My Story by Blue Harvill

My name is Blue, and this is how I got here.

I was fairly normal (well, not quite), until shit hit the fan when I was 11.
It started with a headache that felt like a thousand bricks pounding one spot inside my skull.
My family didn't know what to do, and all they told us at the hospital was that I had a bad migrain.
A week passed slowly, seconds into minutes into hours into days. I was completely bedridden. Throughout the week the bricks kept pounding at my skull, never relenting for even one peaceful minute. The people at the hospital were confounded, until a brainscan revealed a malignant non-germanoma germ cell tumor in my pineal gland. The headaches were because the tumor was in a waterway in my brain. After the surgery, I endured a year of radiation and four years of chemotherapy. I was literally living in the hospital for two years. When I went home to rest after sessions of chemo, I always knew I would have to go back the next week.
All I could think about was the pain and suffering. The chemotherapy had poisened every cell in my body. I am still in awe that I am able to stand before you and tell you how I got here. I feel no bitterness towards the world that put me through this.
I could not end this story before saying that it is you all, cons, and this community, that inspire me to survive. You are one of the most important parts of my life. I must tell you that while I was in the hospital, I kept thinking to myself that I had to make it to the next con; I had been to one before the cancer struck. It was great. In closing, cons have been a huge part of saving my life from cancer.
Thank you so much.

A Picture by Amelia Evard

UU Awesomeness by Casey Lynn

Bumblebees by Tiana Le

There aren't any polar bears in Russia, so I am going to discuss bumblebees. I’m going to discuss bumblebees and how adorably scary they are with their terrifying ZZZZing sounds that frightens my gentle ears. There are many attacking bumblebees in the world, there are over 250 known species out there. They are everywhere in the world but mainly in the northern hemisphere. Bumblebees have little tiny, itty bitty hairs on them that are the colour of yellow and black. I’m sure a lot of people are aware of that. People used to say that yellow attracts bees so if you ever wear yellow you will get stung! I hated yellow for the longest time until I believed that statement, was very untrue. Yeah, bees like their pollen, and if you mess with them and try shooing them away they will attack you! So be aware. It makes me sad how bees like pollen...or how pollen is in flowers because I now always have a small fear inside of me. A fear of riding my bike. I always fear I’m going to get stung by a bee, because I always happen to bike near a flowery-polenified bush and get really freaked out and end up going crazy and steering the other direction, which is very dangerous because a lot of the times the other direction is the road and I choose not to wear a helmet because usually a helmet that is available for me to use has been sitting in the garage for months and spiders, and spider webs tend to collect after awhile when you store things in your garage, and I’d hate to have spiders, or spider webs in my hair. I don't ever ever want anything to do with spiders because they scare me way too much, probably as much as bees.

>But now I’m getting, way off topic let us jump back in! People think incorrectly about the annoying buzzing sound that they produce. People seem to think that the buzzing sound is caused by the beating of their fragile wings, but really it is not. Kinda, but not really. The sound is produced by the vibrating of its flight muscles. for bees to be able to happily fly to get to those beautiful flowers and sting people because they are evil, they must have a warm body to get airborne at low ambient temperatures that I dislike, because I hate being cold, and shivering.>

>Well that is my short blog on bumblebees. I hope my small knowledge of bumblebees is now apart of your knowledge!

STFU by Michael Weintraub

This, is for everyone whose words are laced with ignorance, and unchecked hatred... Shut the fuck up.

Every crap ass poet talking about niggaz, cunts, and hoes, Shut The Fuck Up

The assistant manager at best buy, who follows me around the store as soon as I walk in and asks, excuse me, may I help you with something? No you can Shut The Fuck Up.>

John McCain, we’re gonna be in Iraq for as long as it takes my friends. Whether that be 100 years, or 10000 years, shut the fuck up.

The white gangster wannabe, daddy bought you a new BMW? Tell yo daddy to buy you some shut the fuck up.

CNN and Fox news shut the fuck up.

Mr. pretentious, think you know it all, read everything about racism, oh let me educate you, promising young child of the future, telling me my ideas are mistaken, shut the fuck up.

The Oakland police officer, who keeps pulling over my friends for being black, and tells them their lucky when he lets them go. Shut the fuck up.

The Hayward school teacher, who says gays are responsible for AIDs and 9/11 was God’s punishment upon our fag loving society, shut the fuck up.>

Administrators, supervisors, I want to tell the public education system, to shut, the fuck, up.

Because that’s what they’ve done to our loved ones in prison, right? They shut them the fuck up. That’s they did to Huey Newton, George Jackson, Asada Shakur, Stanley Williams, Rosa Parks, MLK jr., Mario Savio, there are over 2 MILLION PEOPLE IN US PRISONS, And I use the word people, powerfully, because our government does everything it can to make them as inhumane as possible.

This is what the state continues to do to any history that would empower people to create change. They shut it the fuck up, and shove a multiple choice test in our faces. Next time I get a scantron, Ima bubble in S-H-U-T T-H-E F-U-C-K U-P. MY NAME IS SHUT THE FUCK UP

We need to have a fucking holiday, call it: “politicians shut the fuck up day.”

SARAH PALIN!... keep talkin' dude, you be saying funny shit all the time. WMDs in Iraq, and all that crap.

The American culture, American dream, get the terrorists, get tough on crime, war on drugs, gays going to hell, illegal immigrants, nukes in Iraq SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Everyone else, friends, cousins, poets, activists, artists, workers, UUs speak the fuck up!

Anyone who hasn’t been on stage, but is smart enough to listen intently, anyone who’s tongues have been stamped silent by American exploitation, speak up.

Because our breaths carry planets and our words birth worlds. 

Becoming a Woman by Mia Shackelford

Growing up a teenage girl today is easy. Comparatively. But what’s hardest is something that maybe can’t be modernized out of existence. Maybe the hardest part is natural to becoming a woman in any kind of civilization.

It still hurts. As a little girl, I loved dressing up. I had crazy Turkish dancing outfits. I ran around naked, covered in colorful ink from markers. I wore tutus and fairy wings, my mom’s 80s coats, and blankets draped like togas.

I still love to dress up. I have a childlike fascination for seeing what something, anything looks like on my body. I like to test my identity against different outfits. Who am I when I wear fishnets? Flannel? A bikini, cat ears, a tutu, and sharpie?

I wish it was still as uncomplicated as it used to be. At the same time, I don’t. I’m ecstatic about being older. I’ve always been independent, always wanted to be a teen. But somehow I never thought I’d have to alter my favorite thing.

I go out in a beautiful black sweater and walk through the Haight with a boy. The homeless men start talking. A group of guys wolf whistles.

I’m at Caltrain, waiting for the 7:20 train.

“Hey, where are you going?” He’s in his 20s, leather shoes. It’s all I register, I don’t want to look too long.

“Um. San Jose.”

“Why?”

“Um. Friends.”

“What are you reading?”

I show him my book.

“You got a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“What, you don’t want to talk to me?”

“Um….”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Oh, fuck, sorry. Didn’t know.” He speed-walks away.


I’m getting dressed to go to Golden Gate Park on a sunny day. I have a cute plaid skirt and a blue sleeveless collared shirt. I worry. The skirt is short. I’m wearing mascara. Do I look like I’m dressed up like a “naughty schoolgirl?”

These are easy examples, but there’s so many more. And remember, I look around twelve. My more developed friends get five times this shit.

Maybe it’s my fault, for expecting to wear the same things I did as a kid.

Maybe it’s my fault, for roaming the city with friends.

I don’t want to restrain myself in fear. Little Red Riding Hood had fashion sense and an open nature, but that doesn’t mean she deserved to be gobbled up.

A review of city life? Wonder, excitement, and…fear. Nothing is as empowering as walking carefree with my friends at night. Wherever we want, not afraid to laugh. That is what i expect, what I want when I venture out, occasionally at socially unacceptable times of the night.

I can’t blame my parents for disapproving. It’s a dangerous world out there, I guess. But so much of what bothers me isn’t danger. There’s pepper spray and self-defense classes for that.

What bothers me is that I can’t be a person before being female. What bothers me is being caught off guard, ashamed, of something natural and freeing.

When i got my first period, my dad said “Welcome to Womanhood.”

As embarrassing and cheesy as that it, my real welcome was worse.

Very Pretty Rainbows by Casey Lynn, Kevin Deacon, Amelia Evard, and Torger Johnson

Swirling, endless colors blending together

In one rainbow of interconnectedness

Slowly, spreading over my thoughts

Leaving them slick and blank

Vermilion passing iridescent green

The richness is over whelming

I see thousands of people

Inspired by this flowing wonderment

They work together to harness it

To gain the maximum power that it has

It is a gift from Mother Nature

The earth gushing her bounty into

The sea of life around me AND NEVER STOPPING!!

Like vultures, some try to steal this splendid treasure

Soaking it up and delivering it to their saviors

The beaches bask under its thick blanket of radiance

The world sits back as slyly and slickly it

Covers the horizon

The sea kittens cry as the green turtles die

They don’t truly know how holy this gift is to us

This black gold is the idol of our country

We will always be slaves to this Texas tea

The essence of our nation’s nourishment

Our thirst for it thrusts our vision of

A bright and vibrantly hued future

Into an inky oblivion




P.S. I’m still in your closet, waiting for you to do something.

God? by Adam Zittel

As I wandered through the wasteland
Picking my way through the piles of rubble,
I came across an ironic beauty:
A huge painting, half sheltered by a leaning wall.
The scene depicted was green, and lush,
A clearing, in a vibrant forest
scattered with wildflowers and dangling vines
surrounded by towering, awe-striking oaks.
At the center, on a fallen log, reclined a satyr,
Idly plucking the strings of a lute,
resting his hooves upon the carpet of green,
His lips curved upward in a welcoming grin.
Such detail had been paid to each leaf
Each individual tendril and vine
And each blade of grass, or curve of wood grain
That it seemed as though I could simply step in,
Out of this dark, dank, lonely hell
Away from the masks and the pain and desire,
To leave behind the anguish and agony
Into this scene of wonders and comfort
Of life, love and peace of mind
But oh, what painful irony was inflicted!
For time had wreaked its penalties upon the canvas,
And large holes dotted the image,
Gaping wounds from which the illusion’s lifeblood
Gushed like a fountain, shattering the wondrous credibility,
Turning it from a thing of dreams and wonder
To a cruel mockery of what could’ve been.
Oh, to only be blind to those gaps!
The tiny maws out of which dreams had leaked,
Leaving behind only a memory.


And then suddenly I see it.

I AM in the painting!
The vibrant green is all around me,
simply waiting to creep up from beneath the rubble.
All I have to do is reach out
And overturn a chunk of crumbled concrete,
And the flowers will be there, blooming,
Simply waiting for me to cast my eyes upon them,
They’re there, waiting.
And I know they’re there just for me,
Just like they’re there for each person only.
The grass may be covered by debris right now,
But the seeds are in the ground!
Where ever there is a seed, there will be a forest.
The tendrils will reach around the rubble with time,
And what was concrete will soon become sediment,
A layer of light gray between darker, stony colors.
Wherever there is destruction, and war,
There will be life eventually,
And THAT is the secret to satisfaction.
Life always wins!
Indeed, I reach over and push aside a jagged chunk of wood, and…

There’s nothing there.

The ground is dry, and dotted with gravel,
Charred chips of wood litter the barren earth,
That blows away into a cloud of ragged dust as I cup it in my hands,
leaving chunks of rock and wood and bone behind.
And so I strike a match
and with grim satisfaction hold it to the canvas,
grinning softly as the fiery circle spreads,
consuming the oil paint hungrily, desperately.
Soon I’m laughing openly,
As the fire crackles happily,
And I walk away, as the beautiful scene
Browns, then blackens, then crumbles to ash.

Unbeknownst to me,
Up through the ashes pokes a tiny, green, tendril,
Curling slightly as it reaches towards the sun.

Badass Chicks By Mariah Theobald and Jessica Knapp

Now we're gonna spit some beats about some motherfuckin' women.
They were sick of cooking dinner, they were sick of folding linen.
We've got some good stories about some badass chicks.
The first one we're tellin' bout is Dorthea Dix.

The mentally challenged used to have to go to jail,
Till Dorthea came along , didn't want them to fail.
She made them a place where they were helped instead.
Now the women get some credit, and were all pumpin fists.
Pumpin fists, pumpin fists, pumpin fists pump pump -- Dorthea Dix!

Now we're gonna talk about a bitch named Helen Keller.
She made a lot of difference & we wish that we could tell her.
She couldn't hear, she couldn't see, she couldn't even speak,
Every single person thought Helen was a freak.
She founded a school for the deaf, mute, & blind.
What she did was important, and also very kind.
K-k-kind, k-k-k-kind, k-k-kind, k-kind... Helen Keller.

Next we're gonna tell you bout Amelia Earhart.
Not only was she brave but she was also very smart.
She was the first woman to be flying in a plane,
She flew across the atlantic, that was how she made her name.
It's really quite a bummer that she disappeared you know--
Because now everyone's like, "Damn, where'd she go?"
Where'd she go? Where-where'd she go, Where'd she go?
Where Where? Amelia Earhart.

Now here's a first lady who knows how to get things done.
She communicates with nations, she doesn't shop for fun.
She was also the senator of the city that don't sleep.
She sends a great message, but her husbands quite the creep,
And if you haven't guessed by the way we've been a hintin'
The woman that we are rapping about is Hilary Clinton!
Hil-a-ry, Hil-hil-ary, Hil-ary, Hil-Hil Hilary Clinton!

We told you some stories bout these super cool chicks,
who were sick of washin' dishes, who were sick of sucking dicks.
We're splittin' this shit to teach you gals a lesson,
Believe in yourself and never be second guessin'.
If you give it all you've got then you're bound to change the world.
Just believe in yourself & be proud to be a girl!
d-d-dicks, d-d-d-dicks, d-d-dicks, d-d-VAGINA!

Advisors and Treasurers and Council, Oh My! By Dylan Grinder

"What is council?" This is a question I heard a lot at Elections con 2010. And despite the number of people asking the question, few seemed to know the answer.

Council, in the words of council member Mia Shackelford, is "The governing body of cons. Adults aren't the ones organizing conferences, it's us: an elected group of your peers who each have a specific role to keeping cons running." Council also meets to discuss general issues that come up at cons, and policy changes. She went on to describe being on council as "Like wrestling with trolls. Very articulate, opinionated, long-winded trolls. But there's also cuddling."

However, this only covers the basics the generality of what council does. What is council? What do the indiviual members do? Obviously, describing each and every council position would take up too much space for a single GRUUST article, but Emily Dumond, the acting Co-Conference-Coordinator  with Mia Shackelford, has given a description of their job. Dumond says,"[We do] a bunch of things. CoCoCos choose dates and get locations for cons. We also get most of the YELLers (Youth-Empowered-Lay-Leaders), [and] at the end of cons we say until the entire church is clean, then take responsibility for any damage to the property." CoCoCos are also in charge of lost and found, and thanking the church foruse of it's facilities. Shackelford, before being elected CoCoCo, was the Officer of RE Outreach.

The Officer of RE Outreach is in charge of  talking to DREs and MREs at different churches throughout the district in order to make sure the youth hear about, and have an opportunity to go to, conferences. While it may seem like cons are made possible largely because of these two position, you shouldn't forget the other positions on council. The OREO and CoCoCos, while important, make up only a fraction of the effort and dedication that goes into making cons happen.

I hope I've helped to answer the question "What is council?", but there will be more questions, and there is more council. So next time, ask them. Ask council  what they think they are. Ask questions, listen to answers, and learn what it is that makes this community possible.

The Cookie Rebels by Amy West

As the downtown clock tower strikes midnight, Colin, Bailey and I grasp our chocolate-chips, the trophy of the night’s adventure. What had started as an innocent errand to satisfy our craving for dessert had morphed into a mission that led to our first run-in with the law.

Bailey and I were thrilled that our friend Colin had traveled down from San Jose to stay with us in Petaluma for two nights. We lounged in Bailey’s cozy bedroom, chatting and giggling. At approximately 10:30 at night, the thought of warm, fresh chocolate-chip cookies seizes us. We agree we simply need to make some. We scavenge through the cupboards and pantries, and to our dismay we discover there were no chocolate-chips to be found. Still, with undiminished hopes, we acquire permission and a few dollars to purchase the key ingredient easily, as our parents know we always act responsibly. 

We strut down the dark, empty roads towards the nearest corner-mart. The moon, stars, and the crisp night air pump adrenaline though our veins.

Upon arriving, the hour is nearing eleven and we find the store had closed hours ago. Yet our hunger for chocolate-chip cookies and adventure prohibits us from giving up, so we begin our trek to another store.
Either because we thought we might be able to cut some time off the journey, or because we were drunk with our pride and teenage rebellion, we choose to take a shortcut through the high school that sat between 7-11 and us. 

We approach the first chain-link fence that pathetically attempts to thwart trespassers. Though unaccustomed to fence hopping, our able bodies scale the fence with little protest, but my conscience bickers with me. I muffle its warnings and climb the next chain-link fence. I jump down into a soggy softball field. We squint through the darkness and spot sprinklers, mocking us for our stupidity. We dash through the maze of water, but soon realize the short fences had grown to menacing walls of twisted metal twice our height. We roam the perimeter of the field searching for a gap or at least another section of the shorter friendlier fence that would allow us to continue our expedition.

No one acknowledges we had chosen the wrong path, but Colin nonchalantly proposes the imagined fear we had all composed in our minds. “Wouldn’t it suck if a police car came by?” he laughs humorlessly. Bailey and I chuckle at this even as our hearts beat faster and we carefully scan the area for any sign of flashing red and blue lights, but the streets remain still. We suck up a deep breath and head back the way we came. 

The darkness is suddenly illuminated. We spin around and see a pair of blazing headlights, scorching our unadjusted eyes. Our hearts thump faster and harder. The car cruises closer to us and, to our horror, slows and comes to a stop along with our hearts when we read each black letter printed on the white door. More street-savvy kids might have run into the darkness, but our fear and guilt staple our cold, sodden feet to the grass.

The policeman rolls down his window and we gape at his bald head, thick neck, black uniform with shiny pins, and Aviators, which he wore despite the late hour of the night. He whips off his sunglasses and we gulp. 

“Are you kids aware you are on school property after hours?” he quizzes us in a smooth monotone as if the answer wasn’t staring back at him on our petrified faces.

The three criminals glance at each other searching for help none of us could provide. To stop the silence from gnawing at us, I opt to play dumb. 

“Is that bad?” The policeman chooses not to answer my stupid question, and instead hits us with another of his own. 

“What are you doing out at this time of night?” After another silence Bailey takes a deep breath and decides on the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 

“Well, we were at my house and we really wanted to make some chocolate-chip cookies…” she bursts. After she explains our story, the police man appears slightly dumbfounded. Confused, he asks us where we had come from and why we had thought cutting through the school would be faster. We surrender our answers as truthfully as we can, fully aware we sound more foolish with every word that tumbles out of our mouths. I can almost see the gears spinning in his brain contemplating whether or not we could be trusted. Evidently he decides no one would be daft enough to make up such a story, because with creased eyebrows he says, “Hmm, you guys are alright. I’ll let you go this time, but get yourselves back home,” and he drives off.

We take a moment to grasp what had just happened. We would never have thought our guiltless craving for cookies would lead to such insubordinate behavior. I guess we are real teenagers now.
“Wow, we are such rebels… but let’s get the hell out of here,” I suggest. We all laugh with relief, and with new found incentive, we used a garbage can to boost our selves out of the field. 

Once free from the grassy trap, we momentarily considered going back chocolate-chip-less, but only momentarily. 

7-11 supplied no chocolate-chips; however it did yield gummy worms and green tea. We found Grocery Outlet closed for reconstruction, but it did provide a stray shopping cart. We raced the shopping cart. We consumed sugar. We crashed the shopping cart. We laughed ourselves silly.

Eventually, we arrive at a Longs and seize the last bag of chocolate-chips in stock. We know, no matter how these chocolate-chip cookies end up tasting, every bite will brim with the awesomeness of our pitifully rebellious adventure.

Recipe/Poem by Mia Shackelford

Once again trying

(preheat oven to 375.

Butter pan.)

To prove responsibility

Wanting to taste ambrosia-

(4 oz. chocolate, chopped coarsely)

domestic Goddess status

(melt in double boiler, with

one stick

of butter)

There is something

(Stirring until smooth)

concealed here,

( Remove from heat, whisk in

¾ cup sugar)

As inherently correct

As chocolate melting

(don’t taste yet)

one stagnant

strand of stereotype

(three Eggs, whisk well)

I embrace

Housewife, priestess, mother, witch

( Sift

one-half cup of cocoa

over mixture, whisk

once again)

I am none

But I feel like my own

sifted,whisked, prodded, heated

Batter of female prototypes

As I complete

(Bake approximately

twenty-five minutes)

this not-a-task

hoisting myself

up a womanly pedestal

As I laboriously

Mix and move,

Lift, sift, serve-

Oops!

The wobbly,

fragile beauty

Of a

Cake crumbles

So I crumple

Back into the body

Of a modern teenager

Exorcised by my clumsiness

From the

Muscled, gleaming

Skin

Of goddesses and

19th century babushkas

(who wouldn’t know a double-boiler

if it struck them in the tushkes)

I make an unhopeful

Note

on that sullied recipe

And,

weeks later,

hallelujah!

I pour

The dusky batter

Into well-greased

Madeleine molds

(my mother, in a fit of

wisdom, threw out the

cupcake tins)

I watch through

An oven door

Stained with decades of

Mishaps and over eager

Sauces

Other women

Girls, men, boys

Have stood with craning

Necks

Straining

Eyes

Hopefully

Watching as what they create

Swells and grows

Until they come out,

With much furor

Almost glowing and burning

Through the potholder

I wait for them to cool

And they slide

Out of the molds

Gracefully, or

As gracefully as a chocolate

Madeline- Cake can

I add another, more joyous

Note

To the bottom of the

Crinkled, wrinkled,

Stained and smeared

Recipe

That started out so heavenly pure

If naïve

Photographs Taken by Amelia Evard

Poem With Quatrains by Maggie Shepherd

A knock on the door revealed

Twelve cloaked dwarfs and a cloaked wizard,

Barging and bustling to my table expectantly.

Bemused, I took the kettle and shuffled out teacups.

Then the wizard grimaced and inserted,

“I will not drink that tea, only coffee will do for me.”

A little shaken, I surveyed the sea of beards.

I pursed my lips, shook my head, and brought out the shortcake.