CREATIVE WORKS

Visual Art Created by the Seton Hill Community

Creative Written Work by the Seton Hill Community

An Account of My Arrival at Seton Hill College, 1955

Creation Date: 1955

Medium: Narrative

Creator: Rosalyn Cain-King, Class of 1959

Artist's Reflection

My parents brought me down to Seton Hill College in September, 1955 around my 17th birthday on September 10th.  We drove down from New York and they stayed at the Penn Albert Hotel in downtown Greensburg, while I got settled in the dorm in Lowe Hall Room 101, across from Sister DeChantal’s room but very near the bathroom.  Each day of the few they were there, we would drive up and down the magnificent drive and marvel at the strength of the tree lined path – not often seen either in Harlem or in Hempstead.  As I explored the campus and sat on the swings out-front – which I sit on each time I return to campus – this young person, Harlem, NYC born, contemplated what it meant to leave the state of New York and go forward to a new chapter.  My mother went to the bookstore, saw a plate with the motto “Hazard Yet Forward” on it, bought it and later hung it on our kitchen wall in Hempstead, NY.

Hempstead was the High School where the Sisters of Charity found me on one of their recruitment tours. We had moved from Harlem to Hempstead a few years before and Greensburg was my first wide exposure to being in a primarily Caucasian environment.  The Sisters offered scholarship assistance for enrollment and my mother said that is where you will go.

At Seton Hill, I was introduced to many with strange twangy accents from West Virginia and Pennsylvania.  I was told that outside of the Sisters of the Holy Family from New Orleans, I was the 7th African American to enroll in the history of Seton Hill.  The list as I remembered included:

1. Helena Patton of Palestine Texas- who became my “Big Sister” as was the custom then - a Junior – we kept in touch for a few years and I later found out she became a physician and took over her father’s practice in her hometown.  

2. Nicole Verdier of Haiti – a real sharp cookie – a Junior.

3. Laura White of Apalachicola, Florida – who could not get used to the nice white folks of Pennsylvania.

4. Greta Bright of Liberia – whose parents and Sister I later met as I worked in Pharmacy in West Africa.

5. Gwendolyn Perry – a classmate from Hempstead High School, NY- who stayed just one year.

6. Myself- Rosalyn Maria Cain of Hempstead High School, NY– who stayed for the second year and then entered the order of the Sisters of Charity, left in 1962 but stayed involved as a Friend of the Sisters of Charity until the present.

That plate that my mother bought and that I still have, became a beacon for me and the start of a 150-plate collection my mother gathered.  Hazard Yet Forward is applicable today and offers a succinct and encouraging nudge on the pathways over the bumps and hills of life.  As we face a difficult economy and bickering politicians, it suggests we can deal with the hazards and still move forward.

My life is forever intertwined with Seton Hill as it gave me my academic start, my professional pharmacist base (as a Sister of Charity), a distinguished leadership honor, and an unusual “home” in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains to which I have brought my spouse, children and grandchildren.  

The Old and the New

Creation Date: 2015

Medium: Short story

Creator: Taylor Stuart, Class of 2016

Artist's Reflection

What an interesting day.

I clean for work. Constantly.
It is as if my entire life has become a mop and bucket, flitting from one mess to the next. Wiping and scrubbing, shining and polishing.
Where I clean most of the time the structures are old and wooden. Every grain with a story to tell.

Often I wander, running my hands over rough and peeling walls, huge intricate paintings, and gazing through decades old stained glass with some indicator of those who sponsored the thing inscribed nearby.
I also find myself staring into the half closed eyes of larger than life religious statues, crumbling at the edges, colors faded by years and sunlight.
Sometimes, as I approach the statues it feels as if they are watching me.
Silently, like angels keeping guard over those whose care they have been charged with.
Sometimes it feels as though I should speak to them. So, when I am alone, I do.

One particularly, situated in a far hallway, apart from the others.
It is Mary.
Eyes half open on a stand which, while others would find her looking at their feet, at my height, places her eyes directly in line with mine.
I look frequently into her eyes and speak softly, mostly asking questions of both motherhood and childhood.
I find her both mother and friend in those times.
I half expect her to speak back to me, for the flit of an eye that meets mine or a rustle of cloth that indicates a repositioning….but it never comes.
There is only her quiet listening.
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Today I was cleaning a concert hall, far from the Mary figure, and the others.
A place far more modern than the greater whole it is a part of.
There are few echoes of the stories the more aged buildings have. It is a young structure, still learning the tales of those who walk its halls.
While I was cleaning, young men and women entered the hall and promptly began to organize themselves on the stage, preparing to practice a performance that would be given.

Suddenly the entire space, with its laminate surfaces and glossy walls, was filled with the sound of a piano and violin…and then a voice.
A young girl, no more than 20, began to sing a song I had never heard in a way I had never heard before.
I was enraptured with the clear tones and the complex dance of the piano and strings.
She sang both delicately and with strength, a song that spoke of new love and sadness, heartbreak and rebirth.
I could not now tell you the lyrics of the song, so overwhelmed was I in that moment.
As the music washed over my body and seemed to sink into my very pores, I saw that statue of Mary.
I simply sank to the floor by a wall, in the shadows, so that none would see my tears.
In my mind’s eye she reached out to me and drew me near, rustling cloth and eyes wide open.
She spanned the distance and I felt as if every atom of my being was enveloped in comfort and was complete.
I wept for the good that was given, and lamented how I have not given enough to her.

The stories of the old and the new met somehow, and I felt witness to a beauty that had no other reason than it was exactly what it was. It was beauty being beautiful and it was exactly as it was created to be.
When that which is created is as it was created, it is magnificent, I think.
When confronted with a beauty that is as it has been created, somehow we are clearly presented with the ways in which we have not been as we have been created to be.

As quickly as it began the song was over, and though I stayed and enjoyed the others practicing I could not conjure the image or feeling again.
It was not mine to conjure I knew, but I tried anyhow, hoping for Her to touch me again.
I left and could not focus for the rest of the day.

It is in these old stories and new ways of being that beauty comes most often to me at the moment.
It is the same existence that fills the crumbling statues and shines through the stained glass, reborn, in the presence of glossy surfaces and laminate floors.
It permeates the old and cannot be restrained by the inexperience of the new.
Rather it baptizes and transforms, transfigures and illuminates, the hopefulness of the new giving ample space in which that of the old can thrive and strengthen.

And the new becomes the old in time, gracefully moving into a space of acceptance of what it is, exploring what it shall be.

A different way of being what it has been, now illuminated by love and forgiveness of both self and a world that does not always receive its song.

I wonder, one day, will some young cleaning woman run her hands over the laminate in what seems so new to me now? Will she stare into the eyes of an inspired composition, and hear the rustle of cloth as God draws her near, singing an old song of Divine Love, flourishing in the hopeful ample space of a soul being reborn?

The Laughter and Grimaces of My People

Creation Date: 2025

Medium: Memoir

Creator: Michael Joseph Tharnish Roby, Class of 2018

Artist's Reflection

“Are you coming to Badges tonight? We’re doing the fantasy and sci-fi gathering at Badges. I’ll give you a ride if you need one,” the upper-classman said.

I don’t remember how I initially responded, I probably said something like, “What’s Badges?”

“Sports and karaoke bar down in Greensburg. We always get the room on the second floor to ourselves, and everybody has a great time together.”

Whoever took it upon themselves to be my sherpa that second evening is lost to me at this point. And by all rights, said sherpa almost certainly set themselves up for a, “No thank you, I don’t drink,” or a, “I’m just too tired tonight.” But something that was said must have caught my attention after my second day of class. Because I did accept that ride, and it altered the course of my grad school trajectory.

Two days before I’d first arrived at Seton Hill after a long, arduous, utterly draining journey. I’d flown across the country by myself for the first time, got lost in search of a bus in Pittsburgh, and trudged up the titular incline with my suitcase in hand. Needless to say, building affinity for a place with such a setup can be a real uphill battle. I only sent in my application for grad school in the first place to get my mom and dad off my back after I admitted I had no idea what I could use my English degree for. An MFA in Writing Popular Fiction would at least allow me to possibly work as an adjunct professor, which must have sounded acceptable enough for them. But after that lengthy journey and a first day or two I struggled to keep up with classes, I remember texting my girlfriend that I didn’t know if I’d stick around for my degree. I felt sore, burned out, and sure I could just as easily power through and get my fantasy books published on my own. 

My classmates proved kind and contemplative when they heard about my dreams of a grand, often darkly humorous fifteen book saga about a family of immortals, but I still felt disconnected. I’d explained bits of my vision to some of my classmates in my old English program. Only one or two of the many who heard me thought it was all that interesting or viable. I felt like it would be the same story as it always was—polite interest from people who just didn’t get my oddball sensibilities. Nonetheless, there I was, joining them at Badges for a night of promised food and fun.

I still kept to myself initially, speaking only when spoken too, sipping Pepsi, eating onion rings, and feeding quarters to the Donkey Kong machine. Something bigger was coming, my elder classmates assured me. Eventually, my assembled comrades started to form into a circle. In the center sat Timons Esaias, the funny professor who gave out malted milk balls in class and humorously ranted about his disdain for the word, “grimace.” A member of the circle stepped forward and brandished an ancient-looking tome with a torn cover and faded pages. The manuscript bore the title, The Eye of Argon by Jim Theis.

Rules were explained: the text would be passed from person to person, with the instruction to read and move about in an over-the-top fashion. The most ridiculous passages should be directed straight to Professor Esaias himself. And if the reader laughed while putting on their performance, they must relinquish the text to the next volunteer. I’d heard of and always wanted to attend a party where readers passed around bad fanfiction and terrible stories before. The very prospect almost certainly started to crack through my malaise. 

From the opening sentences, my classmates let loose a torrent of silly voices and willfully ridiculous gesticulations, and my melancholy shattered. Each reader built on the unintentionally hilarious tale of Grignr, the sort of blood thirsty, sexually charged barbarian that would make Conan himself say, “Take it easy over there, you’re being too stereotypical.” Hips shook as Grignr slipped a, “small opague (sic) object beneath the folds of the g-string wrapped about his waist.” Deep, cheek-shaking voices were used to describe how Agaphim’s, “sagging flabs rolled like a tub of upset jelly.” And one reader dramatically drew closer and closer to Professor Esaias as he described, “a slovering (sic)… sadistic… GRIMACE!” until the old man went pinched-faced and squirmed.

I howled with laughter alongside the rest of the program writers. My own reading didn’t last nearly as long as I hoped, but I did manage to let everyone know, “The fool should have shown more prudence, however you shall rue your actions while rotting in the pits.” As I sputtered and passed on the book, I finally came to my realization: these were, indeed, my people. These were not the kind of classmates who tolerated my story pitches, they were the sort to honestly, genuinely engage with them. Because just like me, they loved fantasy and the creative writing process so much they could laugh about it. Forget about the degree, suddenly I wanted to stay at Seton because I wanted more time with the contemporaries I never thought I’d find.

The day after we shared in this ridiculous, joyful experience together, we praised one another for our hammy performances. And from there, when we began discussing our thesis novels, I tried to be more earnest in both my sharing and my listening. That night at Badges ended up being the first thing I remembered about these mysterious people I was enrolled alongside. And, soon enough, it paved the way for so much more laughter and so much more fellowship.

In the years that followed, I attended other dinners, shared more silly stories and awful book readings, and, once or twice, even witnessed a student in a rented Grimace costume follow Professor Esaias around. I made it a point to find others who may have appeared depressed early in the program, fished for shared interests, and endeavored to make them feel included. The first short story that ever earned me a penny came about because of a contact I had with Seton’s writing program. And I only realized I wanted to be a part of it at all because one heck of a story brought me together with my friends-to-be.

Welcome to My Future

Creation Date: 2025

Medium: Poem

Creator: Ally Brownfield, Class of 2028

Artist's Reflection

Welcome to My Future

I stepped out of the car to start my way.

Fear and worry: All that could fill my mind.

I see a sea of red and gold this day.

Here it is, the true future that I’ll find.

This loud crowd waves; Welcome to our big home!

Celebrating cheers for all to adore!

This place; I didn’t even want to roam.

I’m ready; I found a place I could soar!

I’ll miss my family, my dogs, my bed,

But I am grateful for the path I took.

I love this family; “Welcome”, they said.

Helpful people everywhere you can look.

Welcome to my future It’s up to me!

Here at Seton Hill! Let myself be free!