September 29, 1960
THE LEXHIPEP
Page 3
First Steps In The
"New World"
—By MONIKA KOLAR
It was a most wonderful moment for me when I could leave the
“Seven Seas” at last and feel solid ground, American ground, under
my feet, after having lived on a swaying ship for ten days.
I arrived at New York, and my first impression was that everybody
was really speaking American, a language I could hardly understand
with my poor school-English, and that the Americans are most friend
ly and helpful people. I am sure my suit cases and I would have
been separated if there hadn’t been some nice people who helped
me in the right bus and assured me that I need not bother about
anything now. Till this moment I haven’t seen anything of New York;
when we arrived it was foggy, and one could see the Statue of Liberty
and the skyscrapers of Manhattan only with great imagination. And
even now, sitting in the bus and peeping through the windows, I got
just a glimpse of New York and the beautiful buildings of Wash
ington, D. C.
Our bus raced along the highways with great speed, even at night.
At the first station we were welcomed by parents who were eagerly
awaiting their European children.
We all went into the restaurant to gain some strength for the
next hours of the ride. It was the first time in my life I saw plenty
of food and had nearly to leave hungry, because I didn’t know what
to chose, having never seen this kind of food before. I was on the
point of chosing dishes after the most beautiful color, when the women
behind the desk, recognizing in what a mess I was, filled up my
plate with things which tasted as good as the colors of the others
were pretty.
At last we arrived at our destination. I wouldn’t have dreamt of be
ing welcomed as heartily by everybody. I am very happy and excited,
but a little nervous too, coming into such a big country on the other
side of the ocean, and quite alone; but you feel so comfortable at
once when you see everybody trying to understand you and to help
you, and when they don’t mind when you say wrong things on wrong
occasions. I never had the feeling of being away from home so far,
because everybody treated me as one of his friends, not as a guest.
Since my first stay in Lexington I have met so many people and
learned so many names that I often didn’t know to which name I
should put a special face. But obviously the others remembered me,
because, when I was racing along the corridors of our school and try
ing to find room 14 in the new building, they guided me safely to the
class I belonged. This school is a “little” bigger than the school I
have been attending in Viennia and a lot different; but I enjoy it
very much and I hope I will get familiar with it soon. I am so happy
to be there, and every day I see more reasons why my friends had
envied me so much. More and more I am realizing the privilege
of being in America!
A Typical Day
By JEANNETTE TURNER
Get up at seven.
It’s sure not heaven.
Get washed! Get dressed! Hurry!
My, oh my, what a scurry!
Hurry and eat. You’re not going to make it!
Sometimes I think I just can’t take it.
Finally, looking only half alive
At senior high school I arrive.
Study hall comes first. What a treat!
This is one course that’s hard to beat.
Then comes English. I’m in a maze.
Let’s see. Is this a clause or is it a phrase?
Third comes health. What a joy to play
And stop and rest at least once a day.
Algebra is fourth. This I really enjoy,
Although a few brains I must employ.
Next comes lunch. Boy, am I glad
After the scanty breaMast I had.
French is sixth. It’s such a chore
To struggle from parapluie to I’amour.
Last is science. Here we study everything from ants
To the most modern electrical power plants.
At last 3:15 is here!
All together, let’s give a cheer!
Then away to my job I go
Every day be it rain, sleet, or snow.
Ah, 5:30 at last. Now I can go home and eat.
Boy, it sure feels good to rest my feet.
But I can’t rest long, there’s homework to do.
It seems as though I’ll never get through.
Now get washed. Get dressed. Get ready for bed.
I feel just like a huge hunk of lead.
Ah, finally comes sweet, restful sleep.
If only this feeling I could keep.
But I know it soon must end.
I’ll have to do it all again.
But when all is said and done
In a strange sort of way, it’s kinda fun!
And Away Beyond
Bleak grayness of a rain-filled
sky covered the city with a ling
ering depression. Water ran in
countless little rivers off the dirty
sidewalks filling the gutters with
violent, rushing streams. Traffic,
moving slowly, with a dull, muted
noise could be heard from a dis
tant direction; then, only rain and
an occasional rumble of thunder.
Monotonous days of dreary
weather had imprisoned this city,
ordinarily abundant with the
hustled confusion fo a busy met
ropolis; and now, for many
blocks, a lone figure made the
slush, slush sound of footsteps in
the rain.
Funny how aloneness makes
one suddenly small, maybe be
cause of gigantic surroundings or
the vastness of this rapidly mov
ing maze of people, automobiles,
under a jungle of towering sky
scrapers. And still, there was the
rain, steady — never stopping.
Maybe too, deeper than all of
these things and more profound
there was an emptiness filled
with loneliness an dinsuppressible
longing. As he walked on, block
after block, endless rows of
broken, ugly brownstone houses
paraded before him. Children,
white and colored, laughing and
crying, were playing in the
streets. He had been one of those,
one of the lesser ones because
he wasn’t one of the white, and
he remembered — how he re
membered: the ugliness, the
filth, the insufferable feeling of
being inferior even to those oth
ers who had only the color of
their skin and perhaps life itself
to be thankful for. Still he had
envied them, and still he did.
The envy had been bearable only
because he knew that someday,
somehow he would rise above the
shame and the filth, and then he
would be a person who was truly
living, not just existing.
Diligence, unbelievable per-
serverance, and plain hard work
had sent him through school,
then with scholarships, college,
and finally, to California to study
at Granston, his goal since he
had struck his first note on a
piano. That had been his joy —
music. He had never had his own
piano, not until now, when it
didn’t matter.
That first year on the coast
had been full of wonderment,
strangeness, work and more
work; and, at last, he had been
rewarded with achievement and
praise — only a little now and
then. Equality belonged too, for
there people had cared only about
musicians, and music; and he
was a musician, not somebody of
another race to be looked down
on, or to be indifferent to, but
a man doing what he loved most
and doing it with unimaginable
skill. People had admired him,
and he had found friends, not
only in his work, but outside,
too, where people were together
because they liked each other
and enjoyed being together. He
had recognized security, happi
ness, and the warmth that comes
from actually belonging, per
haps for the first time.
At the music conservatory con
certs had been a constant high
light of each week of study.
Everyone sat engrossed for hours
listening to a variety of famous
persons and occasionally to some
one, perhaps not famous, but
genuinely talented. Such a night
with just a person as that was
an undying memory to him. He
had never been quite so deeply
touched or inspired as he had
been that night. He was only able
—SUSAN KEATS SECHREST
to sit and to try to recapture
the loveliness of the hauntingly
beautiful music he had heard. So
he had merely remained seated
as an appreciative audience had
filed out; then, all was silent.
Unable to move or to speak be
fore, he had finally left his seat,
and had walked to the piano,
standing alone on the dark stage.
His fingers had fallen softly on
the keys, and a longing to play
had engulfed his soul. So he had
played ... his song, the one he
had written, slowly, gradually,
the one that only he had heard.
When the last note had resounded
through the empty theatre, he
turned to face an invisible audi
ence. Then he had seen her,
standing alone; she was haunt
ingly beautiful, too. He could only
stare, spellbound with the night
and the girl, who was partially
visible through the moonlight
that had cast a thousand tiny
shadows and had made the world
seem misty and unreal. She had
finally spoken, softly, slowly,
about the music and how she had
stayed, unwilling to leave, and
how she listened to him. Then he
had looked away to the outside,
to the glittering stars in a velvet
sky, to the people, and everyone
seemed to be a boy and a girl,
walking . . . maybe to some
place important, but mostly just
walking. He had crossed the
stage abruptly and walked up the
aisle until he stood next to her,
and she turned to face him, a
little puzzled at first; then, as
if by some simple understand
ing, they had walked away to
gether.
After this they had grown close,
and occasional meetings had be
come long -walks where they
could be alone and where they
could talk and enjoy being with
the one that had become so ter
ribly important. Both of them had
smiled and laughed, maybe real
ly for the first time. Of course
their differences were wide: she
had been born to the abundant
treasures of life, his front yard
was the slums; she had had
everything of materialistic value,
he had worked ceaselessly mere
ly to stay in school; she was one
of those fortunate ones whose
skin was ... but this couldn’t
matter, because no matter what
her race, she had always lacked
—just as he had—love. He had
found a new happiness in his love
for her; she, too, had let this
strange new emotion grasp her
very spirit.
His every thought now was
Anna, for she had been and was
priceless to him, and even the
slightest remembrance of her
sent him into a tormenting state
of bitterness and antagonizing re
gret. Then after that everything
was bearable because he thought
of her again . . . lovely Anna,
how delicate and precious she
was — tall, no, not tall — willowy
. . . she had worried about that
. . . skin and her hair, long and
falling loosely about her shoul
ders or pulled high atop her head,
were like a faint burst of sun
light. She was slim, not skinny
as she had so often imagined,
and she was unquestionably
beautiful — the way she had
walked and talked, everything
she had done made her beautiful
to him, and he had adored her.
He remembered her eyes too, blue,
not like an ordinary blue, dark
er than that; and they had shone,
and they had been open always to
the world and to life itself. Love
ly mysterious Anna, how he had
grown to love her and how he
still did.
She had loved him, too, and
the ultimate satisfaction that
soared through his very being
had laster only until he had had
time to think; then, he had hoped
against hope and fought the idea
of this being wrong. Finally after
days of walking, thinking, and
more walking, he realized a ter
rible thing ... he was right.
Anna had known, too, that last
time he had stood before her,
and she had cried, not hysterical
ly, but for a long time. He had
smiled at her a last time, and
finally he had left her.
Now he had come home, not
to a home he loved, but some
where that was far away. The
already-dark days was yielding
to the final darkness of night,
and the city began to awake to
the artificial life of neon signs
and bright street lights. As he
walked, he came to a bar, illumi
nated by a cheap sign glaring
dismally through the night, and
he waited for that same disgust
of wrong and shame to fill his
body. When it didn’t, he made his
way to the door. Through the
glass he saw a sailor and a girl,
ruined for him, in such morbid
surroundings, and he backed
away, into the rain. Not this;
don’t stoop this low; that would
ruin the only other thing he had
ever loved. Maybe music and a
little ambition could fill his life.
And someday he would be a musi
cian, not just an ordinary musi
cian, but a man whose one fer
vent desire was to play for the
world to fall in love.
Then he walked on, and still,
there was rain.
Editor's Note: Susan Sechrist's short
story won first place in the O. Henry
short story contest, and Tony Wike's
poem won first place in the Richard
Walser Book Club contest.
THE VIGILANT SEA
—TONY WIKE
High tide, low tide.
Each day and night they come.
And the sea makes known its
rhythm
Like the cadence of a drum.
A -wave is seen as a drummer
boy;
The foam, his cap of white;
The beach, of course, the boy’s
drum.
As he marches out of sight.
The shells are the guards that
protect the boy;
The dunes, the sentry wall.
The sea is the ceaseless army,
A fortress is it all.
How Would It Be?
—CAROL MEACHUM
How would it be without the
summer sun;
Or without the winter’s thrilling
fun?
How would it be without the
cooling breeze
That weaves in and out of the
willow trees?
Without the hum of the busy
little bees?
Without a lively tune on the piano
keys?
How would it be without Mother’s
loving arms?
Without your playful puppy’s
mischievous charms?
Another question deserves more
than a nod,
‘How would it be without our
God?”