UAB Digital Commons (Univ. of Alabama at Birmingham)

Sellers, Danielle

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 12 Article 11 
2013 
After the Engagement 
Danielle Sellers 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Sellers, Danielle (2013) "After the Engagement," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 12, Article 11. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol12/iss2013/11 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
22 PMS. .
Danielle Sellers
After the Engagement
The day after he proposed on the pinnacle of Jungfrau, I made some 
comment about the war and he threatened to smash the cuckoo clock we’d
bought to celebrate our separate ideas of a shared life. I went up to our
bright room in the Hôtel de Beaux Rêves. But he kept on: “It’s a mistake to
get married, the way we argue.” I slipped off the ring. Outside, the swift river
whistled, ice through a vein.


English

After the Engagement

Lee, Joni

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 12 Article 19 
2013 
We Are All Drowsy 
Joni Lee 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Lee, Joni (2013) "We Are All Drowsy," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 12, Article 19. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol12/iss2013/19 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
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31PMS. .
Joni Lee
We Are All Drowsy
It’s difficult to sleep when desks
keep bumping into my dreams.
How long before students’ voices
stop bouncing off my forehead?
Their worries settle inside
my neck, asking What’s another verb
for need? How do I explain,
I’ll give it back eventually?
When I don’t have the answers,
I spend the night in my car
and stare out the sunroof
at the moon. It tells me to
sleep more and worry less
about whether the engine will
fail or if my students will catch
fire. To pay closer attention
to how grass pushes its head out
our fence, and maple leaves refuse
to fall, despite winter saying yes.
Traffic cascades into manholes
in my dreams while sparrows ruffle
their bellies in street dust.
We are all drowsy with evening
and too much flight.


We Are All Drowsy

Karapetkova, Holly

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 12 Article 21 
2013 
Worry 
Holly Karapetkova 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Karapetkova, Holly (2013) "Worry," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 12, Article 21. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol12/iss2013/21 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
33PMS. .
Holly Karapetkova
Worry
If you’ve left the baby alone in her crib,
then the shower sounds like a baby screaming
the hair drier sounds like a baby screaming,
the blender, the neighbor’s mower,
the crickets rubbing their little legs,
and you’re running back
to the bedroom soaking wet,
you’re running back to the bedroom
soap still on your back,
you’re running back to the bedroom
tomatoes dripping from your fingers,
knife forgotten in your grasp,
mower stalled on a rain ditch,
the crickets singing so quietly
you can hear her breathe.


Worry

Marzano-Lesnevich, Alexandria

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 14 Article 28 
2015 
Opal 
Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich 
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 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Marzano-Lesnevich, Alexandria (2015) "Opal," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 14, Article 28. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol14/iss2015/28 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
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91PMS. .
Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich
Opal
Long and white and shaped like a bullet, the gemstone at the center of 
the ring is as thick as an infant’s finger. A band of silver and faceted 
stones secures it, but time has loosened the band and loosened the opal 
in its setting. The ring must have belonged to my mother. She must have 
taken me by the arm an afternoon I don’t remember and led me to the 
waist-high chest that my father had made for her. There she would have 
pressed the ring into my palm, the way she has pressed her jewelry for 
years, as though bestowing the past. The ring is her style. It is showy and 
commanding, like my mother.
But when I see the ring I think of my grandmother and when I wore 
it I wore it to be close to her. I have other items that belonged to my 
grandmother, among them a pinky ring of filigree gold flower with a 
single chip of diamond in its center, the chip approximately the size of a 
pencil point or a period. That ring is what I know of my grandmother’s 
style: it is small, it is floral, it is unobtrusive, and it matches both the 
fine print of the pink and blue floral housedresses she wore often in my 
childhood and always now wears in my memory and the tight set of the 
tiny pink foam rollers in which she curled her gray hair, undyed. She was 
unobtrusive in family lore, once served a charcoal briquette by my father 
instead of the extra well-done hamburger she’d requested that he was 
tired of having to ruin good meat for. She had, famously, not complained, 
but accepted her unpalatable lot, complimenting my father at the end of 
the meal on what a good hamburger it had finally been.
Like so much else told in my family, that story cannot be true. If 
she was dutiful enough not to complain she must also have been duti-
ful enough to raise a fork and poke the hamburger with it, to make a 
semblance of eating the meal for which we’d all gathered on the summer 
lawn, citronella candles burning and Vivaldi soaring from the speakers 
my father had strung up in the trees, my grandfather slumped on the 
bench beside her in a short-sleeved plaid button-up and khaki trousers 
stained at the crotch. She would have noticed that the tines of the fork 
did not dent meat, that indeed it was not meat.
92 PMS. .
Marzano -Le snev i ch
And my grandmother was not dutiful. She said what she thought. 
When the only Puerto Rican family moved onto her block she said 
spics, and it did not matter who amongst us tried to hush her. When the 
Chinese family came, chinks. And once, after an outing to see a movie 
with her Golden Age club, my grandmother reported that the movie 
had seemed like an odd choice for a group of senior citizens and that 
afterward she and my grandfather had learned they’d gone to the wrong 
theater, but no matter, she’d enjoyed the movie. What was the movie, I 
asked? “Oh, something silly,” she said, waving her hand. “There were 
bugs in it. Spiders. We had a good time.” She’d seen Arachnophobia, a 
horror movie I, at fourteen its target audience, was too scared to see. 
She was small but fat and feisty. Her fat sat on her like gristle on a 
pork chop, set apart from the meat and the bone. She was fine-boned 
and even at her heaviest small-faced but her waist bulged. The fat of 
meat was her vice; she would cut it off a piece of chicken and give us the 
meat. We needed the meat, she would tell us. We were growing. What 
was left behind would do just fine for her. She’d sit at the end of the long 
white table in my parents’ kitchen long after we’d left the table and eat 
the cut-away fat small forkful by small forkful, penitential concentration 
on her face. Years after my grandmother died a friend told me that when 
we ourselves were old we would sit side by side in rockers and pluck 
bonbons from a tin passed back and forth, finally past caring for appear-
ances. I would remember this look on my grandmother’s face then and 
see, for the first time, the determined pleasure it held. That she was fat 
no longer mattered. She would eat what she enjoyed.
But she was not, it turned out, fat. A doctor finally diagnosed water 
retention around her heart. My mother was inclined to blow up like a 
puffer fish when she had too much salt, her eyes once or twice swelling 
closed after bad take-out, and now it was explained that the inclination, 
shared by every female on my mother’s side, shared by me, was genetic 
and had been operating deep within my grandmother, the swelling hid-
ing in her midsection. The doctor prescribed diuretics and overnight my 
grandmother deflated like a pricked balloon. In two weeks she lost more 
than half her body weight. She’d been frail, it turned out, beneath it all.
Never before seriously ill, over three days she fell, had a stroke, and 
died. 
I sang her “The Rose” in the hospital room, between the stroke and 
the wiring-up and her death. Some say love, love is a river. Some say love, 
93
poemmemoirstory
PMS. .
love is a razor. I had never seen anyone die. It seemed impossible that we 
would not again play checkers or laugh together. That she would never 
again be so bluntly and heedlessly herself.
Then Emily Marzano, neé Zanne, went into the ground.
Sometime after, I got the ring, the ring that was my mother’s but that 
has always made me think of my grandmother. I wore it daily for two 
years, missing her.
Now it sits at the top of a box of jewelry that I do not wear and do not 
think I ever will. I see the ring each time I open the lid and each time I 
remember the slip-side of the stone against my finger, the constant light 
awareness that the opal was loose and that I must take care not to lose 
it. I could never relax fully with it on my finger, the way, I suppose, I can 
no longer fully relax in my memory of my grandmother or in the pres-
ence of my mother, realizing now that there was a choice to be made and 
that both of them failed to make it. There was something happening in 
the house where my grandfather slumped beside my grandmother, and 
where he went to bed next to her at night. He left that bed each night, 
left her lying next to an empty space I realize only now she could not fail 
to feel. He left her bed, and came to mine.
Still I wore the ring for two years and still I have it. What do we do 
with the past, when we begin to face the pain it carries? Where do we 
place the complicated anger?
Down the stairs from the study where I am writing this is a kitchen, and 
when I left my computer to visit it I counted six ladybugs on the floor. 
Four looked dead, though none moved, and all might have been. When 
I came back up to my study there was another bug lying at the entryway, 
brown with curled limbs. It looked to be the same oblong shape and, sure 
enough, when I flicked it upwards with my fingernail it had the distinc-
tive dotted shell, this one not quite red but a burnt umber color. It, too, 
was dead.
To be interrupted by a profusion of dead ladybugs in the middle of 
writing an essay about grandmothers and mothers and daughters, the 
matrilineal line of caring, seems like it ought to have meaning. Ladybug, 
ladybug, fly away home! Your house is on fire and your children are gone! 
goes the old rhyme. A scolding of motherly failure, of motherly dis-care. 
The feminist in me regards the rhyme skeptically, something sung to 
reinforce the danger for women of working outside the home, a rhyme 
chanted to keep them in their homes.
94 PMS. .
Marzano -Le snev i ch
And yet. What the women in my family missed in their homes. My 
grandmother stood between my mother and college, between my mother 
and a life beyond the immigrant neighborhood of her youth. This was 
my grandmother’s great betrayal, according to my mother: to choose 
what she saw as duty over my mother and to demand my mother choose 
the same. When my mother speaks of this time, her face twists. The 
schooling she had to sneak out at night to receive, the job she had to lie 
about. The mother she longed to be close to. The life she had to both 
build and hide away, that for years she could not wear as openly as she 
would one day wear her rings.
But when my mother learned what her father had done to me, it was 
her turn to be dutiful, to tell me to hush up, to never again to speak of 
what had happened in her house. My deco-flash mother did not choose 
the noise and attention of the showy ring. 
Between she and I—between my mother and me—there exists the 
unspoken memory of my grandmother. She slept on a nubby green sofa 
bed at the foot of the stairs each night that she babysat with my grandfa-
ther when we were children. That bed had old metal joints that creaked 
when my father set up the bed. They creaked again when my grandfather 
rose from the bed and my grandmother stayed still beside him. The stair-
case he climbed was next to where they slept, its old creaky wood so loud 
I could hear it all the way in the back of the house. So loud it announced 
him coming. 
My grandmother slept through those sounds, or did not. She slept 
through those sounds every time for five years, or did not. She knew, or 
did not. She kept her mouth shut. 
I can no more know than I can secure the stone in its setting. 
The ring cannot be fixed, the jewelers I’ve showed it to say, and my 
grandmother is dead and has taken what she did or did not know to the 
grave with her. What do we do with the dead, when they can no longer 
answer for their lives or for our own? What do we do with the anger? 
Legend puts the opal as the stone of invisibility, the stone that can hide 
a person as thoroughly as silence. Legend also has the opal as the stone 
that portends death. If I misremember always to whom the opal first 
belonged, making the ring my grandmother’s and not my mother’s, 
perhaps it is because I must make it belong to the one who is already 
95
poemmemoirstory
PMS. .
unknowable, already dead, the one with whom the stone of the past can 
never be fixed. 
So it is for my grandmother that I keep the ring, and for myself that 
I leave the ring in the velvet bed of its tray. For my grandmother I keep 
the ring, though I will never again wear it. I keep it because it is beautiful 
and I keep it although it is broken. I keep the ring. I keep this hard stone 
memory of her.


Opal

McElroy, Colleen J

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 15 Article 14 
2016 
Lessons in Deportment 
Colleen J. McElroy 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
McElroy, Colleen J. (2016) "Lessons in Deportment," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 15, 
Article 14. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol15/iss2016/14 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
22 PMS. .
Colleen J. McElroy 
Lessons in Deportment
1.
for over a year I lived at Aunt Jennie’s
with my cousins, the two Jeans 
all of us having run away from our mothers
to the safety of Jennie
and in my case safe from Uncle Brother too
one-two-three we arrived motherless homeless
here comes another one just like the other one
Aunt Claudia said all us girls being there
could only mean Jennie was running
a house like Aunt Dora Emma did
during the time of Prohibition
Aunt Jennie called her a box-ankle heifer
and dared her to repeat what she had said
Claudia didn’t come to sit a spell for weeks
2.
Jennie, the aunt with no children, took us 
girls ripening into our teens come calling
between pee pants and first periods
23PMS. .
house rules Jennie said; no sass no lip 
and none of us allowed to treat her 
like she was our mother and our yes ma’am 
sounding too weak and practiced 
Jennie staring dead at us for the longest time
before she said we were too dumb to know the difference
between a salad fork and a nose pick
so every night one of us would set the table 
with more silverware than we’d ever use
“begin with the one nearest the plate”
she said and moved us from chowing
down hobo style to sitting for our supper
we cleaned up nice by Saturday
left the kitchen neat and tidy
heading for the Y to belly rub at the sock hop
3. 
the Jeans and I hated doing laundry
so we hid dirty clothes all over the house
one morning we woke up to Jennie raging:
pulling down curtains, tearing off bed sheets
throwing towels and anything washable
24 PMS. .
in a pile that she pointed to yelling:
“you will not leave this house until
everything is clean, you hear me?”
this time we said yes ma’am 
with bowed heads and a silent prayer
that she’d found all the clothes
all the time wondering how a woman
her size could move so fast 
4. 
she lined us up in the basement
like army recruits—me the oldest 
at the head of the line followed
by the two Jeans: one-two-three
“wash-rinse-press!” she ordered
we looked at the Maytag wringer
the scrub board and steam press
we looked at the basement walls
blistered with sweat and the morning
sun not yet clearing the top
of the oak tree in the back yard
how could we make it to noon?
5.
one afternoon Aunt Jennie found me
reading a Prince Valiant comic book
25PMS. .
she snatched it from me before 
I could convince her it was history
knights of the Round Table and all that
“go in there and read Papa’s books”
she said and pushed me
toward the leather bound volumes
ready for the taking
there were so many words
and the two Jeans peering
between the crack of the sliding door
snickering about homework
avoided by all but the spineless
keep rolling your eyes
and they’ll get stuck Jennie said
6.
when my family moved into a new house
with Uncle Brother, Aunt Jennie had managed 
to pry Papa’s books away from Claudia
“hand over fist” she grinned 
I remembered the shiny leather books
in the room with the horsehair sofa
where I could look but never touch
and the tapestry on the wall above
of some place far far away 
after Papa died I’d go into that room
lie down on the floor and dream of
myself on the desert of the tapestry
26 PMS. .
now I imagined its secrets were hidden
in those books and read ravenously
one day Jennie suggested that I should
think about college maybe Xavier
where she had attended
the sliver of light between the sliding
doors blinked for a moment
“not me” I said and held up my hand
two shades darker than hers
two shades darker than a paper bag
“there are other schools” she said
I thought of the stretch of desert
on the tapestry and crossed my fingers
7.
“life is hard” Jennie said “you’ve got to make 
yourself presentable” I was sitting on her bed
watching her dress for work a new job 
where she said she had to look healthy 
if she wanted to keep from getting fired
in case her sickness returned
we didn’t know then she’d last another 50 years
she pointed to her stockings
I lifted the flimsy things while she struggled
with the last few inches of a Playtex girdle 
encasing her like a sausage
the closest I came to my mother’s underwear
27PMS. .
was looking at the pink rubber douche bag
hanging on the bathroom door
I was 90 pounds fully clothed and soaking wet
but Claudia wanted me to wear a girdle
I saw where the latex pinched Jennie’s flesh
as she snapped her stockings in place 
“there” she said and turned around
her pleated skirt brushing against
her calves like static
8.
Aunt Jennie was a clothes horse from head to toe
the sad little clothes I cut for paper dolls
when I was in grammar school gathered dust
in a shoe box at my mother’s house
at Jennie’s I had the real thing
and the best model to show off
satins and velvets and real suede shoes
with slanted heels sometimes worn
for no occasion at all except
she liked the feel of them that day
once we had a family bar-b-que
in the back yard two pits that Uncle Philip 
and my father manned like admirals in the thick of it
Jennie wore a satin pants suit “Joan Crawford,” 
28 PMS. .
she said and rushed from smoke that blew her way
I had helped her dress that morning
watched her wrap her hair in a wire rat
neat as pie crust at the nape of her neck
the day before she had lost her job
“politics” she said and gave me 
the glad eye then danced with Uncle Philip
as if she had all the riches in the world


Lessons in Deportment

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 15 Article 15 
2016 
Learning to Love Bessie Smith 
Colleen J. McElroy 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
McElroy, Colleen J. (2016) "Learning to Love Bessie Smith," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 
15, Article 15. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol15/iss2016/15 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
29PMS. .
Colleen J. McElroy 
Learning to Love Bessie Smith
took years by all accounts cause
who could love a whiskey voice
lamenting some no-good man 
and Aunt Claudia hissing yes
like an untethered balloon
when Sweet her daughter said plenty do
my mother wouldn’t even entertain
the possibility given
how she had no call to trust
any man aiming to separate her
from the family
and I just flat out couldn’t understand 
what all that weeping was about
while I tried sneaking
another cherry spiked drink
tried listening as Aunt Jennie said
baby, men are like busses
another will come along by and by
she was a little tipsy
but filled everyone’s cup
until the punch bowl was empty
and my mother ate all the fruit
because she didn’t drink when
for a time she was single again
waiting by the side of the road


Learning to Love Bessie Smith

Deason, Jude

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 15 Article 16 
2016 
Great Aunt Mona 
Jude Deason 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Deason, Jude (2016) "Great Aunt Mona," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 15, Article 16. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol15/iss2016/16 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
30 PMS. .
Jude Deason
Great Aunt Mona
was like the old tractor in the barn.
Her engine combusted each morning and she laughed
at her own pumped gas before she turned serious again. 
She let curse words fly too, but not her hair.
She kept those gray waves stacked upon each other
close in and quiet. They were the only sea we knew 
where the black dirt grew into rows of yellow corn, 
where chickens ran headless, the cleaver in Mona’s hand. 
Truth be told, she scared the Midwest shit out of me. 
And Mona liked shit. She liked the smell of it spread 
on the fields. When she finally moved into town, 
she told me it was what she missed the most. 


Great Aunt Mona

Slaughter, Lauren Goodwin

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 15 Article 21 
2016 
Back to Jackson 
Lauren Goodwin Slaughter 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Slaughter, Lauren Goodwin (2016) "Back to Jackson," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 15, 
Article 21. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol15/iss2016/21 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
36 PMS. .
Lauren Goodwin Slaughter
Back to Jackson
—for my sister
Last night we drank like loggers 
and you won the Beat It dance-off
glorifying your third farewell this week.
I watched the disco ball divide you 
into pocket-sized orbs, tried to catch 
and tuck them away. Didn’t work. Love 
that cowgirl shirt. Pearlescent buttons
of stars traced our zigzag home
tailed by the neighbor’s dinging cat. 
You’re heading back to Jackson 
for another unfit boy. By the door
your dropped hoop blings a hole. 
But this special hand-sewn pillow, 
of perfect weight and softness, 
because my neck gets gnarled 
with poems, you left on purpose. 


Back to Jackson

Pious, Samantha

PoemMemoirStory (literary 
magazine) 
Volume 15 Article 24 
2016 
The Violin 
Samantha Pious 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms 
 Part of the Creative Writing Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons 
Recommended Citation 
Pious, Samantha (2016) "The Violin," PoemMemoirStory (literary magazine): Vol. 15, Article 24. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.library.uab.edu/pms/vol15/iss2016/24 
This content has been accepted for inclusion by an authorized administrator of the UAB Digital Commons, and is 
provided as a free open access item. All inquiries regarding this item or the UAB Digital Commons should be 
directed to the UAB Libraries Office of Scholarly Communication. 
39PMS. .
Samantha Pious
The Violin
The great Musician bears a haggard face
And eyes whence the triumphant light has fled.
Night falls, bringing gentle drowsiness,
And the old man says: It is already late.
The magic gaze may leave the lover’s heart,
The most intoxicating words may go,
But nothing cures, nothing can console
The artist for the dying of his art.
The violin is still. As though in irony,
The instrument conserves its harmony
And, soulless, vanquishes the humbled soul. 
It’s waiting for the One who, in a future time,
Shall come, undreaming of the Master old,
To harvest from the heritage divine.
—Renée Vivien
rediscovered by Jean-Paul Goujon (1986)


The Violin

University of Alabama at Birmingham

October 15, 2024
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Rewards program can earn up to $350 a year by accumulating points. Visit
uab.edu/wellscreens to register and learn more.
Changes improve BlazerID security if reset is required
Passwords rarely need to be updated, and when they do it is usually a simple change
through BlazerID Central. But sometimes you run into issues with resetting through the
portal, such as DUO authentication not working or you lost the device tied to your DUO
account. To better secure BlazerID accounts, the next step will now be to meet with an
AskIT technician in person or by Zoom. Learn how the process works here.
Knowing your data is the first step to protecting UAB
UAB’s data classification system defines three levels of data types. When you properly
store your data, UAB’s security experts can better manage, handle and protect your
assets. UAB IT is adding features, such as document labeling, to help you better keep
track of your data.
Due today: Honors seminar course proposals
Honors seminars emphasize engaged, active learning, critical thinking and experiential
learning. Faculty can submit a course proposal for 2025-2026 by Oct. 15; direct
questions to khw@uab.edu.
Research & learning
Sparkman Summer Institute attracts global cohort to UAB
Twenty-five participants from across the country and the world traveled to Birmingham
for a weeklong program on the use of implementation research concepts and methods to
address health inequities in global health research and practice at scale.
Be a lifesaver. Learn how
tomorrow.
This basic Lifesaver Course teaches CPR,
the use of an automatic external defibrillator,
Stop the Bleed, and other important
lifesaving skills. (No CPR card is issued.)
The 2.5-hour course is held in the Facilities
Admin Building; the final session this year is
Oct. 16. Enroll online.
You can improve your
emotional intelligence
Come and learn how to reframe your
emotions and adapt to the situations you
encounter at work.
⏰ 9 a.m. Oct. 24
📍 Medical Towers 419A
🗓 Register online
Get free sustainability training
All UAB faculty, staff and students have
access to free training through the U.S.
Green Building Council, including courses
on sustainability and green building, as well
as resources for those looking to attain or
maintain LEED professional credentials.
See courses and learn more online.
Submit proposals for a COMET voucher
The Heersink School of Medicine’s Immunology Institute and I-4ward Strategic Theme
will award up to four vouchers each to support experiments on the Lunaphore COMET™
multiplex immunofluorescent platform housed in the Flow Cytometry and Single Cell
Core. Applications are due by 5 p.m. Nov. 15. Details and timeline are on the
Immunology Institute site.
More learning opportunities
Faculty Writing Group, 10 a.m.-noon, Oct.
15
Optimizing Performance: The Check-In
Strategy, 1 p.m. Oct. 15
Making Recognition a Routine, 1:30 p.m.
Oct. 16
Introduction to EndNote, noon Oct. 17
Learning from Lived Experience:
How to Champion Inclusion for
People Who Are Blind or Have Low
Vision, noon Oct. 22
Mark your calendars
Expo connects veterans and
families to benefits
Whether it is health care, disability claims
assistance, education benefits or career
opportunities, this event is designed to
support the needs of veterans and families.
⏰ 11 a.m.-2 p.m. Oct. 16
📍 Hill Student Center Ballrooms C&D
🗓 Details online
Samara Joy
With her upcoming Verve Records debut,
Linger Awhile, 22-year-old Samara Joy
makes her case to be the next jazz singing
sensation recorded by the venerable label.
⏰ 7 p.m. Oct. 17
📍 ASC Jemison Concert Hall
🗓 Buy tickets
Support student scholarships
with Uncork Education
Take part in live and silent auctions, wine
and beer tastings, and the exciting Blazer
Plinko. A virtual bidding options also is
available.
⏰ 5:30 p.m. Nov. 7
📍 Alumni House
🗓 Buy tickets
Young Concert Artist Series:
Ziggy & Miles
The new album from Australia’s classical
duo includes a stunning take on Debussy’s
Clair de Lune and captivating pieces from
Spain, Latin America and Australia.
⏰ 7 p.m. Nov. 14
📍 ASC Jemison Concert Hall
🗓 Reserve tickets
More events upcoming
Farm Stand at UAB, 9 a.m.-1 p.m. Oct. 15
Theatre UAB: “God of Carnage,” 7 p.m.
Oct. 16-19, 2 p.m. Oct. 20
A Gospel Symphony Celebration with
Conductor Dr. Henry Panion III and
the Alabama Symphony Orchestra,
7:30 p.m. Nov. 17
Lectures Arts Athletics
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