Maybe He’s A Prince


by Cindy Washabaugh 

How Magic Works: Late September Day, 1996, Doan Brook Gorge Ravine

When you were eight you still believed.  That afternoon in the ravine
beneath the ledges, the sky a bright, barking blue, clouds peaked stiff
and strange, summer’s humidity sucked from the air.  The only

dampness wrapped around the boulders by the stream where you found
the stone—the same gray slate as a thousand others, but shaped like
a key, a full, broad head and stem cut by nature to glide into some

matching lock.  All afternoon you tried your luck, finding crevices
in the ledges and wriggling the stone key in, sure each time it would click
and turn, open a magic door to gleaming Arabian treasure. I watched

for the moment when you’d finally give up, wished to keep you
from that sadness.  Suddenly, you just set the stone down to pick up
a lumpy toad.  “Maybe he’s a wizard,” you said, “maybe he’s a prince.”

 

Cindy Washabaugh is a Cleveland poet who leads programs in the creative arts and has a particular passion for therapeutic writing. She has developed and taught courses in healing and exploring through poetry for Cleveland State University and other organizations. Her work has appeared in numerous national journals, including The Spoon River Poetry Review, Confrontation and The Connecticut Review, and locally in the anthologies, Voices of Cleveland, (Cleveland State University Press), and Cleveland in Prose and Poetry, (League Books). She is a member of Take Nine, a group of nine Cleveland women poets who have been reading, writing and performing together for twelve years.

Girlhood, the Indians, and Ugliness

What It Means to Be Ugly
by Susan Petrone 

Nine is not only one of the magic numbers of baseball, I would argue that it is the optimum age to fall in love with the game. You’re old enough to play and watch the game with some level of skill and understanding. Things like sacrifice bunts and pitch choices and infield shifts start making sense and you begin to understand why it’s called “the thinking man’s game.” However, if you’re a dorky nine-year-old girl, you wonder whether that definition can be expanded to thinking girls as well.

I was nine in the summer of 1977, and I lived and breathed the Cleveland Indians with my brother, Mike, and Michael and Ann Duhigg, two kids who lived behind us and were close to our ages. Every morning I would wake up with the prospect of 15 hours of daylight stretching out before me like the ribbon on a birthday gift. We were all at the tail ends of large families—six in ours and seven in theirs. It was the 1970’s, and our mothers didn’t have the worries of missing children on milk cartons or poisoned Tylenol or pornography on the Internet. Nobody missed us or worried too much about us when we were out. We were free to spend each day of the summer as we wished. We would play baseball or whiffle ball all day with the Duhiggs, then my brother and I would watch the Indians on WUAB, the local, non-network channel. That was when I learned the game, and that’s when I fell in love with the Cleveland Indians.

The 1977 Indians were not a very good team. In the 112-year history of the Cleveland Indians franchise (beginning with the Cleveland Blues in 1901), the ’77 team ranks 95th  with a .441 won-loss average. They had some fine players. It was my hero, Andre Thornton’s, first year with the club. He batted .263 that season with 28 home runs—not his best season but certainly respectable. Future Hall of Famer Dennis Eckersley was on the pitching staff. He only went 14-13 that season, but did pitch the 200th no-hitter in modern baseball history (i.e., since 1901). I didn’t know it at the time, but he already problems with alcohol, and his best friend and teammate, Rick Manning, was sleeping with his wife. My father was sleeping with someone other than my mother, but I didn’t know that either and wouldn’t for a few more years. Baseball has a way of hiding secrets and acting as a balm for the truths we’d rather not face.

The ’77 Indians were ugly both figuratively and literally. Their road uniforms were especially atrocious—red jerseys and red pants that made them look like tall glasses of Hawaiian Punch. I was ugly too. For some reason, that was the summer my parents decided to cut my hair short. I was a tomboy, but until that point, I had long straight hair. It got tangled, as the hair of an active little girl will do, so my parents convinced me that I should have short hair. The haircut itself was an unglamorous affair. My great-grandfather had been a barber, and apparently someone thought the barbering gene passed to my oldest brother John. It didn’t. So I had a bad, boyish short haircut, thick glasses, lots of hand-me-down clothes, and did I mention I was a little chubby at the time?

Our brother John worked as a soda jerk at a place called Meither’s Ice Cream, which was one of the last remaining soda shops on the east side of Cleveland. My brother Mike and I would ride our bikes up, get ice cream, and play pinball. I fancied myself a pinball wizard. I was not. Like the Indians, I had flashes of brilliance and great games, but mainly I just lost quarters. One day, while playing one of my better games, a girl a couple years older watched me for a minute and commented on my score. My brother said, “Yeah, she’s doing pretty good.” The older girl took in the bad, bowl-like haircut, old T-shirt, and cut-off shorts that had once belonged to my brother and said with disgust: “She? That’s a girl?”

I would like to say that I had a quick and cutting reply.

There was a ballgame on that night—in the childhood of my memory, there is an Indians game every day—and I watched it and dreamt of being the first woman in the major leagues. I knew I wouldn’t be. I knew no women played in the majors and that I would have to be spectacular to be the first, and I wasn’t. But I watched the game with my brother and learned a bit more about baseball and felt a bit less ugly, a bit less awkward. I’ve watched my Indians go from ugly duckling to graceful swan and back again several times since I was nine. Each time, I believe the metamorphosis is permanent, but it never is. I have my bad hair days. They have their bad seasons. That is what baseball does: It gives us moments of grace when we most need them, it teaches us unconditional love. Even the least talented among us is worthy of being loved and admired. Even the ugliest among us can still become beautiful.

Susan Petrone grew up in Cleveland Heights as one of those punk kids who hung out on Coventry. She’s moved away a couple of times but always comes back and now lives in South Euclid with her husband and child. She still loves the Indians and writes about them at ItsPronouncedLajaway.com, an ESPN SweetSpot blog. Her short fiction has been published by Glimmer Train, Featherproof Books, The Cleveland Review, Muse, and Conclave. Her first novel, A Body at Rest (2009) takes place in and around the Coventry area. You can read more of her work at: susanpetrone.com.

Midwestern Cities


 

Midwestern Cities
by Dave Lucas 

 

You Midwestern cities, you threadbare capitals,
lost satellites, will your outskirts never end?
Will your suburbs run each other through
and your accents bleed into a slang of silk and husk?
Dawn is slipping across the chain-smoking factories of Pittsburgh and Cleveland, where the third shift
sleeps off its Yuengling, where pierogi boil and stanch.
Wake, Detroit, the morning molts over 10 Mile.
Rise, parched Indianapolis; rise, great skyscraping
Chicago, the odors of your millions soap the El.
Cincinnati, St. Louis, Milwaukee, Minneapolis,
your waters run on.  Your congregations hymn,
the billboards declare The Second Coming
could come at any second.  From anywhere,
Akron or Grand Rapids.  From Gary, Kenosha, Duluth.

 

 

Dave Lucas is the author of Weather (Georgia, 2011), a book of poems.  A PhD candidate in English at the University of Michigan, he was recently featured on BillMoyers.com as one of Rita Dove’s “young poets to watch.”  He lives in Cleveland, where he was born and raised.

Sometimes The Sun

by Nicole Hennessy

SOMETIMES THE SUN

Jim Lowell lives
in the Cuyahoga River

I swear
I’ve seen him
swimming

on foreign mornings
so situated in the suburbs
monotony is mistaken
as convenience

Sometimes the sun seeps in —

For those who don’t know,
listen:

In attempt
to forgive future
as being beautiful
in your maybe
the morning peels layers of shade
by shade drives shadows to softly slumber

I can’t quite articulate it right
because I sound like me
Autocorrect evening —

In backyard Cleveland
I remember camping
Zoo animals moaned
at night it seemed
as if those howling wolves weren’t locked
but roaming free beneath
the bridge my dad epically recounted
so many times climbing
up from the bottom
still stands
reconstructed
old bones
pass cars rusting

It always comes back
to decay

Nothing’s changed
in the neighborhood I grew up in

Those same animals
moan at night
insisting imagined adventures

come breakfast
lunch
and dinner

The same

mural flaking specks of paint
only noticeable in their absence

The same neighbors
somewhere insist
there was a pigeon man
who in his garage kept flocks
of trained-to-return birds
eventually taken by the city
after which
across the street lived merely a man
unable to look at that empty garage
any longer

I don’t recall
his recurring image in my past
as being after that

but the sound of tiny forests growing
in the cracks between brick road
meeting pavement at each end
Just in time to realize
I had wandered too far from home
in the first place —

My mom used to get to dinkin’
dad told me as I stood
in the kitchen unable
to directly face
and she’d start in on me
I don’t want to do that

Meanwhile, my mom sat in a chair
near earlier
She asked when I would talk to them again
Sometimes silence
conveys comfort and trust
This was not one of those times

Sometimes the sun

By then
I had already forgiven them
as being human
my whole life

I don’t come from one of those polite families
instead
people are people
and spread out across bloodlines
of entire ancestry
spans chaos and dictatorship

A tiny corner
supposedly exsist Ireland
where stood men
I don’t think
I’ve known

They later had beers
and discussed
topics recycle wars
comma
intersect progress

cower ancient calendars
embedded in structures
we still don’t understand

interpret as modern myth
compile science
fast forward future
to end endless
ultimate attainment of the sky

encircles madness
similarly rearranged
whispered the sea
translated into elegies
these same thoughts

Still

breathe vibrations born forever
of slight movement at all

It always comes back
to creation

As poets past
stood in streets drooling graffiti
seeping into sewer systems
crowds of couldn’t careless
passersby deleting dreams
live lives

around each other
seems space
in theory

Suddenly disaster

So you’re after
the stop
exit repeat
so you’re after
you’re after
after
me

I know
it’s been a long time
since I’ve sung a song
not littered

keeps coming
and coming
free far-off
symptoms of lonely
not wholly shivering

smoke another cigarette
suck synonyms
backup
report the exact facts
not lyric mirrored
reflect face
fuck
favorite ever place
so distant
I can’t even say
I love you
tomorrow anymore

And then I guess
I’m suffering
They say consequence

rather rhythm —

90-year-old
bright red roses
scent heavy of another flower

No one ever told me
I was a poet
until much later
they assessed me for it
and failed
that I can’t spell character
no matter
spell-check fixes it

Blur the line of
not enough
people to start music
just me
dreaming

The morning is coming

He is sleeping

 

Nicole Hennessy is a nonfiction and poetry writer living in
Lakewood, Ohio. Currently, she writes features for a newspaper called West Life, but works on longer pieces on the side. Her latest project, Black Rabbit, tells the story of local poet Tom Kryss and the rabbits he creates, as well as his relationship with fellow poet d.a. levy. Within the text are 10 of the rabbit prints. A limited edition of 100 copies, the book can be found at Visible Voice and Mac’s Backs. This poem is a small slice of a much larger and continuously growing whole.

One Man’s Porn is Another Man’s Chic

by Benno Martens*

One of the hallmarks of ruin porn is witnessing the city’s past juxtaposed to its present – the faded paint of an old advertisement on the façade of a building, the decay of a long-abandoned train terminal, the boarded up factories of a once-thriving manufacturing district.  Just as important, though, is the ability to see not only the city that no longer exists, but also that which may rise from the rubble.  This is especially important in a city like Cleveland.

For example, consider Cleveland’s Warehouse District neighborhood:

This photo is an aerial shot of the neighborhood during the 1960s.  Cleveland had just begun its decline at this point, from a decennial population high of roughly 915,000 in 1950.  The building density in this shot tells a story of a city that has no idea how far it will fall.  The Cleveland on display here is still that of an economically robust urban center.

This second photo shows the same neighborhood today.  If the sight of these two images, side by side, does not qualify as ruin porn, I do not know what does.  The second photo tells the story of a city that has lost over half of its population in half a century.

Cleveland now has fewer than 400,000 residents, according to the most recent census figures.  This story of hollowing out, this migration of people to the suburbs and exurbs and out of the region entirely, is rendered in the absence of buildings, the loss of density, the sea of asphalt that became necessary so that commuters could park their cars all day long before vanishing from the city in the evening.  This is the story of a city that saw over half a million residents flee.

It is a story of ruin.

But this is only one part of the story.  Where ruin porn ends, Rust Belt chic begins.

Herein lies the distinction between ruin porn and Rust Belt chic: how do you view these two photos?  Do you fixate on the destruction, the yesterday, your eye drawn immediately to the shadow of what used to be?  Or, do you see the opportunity, the tomorrow, your pulse quickening at the promise of what can arise from the ruins?

 

It isn’t about novelty or “finding our cool.”  Cleveland is not Chicago or New York, nor should it aspire to be.  Rather, the city’s focus should be three unmistakable Rust Belt traits: perseverance, ingenuity, and a predisposition to community.  Rust Belt chic is, at its core, about the opportunity to organically create a new sense of community in the face of adversity.

I look at a city like Detroit, perhaps the only one hit harder by decay, disinvestment, and recession than Cleveland, and see swarms of young people descending with the hopes of rebuilding and revitalizing.  For these new urban pioneers, the opportunity inherent in Rust Belt chic is too much to pass up.  The possibility to create a new community from scratch, to rehabilitate a badly injured urban center, is what this phenomenon is truly about.  To fixate on any other aspect is to cheapen the work that is being done, both in Detroit and in Cleveland.

Yes, the city of Cleveland as a whole continues to hemorrhage population.  But to leave it at that, as the majority of the national media is wont to do, overlooks the quite remarkable resurgence of the downtown neighborhoods.

Over the past two decades, fueled largely by an influx of young professionals, Gen X-ers and now Millennials, downtown Cleveland has doubled its population.  With nearly 10,000 residents today, downtown has grown at a faster rate than suburban Cuyahoga County.

With rental occupancy of downtown apartments currently hovering around 96%, demand is far outpacing supply.  As a result, developers are working feverishly to increase the number of units, with retrofits and conversions of old office buildings and warehouses leading the way.  Businesses are relocating downtown to take advantage of the growing knowledge worker cluster.  And amenities unseen in at least a couple of decades – neighborhood bars, posh restaurants, and even a bowling alley – are popping up to cater to existing residents and provide a lure for new ones.

This is a trend that urban theorists like Richard Florida and Alan Ehrenhalt have been reporting on for years.  A shift is taking place, being driven by the desires of young professionals for urban living.  City centers in the Rust Belt are regaining population and affluence even as cities as a whole are shrinking.  The role of Rust Belt chic in this shift is of great importance, as the opportunity to increase quality of life, to breathe new life into local economies, and to be part of a great resurgence is surely helping to fuel the shift of population back to the city center.

In short, communities are being rebuilt.

*Benno Martens is an urban planner living and working in Cleveland.  He is an alumnus of The Ohio State University’s graduate program in City and Regional Planning.  For more of his thoughts on planning and Cleveland, follow him on Twitter.

Photos accessed from Rust Wire article