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SCHOLARSHIP COMPETITION The Ukrainian National Women’s League of America an nounces the fourth Competition for the granting of scholarships from the Eva Stashkiw Scholarship Fund in the following categories: 1. in the study of the Ukrainian language for graduates of journalism, languages, library science and museum science. Individuals applying in this category must show they plan to utilize their knowledge of the Ukrainian language in their pro fessional work; 2. in the course of obtaining a doctorate in the various fields of Ukrainian studies, as well as comparative studies in literature, history, sociol ogy, music, etc., and only after the subject matter has received university approval; 3. as an aid in the publishing of a scholarly work in the field of Ukrainian studies which has been accepted by a publisher. The amount of the scholarship will be determined by the judging committee on an individual basis,. Only members of UNWLA who have joined the organi zation at least one year prior to submiting their entry in this competition will qualify as candidates for the scho larship. Deadline for entries is April 30,1985. In the first and second category, scholarships will be granted for studies in accredited American or Canadian universities. In the letter of introduction please specify which cate gory the applicant is entering. For further information please contact: Ukrainian National Women’s League of America Eva Stashkiw Scholarship Fund 108 Second Avenue New York, NY 10003 A SLICE OF LIFE — on the light side. The other day I conducted a weekly inspection of my potted plants. Snipping a dead leaf here, pinching a stem there, I reached my Zebrina, or Wandering Jew and to my dismay found the poor thing much under the weather, to say the least. “What’s the matter with you, my boy” I scolded the listless, droopy plant as I placed the pot on the kitchen table for a closer look. Radical surgery was in order I decided and out came the scis sors to right the wrongs. “He’s not doing well because he is a he, ” cooed my husband over my shoulder. “All your girl plants seem to be doing fine,” he piped. I smiled indulgently at this seemingly silly remark and went about the business of making my sick plant if not well, at least more pres entable. And then it hit me. Of all my plants the Wandering Jew seemed to be the only one that I addressed as he. It can’t be, I said to myself. I don’t discriminate, I’m fairly liberal and open-minded. I’m not a radical feminist, merely a woman looking for recognition, equal rights, a better job, a higher salary and a seat on the subway. Why, I like a healthy representation of both sides, what- tever the issue. Our children are a boy and a girl, and our two cats are of the opposite sexes. Doesn’t that prove something? I left my he plant half-snipped on the table and went around the house looking among the other plants, hop ing to crush what I suspected to be true. And the truth stared at me from window sills, hung suspended from the ceiling and sat on small pedestals — glory be, my house was full of plants that had only feminine names. My husband winked at me and left me to do some soul searching. But what was I to look for? The phrase suppressed hostility to the male species which I picked up from a radio psychologist came into my mind and left just as quickly. I hadn’t suppressed anything in years and as to being hostile to the male species, why that is utter nonsense. Some of my best friends are men. Was I trying to make a statement, unconsciously of course, that by virtue of femininity all will be well? Have I been so brainwashed by the extreme feminine thought that I labeled everything she ? Were my plants the per sonifications of my rebellion in this man’s world and their girls’ names my contribution to the women’s libera tion movement? Heavy stuff for early morning musings. I stared out the window, deep in thought and noticed my neighbor, a nice, all-together Cuban lady, deliver swift kicks to her car tire. “Tina, ” I yelled at her from my window, “why are you kicking the car’?” "She no work again.” replied my angry neighbor. “Didn’t you take it to a repair shop yesterday?” I asked. “Yes.” came the reply, “but my mechanic, she no fix it good.” In no time I was outside. “Tina, ” I inquired softly, “you have a woman mechanic?” My vivid imagi nation saw us huddled over coffee and pound cake, pondering our peculiarities. I have found a soul sister. “No,” Tina’s reply brought me back to earth. “ My mechanic is a man, a stupid man.” “But Tina, you said she, ” I pressed the point. “He, she, what difference what I call that mechanic, my car still no work.” replied Tina, her Latin temper at a boiling point. What difference indeed! That’s it, that is the answer to my pondering. What someone or something is called makes no big difference, I explained to myself. It depends what one is comfortable with. I was happy with “girl-plants”, Tina called everyone and everything “she”. Does that mean we have deeply hidden radical feminist motives? Of course not, I rationalized. After all, a rose by any name smells just as sweet. With my guilt gone, peaceful and smiling I went home to tackle other prob lems of life. Oh, about my ailing plant, well in an elabo rate re-potting ceremony the plant acquired a new name, Tina, and I know she is going to do just fine. Marta Baczynsky
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