Photograph by Rachel Sloane

Windhover’s third annual Open Mic Night is Sunday, November 22, at 7pm in Caldwell Lounge.

Open Mic Night is an evening of music and reading — an opportunity for students, faculty, and staff to read or perform their work. This is an OPEN CALL, so we welcome any level or literary or musical talent. Come out to hear some great music and literature, read your own work, or just enjoy some delicious treats!

If you are interested in reading a literary piece (poetry, fiction, non-fiction, spoken word) or performing music, please email editor@windhover.ncsu.edu.

just so I can turn on the windshield wipers.  My hands

on either side of the steering wheel turning down dirt roads

where high school kids used to go

with cheerleaders and girls named Emily

who had braces and a 4.0, but she would have traded

anything to fit in.  She came here and bartered

her way closer; it felt more like being robbed.

I pass a white pick-up with its mullet of a bed trailing behind.

Trucks always look like they’re about to burst.  A beer belly

of steel.  And there’s the train that crosses

this road.  I could hear it in my room at night

and imagine I was riding to a place

where no one wore shoes.  When I’m here I like to think

that everyone follows their own clock.  We all keep

our own time.  My grandmother following the rise and wilt

of various plants and friends.  My father watching buildings crumble.

Or the boys who used to pull in here

trying to catch time with their hands

between spines and shirts.  Reaching

for it in jeans and behind ankles.  I remember shooting

fireworks here, writing constellations of American dreams.

Sitting on top of my car between Chris and a six-pack of beer

over the break, I realize how much I hate this place.

But some things just stick with you like the dust kicked

up by my tires.

Connections, locations, people, places,

This is where I belong

I walk through a colorful tunnel of feelings,

On the other side, I hear chatter in the Brickyard,

I look around and view a sea of red,

Not only from the school colors, but also from the bricks,

Politicians, preachers, and posters envelope the central area,
I see a group of country boys spit tobacco and discuss life,
The step team offers a glimpse of their talent,
Students sit in groups in the grass,

Time to meet friends and grab a bite at Chick-fil-a,
Then to the library to study, play games, get coffee, or get lost in the stacks,
A walk down Hillsborough, Dan Allen, then Cates,
Now to the gym to raise the bar,

I hear bells ringing, what can it be?
None other than the bell tower that stands high and proud
Illuminated when the Wolfpack wins ballgames
Marked with names of great ones who have gone before us

The bookstore is swarming with people buzzing in and out,
I see skateboarders trying out new tricks and dodging pedestrians at the same time,
Tucker Beach is popping, those volleyball games look intense,
And I see someone trying to tightrope walk between two trees, how dangerous,

I see the Red Transit bus filling up at Talley,
I know what that means, it’s game day!

The blaring of music and the cooking of pigs while tailgating,
From painted chests to dyed hair, the school spirit is strong,

I hear WOLF…..PACK being shouted,

And all of the fans seem to know the fight song by heart,

The stands almost look like a picnic table cloth with the red and white,
But this is no picnic, it is the Wolfpack nation uniting to support their team,

There is something different about the people here at NC State,
The diverse campus lends to a culturally accepting student body,
Clubs, activities, protests, meetings, movies, concerts, ballgames,
A place for everyone, a place for me

Unlike rams and other sorts of animals, us wolves stick together,
We may not all have the same interests and likes,
But there is one connection that we all have,
We are all a part of the Wolfpack,

Whether we accept it or not, it is part of who we are,
And I know where I belong,

We are the Wolfpack,

I am a wolf in the pack.

“Author…Writer…Poet…”

What comes to your mind when you hear those words?

If you thought of them as people who are naturally inclined to write such beautiful works of literature, well…CONGRATS…you are the average human being. The general belief is that for one to become a great artist of literature, one must be born with such talents. That is not always the case. At various points in one’s life, several life-changing events may take place. Most of the times, these events are the main initiators that bring out the true “artist” in people. Similarly, a certain event brought out the everlasting passion I had for writing.

I was never really the average child who played with dolls and other girls. Instead, I would sneak into a corner of the house and read books for hours. It was my passion. It was a raging fire that sparked interest and hope in my heart. Thinking of how great those writers must have been in order to capture every type of audience, was very captivating. Growing up in Southern India, we, the children, were rarely allowed the time to read “entertainment” books, as they were called. We could read only school books, “for entertainment”. However, my father who was working in America, prior to us coming here, would send me books, to enhance my knowledge of the outside world. These books were a means of escape for me. I yearned to be different from the average Indian, who was restrained from so many activities, due to culture. They were a way to reach out to the world to tell my story.

Finally, I was in “The Land of Opportunities”. I could read as much as I wanted. I could write whatever came to my mind. No one could stop this overflowing river of passion that shook me to the core of my heart. However, as I stated before, several life changing events can truly pave the path to bring out the “real person”. One such event occurred to me when I was a sophomore in high school. Our English class was assigned to write a research paper on whatever topic of interest. The students around me were enthusiastic about such an assignment. Their faces were lit with ideas. I, on the other hand, was lost for words. My mind reverted immediately to my life in India. How it had changed me to become who I am today. If it weren’t for all those restrictions back home, I wouldn’t have had the urge to fight back and break the holds on me. As I let my mind take me back to my mother country, pure excitement mingled with my blood, giving me goose bumps. Memories of the busy streets, the mouth-watering fragrances from freshly fried savories, the tinge of freshness in the morning air, enveloped me for a second, bringing a smile to my face. I was given a chance to talk about my country: my life.

Thus, I resolved to make use of this opportunity to reach out to the world. My topic was child marriages, which continue to occur in secrecy in various parts of India. Although I had never been directly influenced by such practices, I had seen the effects of them on the streets of southern India. School children, at the age of 8, were forced to beg on the streets for meals, because they were no longer in school, or their parents were unable to support them. These parents were affected by child marriages, and now, their children were being exhausted and used. I didn’t realize the true nature of these “beggars”. I had simply thought of them all as being poor. However, I learned very quickly that this assumption was indeed false. Many of them were restrained by child marriages, just like I was restrained by my culture. Not being able to voice our opinions to the world, because we were suppressed by traditions.

I sat in front of that computer for 4 hours straight, just pouring my heart out. I wanted to “educate” the world about these practices. I felt an excitement that surged through my veins, empowering me to write about the true India, as I have seen it. I was finally able to write what I wanted to. As I read over what I had written, tears stung my eyes, as I remembered my life growing up. Those times were tough. Nevertheless, I am grateful to them: for giving me such great experiences, enabling me to write with soul. That research paper was a part of me, flesh and blood. As William Wordsworth once said, “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart,” everything I wrote in it came straight from my heart. Writing was a window of enlightenment for me. It was like a breath of fresh air for a person who had been working in a factory for the entire day, without a break. Each one of those experiences would remind me of India. How I have grown.

This is who I am.

This is my story.

Butterflies so purple and brown and blue,
butterflies that sit on the little grass dew.

Butterflies that flutter their wings so high,
that make us see that wings indeed do fly.

Butterflies that fly around and sit next to my den,
for they do not know that I have been waiting for them.

Melting in your mouth as soon as it goes in,
letting your tongue win.

Do you see the snow that is gleaming white,
like Santa’s beard and SO so bright.

The snow is like a cozy blanket,
that falls covering your jacket.

Snow is the goddess of peace,
she, who protects and covers the trees.

Snow freshens the winter air,
making even yourself care.

There will still be one tree.

There will still be a field

Near a blue shining sea.

There will still be white clouds

And a nice cooling breeze.

There will still be flowers

With bright yellowy leaves.

There will still be green grass

Left to tickle my feet.

There is some place on earth

That humans can not reach.

Both raised in the South.

They both had a nose,

They both had a mouth.

They both had two arms,

They both had two legs,

That morning they ate breakfast,

And they both enjoyed eggs.

They played soccer, and football,

And basketball too.

They had the same teacher,

Her name was Mrs. Sue.

They both loved to study,

They both used their brain.

But one day Mrs. Sue told them,

That they’re not the same.

“But we both have a sister,

And they both like to clog.

We both have two cats,

And we both have two dogs.”

There was something Mrs. Sue

Said they just couldn’t see.

“I hate to tell you Mrs. Sue,

But my friend’s just like me.”

Back to their families,

Both the boys had to go.

They weren’t sad to leave,

They’d come tomorrow.

There was still something missing

They couldn’t understand.

The boys would ask their parents,

They both had a plan.

They’d show them a picture

Of them both riding bikes

Then their parents would see

That they’re both just alike.

One Mom and Dad asked

What their boy did today?

“Well I learned a whole lot,

But also got to play.”

“We had arts and crafts,

And I played with some putty.

But most of all Mom and Dad,

I made a new buddy!”

He showed them the picture

And began to boast.

To his very best friend

He delivered a toast.

“We do the same stuff,

We both climbed a tree!

Mom and Dad can’t you see,

That my friend’s just like me?”

“We both love to run,

We both love to race!”

Dad said, “You’re different though,

You’re not the same race. . .”

“What do you mean race?

I guess he did win”

“Son, I’m not talking about running,

But the color of your skin.”

He never saw it before,

He just didn’t get it.

The color of his skin

Was supposed to make him different?

The next day at school 65

Began with a ring.

The boys compared stories,

Their parents said the same things.

The words did not faze them,

Discouraged they weren’t.

They went through school together

And together they learned.

They knew in their hearts

That their parents weren’t right.

There can’t be a difference

Between black and white.

Or yellow, red, and brown,

Grey, purple or green.

To choose friends by skin color,

That’s just plain mean.

But a friend that you like

Who’s almost just like you,

To put a price on that in dollars,

It’s worth quite a few.

Their parents may never see it,

But there’s no need to worry.

The future will come,

Let’s just hope it hurries.

These boys will have children,

And their children will see.

We’re all just alike,

Even you and even me.

Some day we’ll all play together

At a very young age.

There will be no place in the world

For hate, anger, and rage.

We’ll welcome a new sun

With a nice cooling breeze.

We’ll look past skin color

And see similarities.

So when you wake up tomorrow

Try to think like a child.

The effort is worth it,

It will all be worth while.

Where the kids saw a beginning,

The parents saw an end.

Where the parents saw a difference

The kids saw only a friend.

In an odd dream-like state,

Far from asleep, not close to awake.

The sun starts to rise,

But it can’t do the trick.

The wind saunters in,

But that’s not quite it.

It turns back outside and shakes the small tree,

It ruffles my blinds,

It ruffles the leaves.

It ruffles the feathers on a lively young bird,

A bard at my window bringing the word.

He sits on a branch with a chest full of air,

Sings stories of here,

Sings stories of there.

If he were just a bit bigger,

I could hop on his wings,

Go to far away places,

And see far away things.

We’d fly to the desert,

Watch the stars in the sky.

We’d fly to the ocean,

We’d fly just to fly.

And when we’d get tired,

We’d perch in a tree.

No one around,

Just him and me.

No smoke in the sky,

No cars on the ground,

No buildings in sight,

Only visions and sounds.

Sounds of other birds as happy as me.

Millions of birds filling tree after tree.

I look out my window,

And I wish he could see.

I long to be him, I long to just to be.

He can sit atop mountains,

He can fly over seas.

He can fly just to fly,

He can fly and be free.

But most important of all,

He knows how to sing.

He can fly to a window and wake people like me.