sudharman was clearly worshipped by those who rose at his memorial service.” Sudharman was no more worshipped by his friends and students than any person who is honored at his or her funeral. Do we not all sing praises of the dead upon their passing? Is it wrong to honor the memory of a murdered man by discussing his influence? Sudharman was human and he, as well as those he knew, did not pretend he was otherwise. On the contrary, he put others’ needs and wants above his own. If, as Ms. Petryk reported, “…there was no one who said he was trying to set himself up as a god,” why did she imply otherwise?
I am offended by this sensationalized and under-researched story. It is a shame that Ms. Petryk never met Sudharman—she would have remembered him for his kindness and willingness to do what he felt was right instead of what was common. Instead, she crafted him into a cartoonish cult figure. Poorly researched journalism is not just a travesty to the art of writing; it also warps truth and, sadly, in Sudharman’s case, unapologetically mars the memory of one of the kindest people I have known.
JULIE LOUISA HAGENBUCH
Photographer
Lewisburg
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Collaboration with a person I once knew.
Just under four days' drive, camping on the way and drinking coffee at the diners like a tattered Steinbeck novel. He and I, our nightly allotments of writing: we sit with a moth-beaten lamp and fill our pages. A trip of states is nothing without a record of our writings, a record of our physical entwining. A trip of states seems nothing without his chest under my elbows.
The night before, in cold summer breeze flowing from the ocean, we drank wine and he kissed me in the open air from the top of my feet to the inside of my thighs. And there he fell asleep, rough beard against my smoothest skin.
We write separate and when we need advice we switch our papers. When still we need advice, we lie down on woolen blankets. Our campsite is buggy and we zip ourselves inside the tent. I press my lips against his shoulder-bone and soon afterward, he falls asleep. When I cannot, I return outside to the table and write letters to my grandmother. I write about her burlap dresses as a girl.
In the mid-day bluing shore, we see another sea, one different from our own. We see whales in the Pacific, the concert on its dock. The square room with the bridge and the buildings behind musicians. The warmth of strings mix with warmth of people. We get drowsy; classical music relaxes him. Always he gets drowsy. It is cold out. I have a bottle of wine, hidden. No one has found it, and we drink it.
The night before, in cold summer breeze flowing from the ocean, we drank wine and he kissed me in the open air from the top of my feet to the inside of my thighs. And there he fell asleep, rough beard against my smoothest skin.
We write separate and when we need advice we switch our papers. When still we need advice, we lie down on woolen blankets. Our campsite is buggy and we zip ourselves inside the tent. I press my lips against his shoulder-bone and soon afterward, he falls asleep. When I cannot, I return outside to the table and write letters to my grandmother. I write about her burlap dresses as a girl.
In the mid-day bluing shore, we see another sea, one different from our own. We see whales in the Pacific, the concert on its dock. The square room with the bridge and the buildings behind musicians. The warmth of strings mix with warmth of people. We get drowsy; classical music relaxes him. Always he gets drowsy. It is cold out. I have a bottle of wine, hidden. No one has found it, and we drink it.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Corners of Eyes Are Salty
I put my glasses back on my face and he fans his fingers to block my view.
"Don't do it," he straightens his legs, then relaxes. Drops his arms. His face is patching at places and by night he's rubbing raw egg on the boyish blank arenas.
"I could ride a horse in those," I whisk my finger at one. He doesn't speak. "A stallion. A peach-cobbler trojan." He makes a lock-unlock the stables motion. Crooks his fingers. "Roams the grass. Too ripped for cooped-up doors."
I straddle him in jeans I swore--at his age--I would never wear. I'll only wear cinch-waisted dresses as a lady. His blood-thick pants are pushing at my leg. "Would you still like me as a man?"
"No," he says, "I"d throw you in the hay loft and shred your clothes and push myself inside your most sensitive manhole covers." I am not looking forward to being a woman. Sexual peak in five years.
"Tell me something men know that boys do not," I say. He thinks until his pinky taps the table.
"Language is salty. Corners of eyes are salty. Call this number to release my captive girlfriend from behind plexiglass. Just say Alabaster."
T H A N K Y O U V E R Y M U C H.
"Don't do it," he straightens his legs, then relaxes. Drops his arms. His face is patching at places and by night he's rubbing raw egg on the boyish blank arenas.
"I could ride a horse in those," I whisk my finger at one. He doesn't speak. "A stallion. A peach-cobbler trojan." He makes a lock-unlock the stables motion. Crooks his fingers. "Roams the grass. Too ripped for cooped-up doors."
I straddle him in jeans I swore--at his age--I would never wear. I'll only wear cinch-waisted dresses as a lady. His blood-thick pants are pushing at my leg. "Would you still like me as a man?"
"No," he says, "I"d throw you in the hay loft and shred your clothes and push myself inside your most sensitive manhole covers." I am not looking forward to being a woman. Sexual peak in five years.
"Tell me something men know that boys do not," I say. He thinks until his pinky taps the table.
"Language is salty. Corners of eyes are salty. Call this number to release my captive girlfriend from behind plexiglass. Just say Alabaster."
T H A N K Y O U V E R Y M U C H.
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