The tires are jet black with deep, deviously deliberate treads that scream for mud and rocks to shred. Its engine roars with lust for the lure of the open road and open gears that let it go. The factory color is chili-pepper red, but the fact is, it’s stained blood-thirsty crimson. It smells; rubber, oil, gas, steel, industry, progress, hard work, and American will. It sits in a driveway waiting to be unleashed. By the time you start it, it’s started you—you are now one with the beast.
JAM

As I walked to class this morning, I accidentally stepped on a squirrels tail as it was foraging. More startled than in pain, the squirrel launched three feet into the air like it had been launched from a cannon. In the air, every tiny hair on the squirrels body extended as its limbs spread out so that it seemed wider. It looked as though it had been struck by lightning. After spending what seemed like an eternity in the air, the puffball condensed back to normal size, and fell back down to earth. It landed softly without a sound on the concrete. Confused and frightened, the squirrel sprinted in a circle, composed itself, and exploded back into the air to land on a nearby tree. After landing gracefully on the tree, the squirrel quickly scurried upwards into its braches so delicately that it seemed like it was walking on air.

Across the street from the elementary school stands a social fraternity house, with its empty beer bottles and mangy couch on the patio. The contrast of the fraternity house with the educational buildings alongside it serves as testimony to the diversity in this neighborhood. Only about fifty feet separate the school and the fraternity house, yet they stand worlds apart, one where at 9AM with the day in full swing it has become entirely alive with a certain hustle and bustle during the bright spring days, and the latter becoming animate only in the dark hours where upon 9PM the night is yet young and yet to gain its full zest. Similarly, the sense of discipline and control given off by the school is quite distinct from the upbeat and carefree lifestyle exuded by the fraternity house. To the passerby, the structure of the school would seem uninteresting: a dull, brown, double-storied building bordered by a rusted fence with blotches of white paint suggesting its original color. It surely fails to inspire through its appearance alone. Yet for several young children, this building represents the most revered place in their minds , a place of learning and a interactive retreat from normal home-life. On the opposite side of the street, a large, generic-looking tree greets everyone who reaches the house. With its long gaping branches, the tree casts an unflustered shadow on the ground beneath, adding to the precarious, free-flowing atmosphere here. The desire of the tree’s branches to adventure outward has left the trunk twisting and chasing after the branches. Above the tree are the numerous, expansive windows through which the young men are asleep, their minds lost in their free-flowing, hard-to-remember dreams. Across the path the bump, bump, bump of the basketballs and the shouting contests indicate the day for the younger ones is off to a start. In the evening the bump, bump, bump and the yelling will be on this end of street. The exuberance and vitality of each its own.

My friend Carla recently gave birth to a nine pound-four ounce baby boy. She named him Clifford. I remember when I first had the chance to meet him at the hospital. He had the physical features of his grandfather. His beautiful brown eyes blinked everytime he became surprised, scared or nervous. His ears was asymmetrical and pointy. His nose was short and round. His cry was innocent, sweet and sincere. I would reach for his small hand and he would hold on to the tip of my index finger and would never want to let go. Being only a few days old, I was timid to hold Carla’s bundle of joy. When I held him, I could hear the palpitations of his heart go thump, thump, thump. It was ironic because as his heart beat sounded as though he was in a race, his eyes were shut and his tiny body calm and still. He was quiet and fast asleep.

Two weeks ago I built a new bicycle for personal use, with the slight possibility I may ease back into a schedule of local racing once again. The bike itself is a thing of beauty, with each component being specially selected to precisely serve a specific purpose. Starting at the rear of the machine and working our way towards the front, we first encounter a high performance and carefully designed tire, with a slick tread pattern similar to what you would find on race-cars. The tires are mounted to lightweight alloy rims, where the metal in between the spoke nipples - that is the connection between the spoke and rim - has been machined out to reduce rotational mass. The rims are anodized silver, and polished to a mirror finish. The spokes are thoughtfully designed as well, employing an aerodynamic shape that cuts through wind like butter. Attached to the wheels are nine gears, stacked in a tight cluster ranging from 11 to 23 teeth each; again, polished brightly and compulsively clean. The wheel fits into the aluminum frame of the bicycle, an example of impeccable engineering with a total weight of 1100 grams. The tubes are stretched and shaped in a laboratory to hone the desired ride characteristics, yielding a stiff frame while still providing a small amount of road vibration dampening. The frame is left unpainted, with the silver of the raw aluminum matching the color of the other components quite nicely. Mounted at the bottom of the frame, near the middle as your eyes travel from left to right, is the crankset, with polished silver arms and dull silver 53/39 teeth chain-rings, all cleaned to perfection. The crank arms connect to well-worn black pedals, each scraped and marked up from miles of wear. Above the crankset, mounted on the downtube of the frame, are two plastic water bottle cages. At the very top of the bike sits a very well worn leather saddle, shaped and contoured by 7000 miles worth of human contact. At the very front of the bike are the handlebars, painstakingly wrapped with black leather handlebar tape; the bars have an anatomical drop, for a more comfortable ride when in an aerodynamic tuck. At the front of the handlebars are the brake/shift levers (brifters as they are sometimes called), which are scrapped from crashes but fully functional. Altogether, the bike is a speed machine - light and nimble for the uphills, and stiff tough when hammering on the flats.

I taste nothing; I feel nothing; I am in Oblivion. I spin 360 degrees and observe that this world is more interesting than the other. The trees are lush and vivid; their leaves wave softly in the auditory breeze. The whisper of the breeze commingles with the ambient music, pulling me back into a medieval time that was and never was. The city is a walled fortress, quaint with its cobblestone streets and yet awe-inspiring as massive stone walls punctuated by towers loom over the pedestrians. The day creeps into dusk and then glides into darkness. Stars beckon, luminescent pinpricks in the black velvet sky. Time passes, slowly churning day into night into day into night, but goes nowhere. I could stay here forever. When the other world intrudes, I set my controller down, peel off the couch, and step out into a different night sky. As I see the leaves of a tree undulate in response to a puff of air, I wonder which of the two worlds I am in.

He comes in a deceivingly small 5’6” 130 pound frame. His small arms wrapped in muscle give no impression of his frightening power. He attacks like a monsoon hitting his native land. His speed is reminiscent of an avalanche, quick and powerful he is not a man but a force. When his tiny fists rain down upon his foes they crumble in front of his infamous left hand like an unwatered flower that withers away. In the sport known as the “sweet science,” there is nothing that moves so elegant as the bobbing and weaving he does in the ring. His shoulders roll with ease as his feet perform magic inside the ring. The heels of his boots never touch the canvas as he stands proud on the balls of his feet. The tassels on his boots waive to and fro as he shuffles his feet side to side constantly moving. His eyes are alive with all the fiery passion of an ancient warrior. They stare smoldering at his opponent while he picks them apart with lefts and rights. The small scars on his brow decorate a tired worn face. Each small abrasion sits elegantly across each eye line, a constant reminder of the brutality of the sport he loves. Although only twenty nine, he has all the aging of a man in his mid forties embedded in his squinted face. His body is an anomaly, perfectly sculpted and all muscle. His legs show the freshness of a teenager and look odd protruding from his NO FEAR trunks supporting the movement of his old head. Never has a man so small captured the attention of so many. With his tiny stature and his sculpted physique, he is one of the smallest and most feared men in the sport. Tight muscle wraps around his arms and chest, his legs are sturdy springs that catapult him forward like a violent storm.

A slow gentle procession drifts up from the keys, the slow presentation of chords sliding into existence tentatively, almost as though through the hesitant caress, rather than any deliberate depression of ivory. And then, there it is, a playful trill, a soft giggle, fading as quickly as it appeared, a call to its brethren, answered as a melody slips loose from the steady procession of chords, growing gradually more confident in it’s own individuality, beginning to pull the chords along with it, the individual drawing along the society of sound from whence it came.

And then it is joined, by another of its kind, keeping its distance, but following the motions, the solo voice becoming a duet, moving in equidistant harmony with one another, each following, but never a shadow of the other. It is impossible to tell, now, which was the first, as one voice begins to reach beyond the other, stretching higher and higher again, the other falling farther and farther behind, nearly sinking into the soft mossy chords of it’s origin before being drawn upward once more, drifting upward as its companion begins to relax its gentle stretching, the two voices meeting once again in the center, once again meeting in harmonious duality before drifting back into the gentle choral sway of their brothers, the whole emboldened by the reaching and the striving of the few.

And then, just as they settle in, a part of the smooth progression, another voice breaks free, beginning with a simple trill, a soft laugh, a gentle dance, a solo, breaking away from the chorus of it’s peers, seeking, like it’s predecessors to rise, to strive, to give motive and direction, to once more give melody to the gentle caress of the keys that breathes life into their world.

Fruit Cup

Just removed from the arctic cold air of the refrigerator, the smooth plastic fruit cup joins the room temperature atmosphere. Droplets of water gather upon the once lustrous,clear plastic exterior of the fist-sized fruit cup with condensation now blurring view to its sweet contents. Cold to the touch, plastic lid peels off with force as if the circular rim of melted plastic would like to take hold to forever protect is precious cargo of vibrant carbohydrates from ever spilling out. The diced fruits within the miniature bowl mingle to create a vibrant mixture of various color tones of sunny orange, natural beige, and luscious red. Die-sized peaches and tiny pebbles of pear, no one piece of fruit is identical to the next. Cubes of beige pears and orange peaches synchronize with cherry halves immersed in the transparent pool of sugary syrup, die. The harmony of the unique cuts of peaches, pears, and cherries swimming in a circular man-made pond of corn syrup serves as a delectable treasure.

My red, white, and blue high-top sneakers have been with me for a long time. The red stripes along the sides are as dark as the day that I bought them. The blue, light, and faded from years of wear. The white rubber is coarse and rough to the touch. The thick blue laces that rest on top stay tied and fixed in their place. Cuts and scrapes along the sides tell the stories of trips, kicks, and steps.

After treading through water my sneakers loudly announce my presence with loud squeaks along the floor while the bright colors visually announce my presence as I enter a room. The plastic-tipped laces can be heard clicking along my heels as I walk.

The outsides smell of dirt while the insides smell of socks and foot powder.

They take care of me - supporting my feet while remaining soft and comfortable.

Of course the Heights could not have always been sterile, servile and safe. Nothing actually starts out as Victorian boxes and coffee houses, community associations, gentrification and the gospel of rising valuation. There are things before those things even exist.

There’s a garage apartment under an improbable tin roof, temperature soaring in August, a furiously moist, flattening heat. There’s afternoons spent drinking Irish whiskey out of jelly jars, laughing, telling stories, telling lies. As the sun fades, an urban skyline begins to light: Mayan temple, gothic tower, looming gray obelisk, two competing geometric slates, all citadels erected during the frenzied hope of a bygone oil boom.

Evening lengthens and a grill is lit on the white, crushed rock driveway. People begin to stop by – friends from college or high school, the blond-haired twin sisters of someone, an old girlfriend of someone else, former neighbors and new strangers, people looking to slum, people met in bars. Everyone’s switched to the beer brought and thrown in ice chests – Pearl and Lone Star, Heineken and St. Pauli Girl, Corona and Milwaukee’s Best. People smoke and eat and drink, wave off mosquitoes, relate common events one more time.

Ten o’clock finds a collective mass walking down the street to two clubs. A funk band is playing in one, a busted up bluesman in the other. The crowd alternates between the two. When Bad Mutha Goose takes a break, they pile into the Reddi Room. There are only a dozen and a half chairs around six tables, but twice as many can squeeze in, listen, shake and shout as Joe James tears into his guitar. The night becomes liquid – drinking and laughing, threading through the crowd, turbulent ebb and rush and flow.

Three hours later, Joe begins packing it in, tabs are settled and most who drove in have returned to places outside the loop. The majority who live nearby have walked home, but a remaining few want to drive down the street to Shiloh for a last drink. Although the parking lot is empty, inside the bar are a handful of Tuesday night, 1:00 a.m. regulars. Jeanine, a young, one-legged woman who tends bar, seems happy for the business. It’s now as cool as a Houston summer gets and shirts, having dried, feel crisp with salt. A few people shoot pool, a few sit and talk on the deck outside.

Last call. At the bar, the old woman you bought a beer for is telling you that she met her first husband in here while listening to Charlie Pride. She holds your forearm, an earnest look in her grey, bloodshot eyes, “Charlie Pride played here. A long time ago.” You nod thoughtfully, “Hmm, Charlie Pride, that’s something.” She gets up, bumps into a barstool, begins uncertainly making her way to the door. You look around and notice the place has quieted, is mostly cleared. You push the empty bottle and some money down the bar, reach in your pocket for keys, and check to see if anyone who came with you is still here, if anyone needs a ride home.

Whirring, blinking, illuminating, a computer lies awake in the darkness of a cramped room. Amongst the shadows, a figure is visible: clattering, and staring bleakly into the light. The young man's fingers move erratically, without a beat or rhythm, unsystematically breaking the early morning calm; Clatter pause clatter TAP clatter tap pause tap tap pause Clatter TAP pause tap pause tap… Undisturbed, another young man sleeps in the room, chest rising and falling, ebbing and flowing as the noise emanates throughout. TAP, the clamor stops abruptly, and the working young man lets out a sigh. He gulps down the rest of his water, exhausted, and stares deeply into the computer's screen. Eyes beat red, pupils dilated; his eyelids grow closer and closer together. He blinks, slower, and slower, and then no more. A final crash of noise bursts through the room and the young man is still. Characters continue to form on the screen: sgfsddghghdssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss...
In an old wooden chair, inside a tiny dorm room, at the University of Texas, he slumbers.

He is a young wise man. He’s only 22 but has lived on his own for about 7 years. He had to leave his poor but loving home in beautiful Mexico where green grass and trees surround the lands year round. His loving parents had to let him go even though it left an agonizing pain in their fragile hearts because of personal reasons. His parents saw him last as their little boy small, thin, and adventurous going on to another country, the land of opportunity, to see if he could have a better future in a work force where more sweat is dropped from their tired heads than what they should earn. They haven’t seen how he’s grown up to me a man. His dark brown mustache covers those little scars that remind him of the days he used to ride his horse on those bright sunny cloudless days and when he fell in just the right spot in that acre of land where only those few little never forgetting, pain causing rocks, lay. That day, he almost lost his upper lip. They have not seen how tall he’s grown to be and how much muscle covers his now strong body. They’re not big bulky and outstanding but they do the job necessary to keep at least rice and beans in his mouth to satisfy his hunger that has gnarled at him all day like a wild lion. His small dark brown eyes look upon the day with confidence that a better future is close for him and that soon he will be able to head home to his parents that he left behind, before it’s too late. He always carries his little black shinny bible around to remind him that someone is out there that loves and cares for him and will never leave him alone in the storm of what is life.

Anadeli De Jesus

The sun had just set over the western horizon in a city I love. The edges of night were appearing above me as I looked out at the river. The sky faded from black, to navy, to deep blue, to turquoise, to the faintest hints of yellows, pinks, and corals still at the edges of the horizon. The air was cooling quickly. I should have brought a jacket, but I didn't want to leave the sight before me. A breeze blew my bangs across my cheeks and ticked my face lightly. I could feel the sunburn from the day setting in on my shoulders, the warmth rising up from under my skin. My hands rested on the stone bridge that was still warm from the afternoon sun. My feet hurt. The heat radiated up from the bridge, through the sandals I had worn almost completely through. The Arno stretched below me, the usually murky waters now perfectly reflecting the sky and street lamps above. Tourists scrambled around behind me, making noise and chattering in several unfamiliar languages. People posed, cameras flashed, but no one ever seemed happy with the pictures that could not quite capture the beauty before me.

While pulling out of the dock, the gentle motor of the ski boat hums as the boat glides through the glass like water making a sleek bubbling wake behind the boat. The smoke from the boat exhaust trickles behind the stern of the boat leaving a chain of smoke like a burning chimney. Only the red and green lights at the bow of the boat shine a hazy light that is mirrored off the clam water. As the sole boat on the lake, all that can be heard is the sound of summer from the locos bugs. As the sun begins to peek out from the hilly forested landscape the birds begin to wake. Their chipper chirps fill the empty silence while the lake turtles come out from their hiding spots amongst the rocks on the shore of the lake. As the sun begins to rise, the forested hillside is illuminated by an orange glow that gradually spreads down the hill as the sun lights up the early morning sky.
As the sun continues rising the skier prepares to make the first run of the day. While sitting on the wooden platform at the stern of the boat the skier dips his water ski into the sleek warm lake water and begins the process of strapping on and adjusting the tight, constraining water ski boots. Once the ski is on, the skier gradually slips into the calm dark greenish tinted lake and grabs the ski rope that uncoils like a snake as the boat idles forward. As soon as the skier yells “Hit it!” the boat takes off lighting fast. The skier emerges from the lake and glides on the surface of the water in between the wake. Back and forth the skier moves as a blanket of water splashes behind the skier leaving a perfect zigzag trail that eventually disappears into the distance.

Out in the hill country, on the tough limestone bedding, an oak sits on a small cliff with its old age showing. Its limbs bend toward the drop-off below, but even in its depleted state, one end of one limb still bustles with energy. Creatures with homes in the tree and others of flight crowd around this one end of one limb trying to get a taste of the sweet life that lies inside the hummingbird feeder. Insects line sugar residues, and oversized birds awkwardly position themselves to sample the flavor. Then, moving up on an elevator breeze, coming over the cliff, a hummingbird appears. It darts around the feeder as its competitive admirers scurry away. The feeder sways. The hummingbird approaches. Its flight stabilizes while its long beak begins to intrude into the narrow tubes that access the nectar. Resting perfectly upon invisible planks, the bird takes its time to extract what it needs. Then the small bird politely backs away, makes a few lateral movements and leaves in a flash. The rest of the animals, left in awe, return to the feeder in efforts to duplicate the hummingbird’s elegance. Despite their labors, they continue to fail, but then another hummingbird appears. The animals quickly retreat to study again how to master the hummingbird feeder.

Philip Kerr

I lied in the hospital bed and couldn't believe how cold it was. It didn't matter if I was dressed in an open gown or wrapped in blankets--it was just cold. The place had a constant smell of iodine and latex lingering in the air. It was eerily quiet so that other, regular noises became piercing. There was the constant drip drip drip of the IV, the shuffling of feet in the hall, the clicking of doors shutting and the murmur of nurses talking to each other at the desk. With the exception of magazines piled, half open on the chair next to me, the room was immaculately clean. Every piece of furniture and equipment had an exact spot it was neatly tucked away into. It added to the cold. The walls were a dull eggshell to match the floors, the linens white and the curtains a pale brown. Even the color of the IV drip was a washed-out, pale yellow. The florescent lighting only helped to bring out the monotony of the room. The only spots of inviting color in the room came from a small vase with yellow and purple flowers bursting around its neck at my bedside, the pop of occasional color from the magazine pages strewn about the chair and the occasional vile of dark red blood, which would be quickly swept up after collection to leave the room in it's continual immaculate order.

She was marvelous. Her hair, a thousand perfectly curled and bouncing red locks, was beautiful. Those deep warm loving brown eyes could turn any devil to an angel -- always joyfully gleaming. Her cute round button nose led right to that unforgettable set of of pale red happy smiling lips. Her teeth were not perfect, stained slightly yellow from eating lemons on the farm during her younger years, but her love -- so pure -- shined heavenly bright. Her skin -- beautifully pale -- covered her five foot four petite and able body. When away from work we could find her behind her passion and love -- the sewing machine. She designed many of her own cute and youthful clothes not because she couldn't afford to buy them, but for the love of craft and creation. She loved to look beautiful -- dressing her face in carefully powdered and perfected makeup -- finding the exact outfit to match her purse and shoes. But it wouldnt have mattered anyway because anything she could have worn would have radiated her vibrant, happy, and playful attitude. She walked tall with confidence and carried herself like a King. She was the glue that held our house togther, she was my mother -- I loved her.

While traveling down the steep slopes of the mountain, the sky above blankets the entire scene with blue that is startlingly clear and bright. Screaming winds like sirens warn that a group of skiers is approaching, and as they pass, the thick sound of scraping fills the air that stretches on forever until it finally makes contact with the horizon line, where the ground is covered with a powdery expanse of reflective white and peppered with dark pine trees reaching for the brightness spreading overhead. That air smothers everything; the snow radiates the taste and smell of fresh water, filling nose and mouth, drowning you as you descend. It assaults every patch of exposed skin with sharp bites, numbing each nerve.

The car was older than my mother, it's true. Bought brand new with a shine so jet-black that my grandfather would fix his hair using the hood as a mirror, or at least that's what he tells me and my brother. It's anyone's guess where that shine is now, but its sure not in that dull-as-the-dead paint job. Grandpa told me that he would wake up "that bastard McFane" every morning revving he engine. "She could get loud," he told us, "But in all the right ways. I could open her up to 75 on the old market road and she'd never raise her voice over a purr." I could only dream of owning a car like that, paid with cash and straight off the line and with enough muscle to make it to Lafayette in under an hour to pick up my girl and enough sex appeal to make my mother blush when I told my grandsons about it. The car I have is just old and rusty, in need of new shocks, new brakes, new paint, new everything. The cough-bang she makes every morning sure enough wakes my neighbors, whether I like it or not, and I'm lucky if I can get the damn thing over 45 in enough time to merge onto the freeway. But she made my grandfather proud and, as my mama points out on mornings it won't start, this car is what keeps me close to my grandfather now that he's gone.

I will be describing the outside of a 2 door, 2005 Ford Mustang.

As the black Mustang sits in the driveway under a tree, with an old off-brand Tide laundry bucket and rags sitting nearby, it shines as the beaming sunlight hits it. When examined closely there are no dents visible on the car--but there is one flaw. On the front bumper looks like a piece of paint has been chipped. It is white, yet hardly visible. But it's there. It's the size of a dot from a sharpie marker. Looking closer, it can is noticed that there is just a stubborn bug that has plastered itself on there.

Towards the back there is a small, silver colored Longhorn emblem placed on the trunk door- on the left of the black and silver "GT" key slot. Below are two shiny exhaust pipes on each side of the back-side of the car.

The windows are tinted limo black, which make it difficult to see the interior of the car. However, one can manage to tell that the seats aren't black. Perhaps they are a reddish color. The windows also have light-colored water dots from where the sun had dried the water before they were wiped clean.

The rims have been cleaned spotlessly and have five spokes (?). In the middle of all the rims is the outline of mustangs.

His gold teeth sat in the glass, a death's head grin, shiny, pockmarked, perverse. Bubbles rose in the blue denture fluid, effervesced to the top, pop, pop, pop. The disembodied gold smile was for all the nothing the man himself had left to smile about. Clothes crumpled on the floor, smelling of age and neglect. Fast food wrappers stained almost clear with grease and the reek of old fried chicken, a piece of which was now lodged between the man's two front teeth and which all the bubbles in the world would not dislodge. From a sepia photograph on the dresser, a young woman smiled back. She had not smiled for many years. Neither had he. Except for times like now, when his gold teeth smiled on their own, with no consideration of how he himself might feel.

Ajai Raj

The little-league baseball field. The first thing you always seem to notice is the fresh cut grass. Sometimes the scent is very strong- overwhelming even. Other times there is only a hint of grass as if you were in a park. Upon taking at the grass, you find a sea of majestic green. It isn’t always the nicest grass, it often is a home to weeds or even an unsightly ant-bed or two, but it is certainly majestic. It seems endless- the grass starting where the dirt ends and extending past the homerun fence. That fence is always the goal. It is hard to achieve though because the fence towers over the field. The fence is not very sturdy and has obvious rust marks and missing links- but it is still a sign of achievement to send a ball soaring over it. That fence is very far from home plate- where I stand at bat. Looking down the foul line- you’ll notice that the chalk isn’t very straight as if someone’s younger sister decided to play in it, and probably she did. The dirt that I stand in is an almost auburn color with a nit of orange. Baseball dirt is unmistakable; it is a substance that connects major-leaguers and us little leaguers. It is the color that is impossible to remove from my uniform after diving for a ball. Then there is the pitcher’s mound- this odd looking hill in the middle of the field. It rises slightly in the front and more dramatically from the back. It is an obstacle that my slowly hit ground balls encounter. This pile of dirt in a sea of green grass that makes up the infield is a beacon of the game, an island. Together the field looks old but loved, a field of dreams.

My roommate loves being Jewish; she thinks it gives her an edge. Her dark hair curls thickly against her forehead, unmanageable, wisps escaping; I never know if she does it on purpose, to make sure everyone can see how crazy her hair is. I can't see what it is about her button nose that makes other Jewish people recognize her on the street. It looks like a classic Southern nose to me, upturned, no bumps, small and straight. Or maybe it's her skin; dark-complected but bleached by her exposure to stage lights rather than an Israeli sun, almost olive underneath. She knows Hebrew, she says. Ktang-ktang -- a little. I try for a good fifteen minutes to reproduce the glottal sound she makes in the back of her throat in challah, Chanukah, chutzpah; it doesn't work. My ancestors spoke from the palate forward -- nothing more exotic than half an ounce of Cherokee blood in my veins.

She dresses carefully for Yom Kippur, a holiday I pronounce "yam kipper," in clean white linen, wrinkled because she doesn't believe in irons. White dress, white socks, white Converse that are not as white as once they were, but Yom Kippur is about purification, so that's okay. Her movements are less careful than they are practiced. She's dramatic. She should be; she's a drama major. She likes to tell me about the grand tradition of Jewish actors and actresses. When she does, I think about my family's grand tradition of Irish alcoholics.

"Paula Abdul is Jewish," she says, braiding her wiry curls with a white ribbon. "And Lauren Bacall was Jewish. And Mel Brooks, of course."

"You're an atheist," I tell her. I was born blonde. My wide forehead, my blue eyes, my white skin -- I never feel more like a WASP than when she's in the room.

"So what?" she says, and this time I see her bunch her curls to make them tighter, draw careful almonds around her eyes. Mine feel as round as marbles. "I'm still Jewish."