CHARGED-UP RESULTS

This might be the most important photo I have ever taken.  I started taking photos when I was 12 with the first device I ever got, my iPad.I wanted to immortalize my memories, so I would never forget.  I am still at the beginning of my photography journey, but something about this moment feels like the first time the world handed me a story that was bigger than me. Street photography is part of my life. I am taking photojournalism as an elective this semester, and I promised myself this fall would be about doing something fun. My professor always tells us to practice outside of class, so I do.  CT Transit is not the first choice of transport for most students, but I have grown to appreciate it. The people who pack into those buses every morning are full of stories to capture. My dream is to work in the entertainment industry after graduating. Any field that fits me; In writing, in film, in photography. I like telling stories, no matter the medium. I think that’s what brought me to Connecticut and to this university. I want to show people what I see. I want to show people how I feel. My dream is to tell stories of the people who surround us. It was 11 a.m. Thursday, Nov. 13. I stood waiting for the 212 bus, as I always do. I was taking my usual photos of downtown; The courthouse, the crosswalk, the crowd. I did not expect anything out of the ordinary. Then I heard a loud gasp behind me. Someone said, “They are taking him from the courthouse.” I turned around just as the bus arrived, blocking my view. I took a photo, stepped inside, found a seat by the window and looked out. The group was already moving. I thought the moment was gone. I checked my camera roll right away because I felt I'd missed everything. But there it was. One frame. Sharp. Clear. Real. The only photo I managed to take before everything shifted again. The photo shows several men wearing vests with the words “Police” and “Police HSI,” referring to Homeland Security Investigations, a division of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Some officers have their faces covered. The man being detained is wearing khaki pants and a collared shirt. He is facing away from the camera. His hands were behind his back and several men were surrounding him. One staring directly at me.  The Department of Homeland Security and ICE did not respond to questions from local reporters about who the man is or why he was arrested, and this is not the first time a detention  happened at a courthouse entrance. Activists say it discourages immigrants from appearing in court even when they are victims or witnesses. As I write this, I keep thinking about how fragile everything feels.  I am an immigrant too.  I came to the United States in 2022 to study and build the life I dream of. I am here on a student visa. I work hard. I follow the rules. I take photos. I go to class. I pray. I try. I am the daughter of a single mother who sacrificed everything so I could get an education. I am Latina. I am grateful. But I am scared sometimes too. The United States always felt like a powerful place to me while growing up in Honduras. It was a place where you can succeed. People would say the streets here were made of gold. As a child, I believed it.  I still believe in this country’s opportunity. But watching agents in skinny jeans, hoodies and Converse shoes, some covering their faces, made me pause. It was hard to process. Something about the scene felt off to me. It made me realize how confusing and heavy moments like this can be when you see them in real time.  And I kept thinking, if you are doing something you believe is right, why are you covering your face? When the New Haven Independent published my photo with a short description of what I saw, I read the comments. Some people thanked ICE. Some said detaining immigrants keeps the country safe. Some believe every undocumented person is dangerous. Reading those comments made me feel invisible and guilty for taking the picture. They made me feel like stories like mine do not matter to some people, as ifI was doing a disservice to my community.  But I know who I am and I know where I stand. Immigrants are necessary. They work. They care for their families. They support their communities. They are not criminals simply because they crossed a border or overstayed a visa. They are human beings with hopes, fears and dreams as real as mine. I am grateful for this country. I am grateful for the opportunities I have received. I thank God for every step. I pray for those who do not get the same chances. I pray for the man in the photo. I pray for the people who read stories like this and still choose kindness. People say “Make America Great Again,” but I think greatness is not a slogan. Greatness is a responsibility. Greatness is how we treat one another when no one is watching. Greatness is the moment we choose compassion over fear. Greatness is something we have to create every day. So my hope is simple. Make America gentle again. Make America generous again. Make America see people again. I write this because I want to tell the truth about what I saw. I want to tell the story the only way I know how. With a camera. With words. With faith. And with the hope that someday the greatness we keep talking about will match the greatness we are called to live.

Sometimes it takes a shift, or a change. Sometimes, it takes a new environment. For me, it took a trip. That’s right, it took me a trip to Baltimore to finally get my question answered. Maybe I couldn’t find the answer because I wasn’t asking around, but that’s just because I thought that the answer would have come from within. Ever since my drive and work ethic had changed toward my academics, I’ve been asking myself why did the change happen? What is so different about this time that is different from the last?  It has caused me to beat myself up about it because this isn’t the Sweeden I know or the Sweeden that others knew. Back in high school, I had a couple obstacles that I powered through with ease. I did well in school and even got a job and did well at that too. I was resilient and couldn’t see myself as anything other than that.  But then I got to college, and the obstacles I faced in high school were still the same in college but a tad more challenging. It didn’t matter because at the time, I believed if I could tackle it in high school then I was more than capable in college. Yet, that mindset slowly caused me to take on more and more until I could no longer handle the challenges. What I’m trying to say is that I took on a lot, much more than I could handle, not because I was trying to impress anyone but because I believed I had to. I had to do it for my family and for myself. And before I knew it, I had completely drained myself. It became too much and my environment wasn’t helping. I was randomly placed with a roommate and I couldn’t feel comfortable in my own room so as a result I spent the majority of my day in my suite’s common area. Spending my time there was alright but I lived with 11 other girls at the time, meaning there wasn’t much down time for myself. I was stressed with having to pack and unpack my bags every weekend since I always went home. I’m not saying that I didn’t appreciate any of those things but at times it became chaotic and it didn’t help me while I was taking on so much. I’ve never seen it that way though, as I just thought hanging out in the suite meant always being around my friends and that going home meant being in my own bed and always getting to my laundry at home instead of in the dorms. So, what does any of this have to do with What It Took? Well, this fall break I took a trip to Baltimore. I went to see my best friend and learn what her college life is like in person. Toward the end of the trip we went to a pop-up market where craft vendors set up at a food court. We walked around for a bit, grabbed lunch and sat down and talked for hours. We brought up so much stuff from our high school days and things that have been keeping us up at night. I brought up to her how I was feeling and the questions I’ve constantly been asking myself. I figured that since she had known everything I’ve been dealing with, her insight from an outside perspective could be useful. She said that the opportunity to always be around my friends and have a good time and to go home every weekend is great but it’s such a different atmosphere than what I had during high school.  She said that yes, while you got to spend most of your day hanging out with your friends in high school, once you got home you had down time all to yourself. You got to stay in your room by yourself, which gave you the time and chance to do your homework, assignments, and projects. Now that you’re in college, you no longer have that space to yourself. When you’re with your friends, you see them 24/7 because you live with them. And it’s not a bad thing, but it becomes apparent that you are lacking that alone time. That is the main difference with your college experience compared to high school. And all of what she said made sense to me. I never thought that I wasn’t getting alone time maybe because it didn’t bother me or maybe because I like always having someone around. But she was right.  So what do I do with this realization?  I have to be more intentional, and I have been. I now make time during my day to get alone time to complete my work. It took a lot of trial and error to figure out what work space and or environment works best for me when it comes to getting my work done. I’ve tried spaces on campus where everyone is locked in and doing their own work, I’ve tried study rooms in my dorm, I tried working around my friends but that never worked well. Sure, I might have gotten one thing done out of the many but that wasn’t enough. Then, one night, my roommate needed the room for herself. I didn’t know where to go because of the time of night and I didn’t want to bother anyone so, I went to the newsroom in Bergami. I went late one night where I ended up being all by myself and found that this would be the place I get most of my work done. The newsroom provided me a quiet and comfortable space to do my work. And the great thing was that I could adjust the space to fit me the most. From messing around with the lights, setting up the couch in a specific way and playing YouTube videos or music on the room’s screen, I found the place that will allow me to get the most work done, becoming my equivalent of having my room back at home in high school. So yes, sometimes it takes a shift. Sometimes it takes a change. It took me a trip to Baltimore to learn that the change in my environment made it difficult to thrive academically and that I needed to shift how I study and where I study. I’m not saying you should book your next trip to Baltimore to find what you’re looking for. What I’m trying to say is that a change doesn’t have to be a scary or foreign thing, but that you can take it as a time to learn something about yourself especially if you’re traveling alone.

I vividly remember my mom telling me to flip my head over and applying Aussie Sprunch Spray in my hair when I was a kid. I had brown ringlets with blonde highlights because my mom would also spray Sun-In all over my curls. Everyone called me Shirley Temple and people with naturally straight hair would tell me that they wish they had mine. I felt the same exact way. All I ever wanted was their hair. You can only brush curly hair when it’s wet, or else you’d look like a circus clown. And because of me not knowing how to properly maintain my curls, my mom would have to cut the knotted parts out. That’s why I started having my mom straighten my hair. And eventually, I did it myself. It was a miraculous discovery! I could brush my hair as much as I wanted. My hair was even longer when it was straight. Who cares that it took over an hour to straighten my thick head of hair? I could finally look like everyone else. Except I still didn’t. I felt like the mermaids in “H2O: Just Add Water” when they were trying to avoid getting a drop of water on them. Because if the tiniest bit of water dripped onto my hair, my secret would be revealed. I wasn’t like everybody else. I was a straight-hair fraud. The rain was my enemy. Pools would make me choose between ruining my hair or putting it up and having to yell at anyone who splashes around me. Even if there was no water, my straight hair could easily be ruined by a little bit of humidity. Getting ready for picture day consisted of me running the flat iron over my hair as many times as humanly possible to try and prevent my hair from essentially inflating. There was no use in trying to keep my hair straight if I had gym right before the time my pictures were scheduled. Much to my dismay, the curls always came back. That’s why I begged my mom to take me to get a Brazilian blowout when I was in middle school. I subjected myself to over two hours in a salon chair where all I could focus on was the horrendous stench coming from the formaldehyde in the products. All so I could straighten my hair more easily and have it last longer. I don’t even think it made that much of a difference. My hair was wavy after that, but still with the unwanted thickness and frizz that came with my curls. It only lasted for a couple of months and the treatment was so expensive. So I only got the blowout that one time. I can’t remember a moment where I wasn’t trying to conceal my natural appearance. In high school, I spent so much time in the drama club. In my senior year, I was cast as Medda Larkin in “Newsies.” That was not a straight-haired role. My director came into the dressing room to discuss my character’s look and she said, “So, a little birdie told me your hair is naturally curly.” I immediately rejected the mere idea of wearing my natural hair in a stage performance. My curls were a nuisance to me. I remember I said to my director, “They’re not pretty curls. It’s just a mess.” So, for the dress rehearsals and the show dates, I would re-straighten my hair and then have a cast member’s sister curl it. I went out of my way to mimic something that I naturally had because I felt it wasn’t good enough. I thought my natural curls made me look like I didn’t try. I didn’t feel pretty with them. The last time I did was when my mom fully took care of it. But I couldn’t be an adult who depended on her mother to do her hair for her.  It wasn’t until my sophomore year in college that I finally freed my hair from the flat iron. It’s going to sound silly, but I felt inspired to learn more about curly hair because of Chappell Roan. She didn’t have perfect hair. It had frizz. It looked wild. And it still looked beautiful. My hair didn’t look good at all at first. I also started wearing my glasses all the time. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw was Woody from “The Suite Life on Deck.” And when I thought I found a perfect routine (Rizo’s curl products), I started getting pomade acne from the oils in the hair products. So, I had to completely switch up my styling and look for products that had no pore-clogging ingredients. I would copy and paste every ingredient from a gel, cream, or mousse into an ingredient-checking website I found from TikTok.  During this period, I straightened my hair one time when I was going to get my hair cut because I know they charge extra to untangle hair. I came to campus with straight hair and got compliments on it from multiple people. It kind of brought me back to the mindset I had all my life. But another part of me viewed it as a challenge. I would make people adore my curls if it was the last thing I ever did. It took over a year of trial and error with different products, but I finally have a routine that I think works for me. A lot of the magic comes from what used to be my enemy: water. I do, however, credit my Bounce Curl brush for the main transformation.  Now, my mom compares my hair to ribbon candy and is jealous of the way it looks. The kids at my work are always playing with my curls and I cringe on the inside because I’m scared they’ll ruin my masterpiece. I secretly love it, though, because people are finally positively commenting on my real hair again.  Some people have even asked me for my routine. I usually give a very long-winded explanation about it. But the most important step is to stop covering up the natural beauty and find ways to accentuate and embrace it.

An open letter to the campus community, by Sheraud Wilder, President of the Gamma Alpha Tau Chapter of Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity, Inc., I, Sheraud Wilder , would like to thank Patch Bowen for allowing me to speak on my thoughts as a student leader on campus. Individuals like Patch fuel my drive to speak out against the injustices faced by students and minority communities. They have these platforms to share the message and our voice for something greater. In my four years as a student leader, I’ve seen many come and go, but the dismissal of individuals, such as Jurea, Kenny, Tim, Barbara, Tahera and Brian Ibarra, has left lasting voids within the multicultural community. The safe haven we worked so hard to cultivate is being stripped away. We’re losing our voice, our confidence, and our sense of belonging. The departure of Jurea, Kenny, and Tim speaks volumes. Jurea tirelessly worked day in and day out to ensure that the FSL community was not only revived but also thriving prosperously. Only to silently exit the university without any acknowledgment of the impact she left. Kenny, an alumnus who returned out of love for the university, embodied the spirit of what the Myatt Center was meant to be. Yet after speaking his mind on sensitive topics during times of distress, he no longer works here. Despite his leadership, activism, and the kind of personality that touches the lives of every individual he came into contact with. Tim, the heart of student engagement. Advocating and supporting not only multicultural student groups but also making sure that members feel at ease to be their true selves.  The gratitude his spirit brought to the university is unparalleled and helped many of us succeed within our own organizations. My heart goes out to everyone who resonates with these words and questions what the future holds.  I speak to shed light on the injustices we face as students of this university, especially as we prepare to enter a world where people who look like me are too often treated as expendable. Never forget why you started, and  always remember the impact of the lives that you can touch  when you continue to live a path of righteousness. Be Different. Surpass Expectations. Challenge the System. Take Risks and Live In Your Purpose. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” — Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

As the world recovered from the Covid pandemic, the West Haven Veterans Hospital allowed 25 youth volunteers back into the building in the summer of 2022. I was one of them, three years ago. All masked up at the tail end of the pandemic, I initially got the gig to get community service hours for my high school. I eventually racked up about 130 hours that summer. Most of the patient escort job involved waiting for elevators, sitting at the front desk and taking phone calls, pushing around veterans to their appointments and solving problems that you encountered along the way. Most of the other kids were there because they were going into the medical field. I was just there because I had nothing else to do, I suppose. It was fun working at the front information desk, where I quickly learned the ropes. The adult volunteers were all older people who, as such, became great sources of intergenerational contact for us high schoolers. Although I recorded most of my volunteer hours that summer of 2022, over the next three years I would return to the hospital whenever I had time, and I eventually amassed more than 300 hours. Sure, I no longer needed hours to graduate high school with distinction but it kept me busy on days where I didn’t feel so great and was also unemployed. It distracted me as I was always on my feet and with something to do. It also made me feel better as I helped veterans who served our country.  In those three years, I have seen a lot of people come and go at the hospital. Adult volunteers, youth volunteers, the veterans themselves, familiar faces that went to and fro.  Yet a lady named Louise at the front desk remained a constant. Once college started, I found it difficult to find time to volunteer as even though the hospital is near my school, I was busy with other things. In the summers of 2023 and 2024 when I was more available, the youth program took more than 50 kids instead of the Covid-19-reduced 25 which was more manageable. Some of these kids were distributed across the hospital in various clinics, but during these summers there were at least 15 kids at the front desk.  Most of them were high schoolers who couldn’t remember where easy places like the pharmacy was after the third time of going there. They would just sit on their phone or goof off. Louise was never upset with them and was always more patient than even I was at times. I began volunteering at age 16 and I’m about to turn 20. In the turbulent world of adolescence and chaotic issues of growing up in these peak years, I sometimes could never make time to volunteer. But whenever I did, Louise and the other adult volunteers would be there, almost remaining static in an ever-changing world. I could rely on the hospital to be the same every time I returned.  Maybe they had redecorated, there was a wheelchair shortage again, the lineup of volunteers would be different, a specialty clinic would be shifted in location and confuse us, there were new rules, or even a new president in office which shifted the federal building regulations. Yet it sort of felt like an oasis where I could rely on some constant variables to be stable in my entire adolescence of turbulent times. Louise was probably the one person who embodied this constant more than anything as essentially the boss of the front desk.  I’m not going to pretend as if Louise was only kind to me. Sure, we talked a lot about life in those years, but her main mission seemed to always be serving the veterans. She wasn’t just a constant for me, but for everyone who entered the hospital as a friendly familiar face that was there everyday. Despite being at the VA for a couple years, the amount of faces that come and go everyday make it difficult to pin down the same veterans unless they were frequent visitors.  Sometimes I’d be pushing a veteran to an appointment and they’d remember me as someone who’d helped them in the past. I’d feel guilty as I could not remember everyone I encountered in my time there. That would be simply impossible. Yet Louise probably knew almost everyone that went there and was deeply ingrained in the community and loved by all. The hospital was always shifting and had something changed every time I returned. Since Louise was there all the time, she knew pretty much everything. In other words I’d be confused about how to punch in a clinic extension on the new front desk phones and she’d have the answer. If someone appeared asking for an office I’d never heard of, Louise would know exactly where it was. She was extremely competent, which I feel is a hard quality to replace. I have never met anyone who was so positive, joyous and hard-working. If she had troubles she certainly didn’t show them. In order to do such a job as she did, you have to really care about what you’re doing and she for sure did. The amount of people she helped with her friendly presence, calm directions and easygoing demeanor is countless.  We have had so many laughs over the years, seen so many people come and go and seen the hospital go through so many changes. A lot of the time my incentive for going to the VA to continue volunteering and helping the veterans was simply because she was there and I wanted to catch up and hang out.  A lot of the veterans have health issues or other issues going on so I think one of the main things the VA taught me was being patient and accommodating. Speak up if they can’t hear you. Talk to them if they’re lonely. Make conversation and tell them what university you go to. Go shopping with them in the Patriot Store even if it takes awhile. In a world with so much cruelty and pain, the least you can do is extend a hand to those in need. Louise really embodied this and honestly I can’t think of anyone more inspiring because of that. Her final day at the VA a couple weeks ago on Halloween was bittersweet. Retirement was deeply deserved for all the hard work and love she poured out. Yet as selfish as it sounds, I was a little upset that this constant variable in the last three years was about to disappear. Then again I realized, I am not the same person I was when I was 16. Who really is? It almost signaled the end of an era of life for me, and the start of a new chapter. The VA is not going to be the same without Louise. There’s no doubt about it. Yet it’ll continue operating, because despite all its problems, it needs to. People need people like Louise. That’s why I am going to continue volunteering when I can, because it’s all about kindness. So thank you Louise for all the years of laughter, tears, growing up, stories and hanging out at the front desk. I wish you well in retirement, and even though we’ll all surely miss you, it is no doubt apparent what an enormous impact you made and continue to make on the lives of countless people.

To whom it may concern,  Have you ever asked yourself who is holding the pen to your life story?  There are moments when you look back at your life as if it were a book, every experience a page, every year a chapter. The funny thing is you realize you never actually agreed to write it. Page after page and chapter after chapter have already been written for you. Paths you did not choose or ask for. Decisions were made in courts and conference rooms where your presence was not needed. Plans were drafted for your future by people who never asked who you hoped to become. For an exceedingly long time, you were not the author of your own story. Your story has been shaped by systems, strangers, case numbers, expectations and society; anyone and everything else except you. Your circumstances were shaped by adults who “knew better.” Your narrative was not yours to begin with. It was already planned and labeled before you got to say a word.  They say, “You are the author of your own story.” But let’s be honest, are you really? How can one be the author of one’s own life when they are not given any choice? When you have been told where to live, who to trust and what to feel until your own thoughts fade away and you just start to follow the script. Your identity has been reduced to statistics, stereotypes and a box that you barely fit in.  You never got to write the beginning, did you?  None of you ever got to write the beginning of your story. It has already been written and set in stone for you to follow like an obedient child. You wake up and get on the hamster wheel, thinking you are going somewhere. But are you? Have you ever thought about the fact that you are just running in endless circles? No, because everyone else is also doing it and many pages of your story tell you to do so. How do you stop the circle? How do you even know you are in an endless cycle? Now, the question that haunts all of us: Are you ever allowed to reclaim the pen? And if you do then what? Will the story be done then, or are you going to write over it? Can you simply start fresh? Trying to cover a deep scar with a tattoo does not quite erase the pain. Just the look of it from the outside. The body and the mind remember. Do you wonder if, maybe, just maybe, the power does not come from rewriting or erasing the past? Maybe it comes from acceptance and refusing to let it define you? Strength is not about forgetting the pain or running away from it. You only become stronger once you have embraced and made peace with the past.  On the days when you feel like a side character in your own story, when your voice gets small and your hands feel too weak to hold the pen, do not get comfortable with someone else drafting your story. Even if you have learned to sit back and let others speak for you. Even if you are afraid of what your own voice will sound like, use it anyway. You must still crave control, even if it scares you.  Here is the truth: you can, and you will take the pen back. No matter how your voice sounds, you can write it out. Write badly. Write nervously. Write beautifully raw and honest. Whether it is a whisper or a shout, you can choose the next word, the next sentence, the next chapter, good or bad. You are allowed to fear the pen but still write anyway. Don’t worry about what others may think because guess what? At the end of the day, it is “me, myself and I.” Be selfish because you deserve to be after years of following orders like a puppet. Make mistakes on your own terms and scold yourself if you want. You can reclaim what has always been yours from the start. The story is yours and you are the main character. Not the victim, not the side character, not a stereotype, but the protagonist of a perfect story that is still being defined. You can stumble and fumble with the words. Make as many mistakes as you want and still own every word of it. A story that gets to be whatever you want it to be because it is yours. With love, Someone who took back their pen.

In a bid to balance a multi-million dollar loss in revenue from international students, the University of New Haven has fired or merged the responsibilities of some 46 faculty and staff members since June 2025. Jens Frederiksen, UNH president, and other cabinet leaders confirmed growing student concerns about missing staff during a public assembly with the undergraduate student government association in October. Included in that figure are staff members under the umbrella of diversity, equity, inclusion, accessibility and belonging. Some have been terminated, while some have had their responsibilities merged under different titles. The position of vice president for institutional diversity and inclusion,  created by the USGA vice president of community advocacy and diversity in 2023, has been eliminated since the firing of Barbara Lawrence  in May. This academic year, the university has 2,300 fewer students attending on F-1 student visas, which effectively removed $28 million from the university’s 2025-2026 budget, according to Frederiksen and Deborah Flonc, associate vice president for budgets and financial planning. Figures from 2023 show   83% of the university operating budget  comes from enrollment. Flonc said the dip in enrollment has been anticipated since March, within the annual budget proposal period. While Frederiksen described the international enrollment cliff as ‘catastrophic’ during talks with students, Flonc feels differently, expressing her excitement for career services and student affairs initiatives. “I wouldn’t even call it a crisis necessarily,” Flonc said. “What we are going through right now is a blip, and it is a phenomenal opportunity for the university to really dig into all of the different departments.” “We’re doing a lot of assessing at a very granular level to make sure that we’re investing in the right areas of the university,” said Flonc, "and sort of redirect funding so that it's in places that make sense.” At an October town hall meeting hosted by the USGA and the Graduate Student Council, Frederiksen answered questions about the school’s financial challenges. Frederiksen withheld comments pertaining to ‘personnel matters’, as he referred to them as. Together, roughly 140 students attended, as well as multicultural RSO leaders like Nicole ‘Nikki’ Rosario, president of Latin American Student Association. “But I think what people are asking is,” said Rosario, “how is the university looking to help the minorities who are directly being affected?” “Though we do get a certain sense of support, it does feel a little empty when these people are being fired.” Rosario said, “That's a group of people who [are] losing their voice.” “Well, it's always a little bit more complex than that, right?” Frederiksen said to Rosario, “What I can say is that funding will continue, and if there are individuals who are leaving, for whatever reason that may be, that we will continue to invest in that area and continue to have staff there to support.” At the meeting, Gabriel Aliendro, diversity peer educator in the myatt center for diversity and inclusion , asked Frederiksen, “How are we establishing a community on campus despite this recent cycle of terminations? Because we cannot effectively establish a community without grounded foundations within the faculty.” “I could be sort of delusional and say we're going to spend and we're going to invest,” said Frederiksen in return, “but then there wouldn't be any programs to run, right?” When contacted by Horseshoe, Frederiksen issued a statement in which he said that “no particular demographic was targeted” in the firing process. “The university carefully approached its reduction in headcount through a workforce-planning process,” said Frederiksen. “We also conducted a reassessment of functional needs to ensure that staffing decisions were made thoughtfully, responsibly, and in support of the institution’s long-term goals.” Jen Cinque, vice president of human resources, declined an interview with Horseshoe and said, “Based on the response [Frederiksen] provided, I do not have any additional information or context to offer.” Bonnie Urciuoli, professor of anthropology at Hamilton College, says Black students rely on multicultural faculty mentorship for success, in the ethnographic  study "Neoliberalizing Markedness: the Interpolation of ‘Diverse’ College Students." . Affiliations within the university, she says, provide students isolated bubbles of opportunity where there are none elsewhere. Before he was fired in September, Kenneth Notorino Jeffrey was MCDI assistant director and advisor to four Black and Latino organizations. Jeffrey helped to coordinate the ‘Men of Color Collective,’ a Black mentorship affinity group, with other faculty. His door was marked with flowers and affirmations from students before the nameplate was removed by facilities. In March 2025, the mentorship group changed its name to “Men's Collective.” Brian Ibarra, former faculty in the dean of students office, founded MOCC but left at the start of this semester. Timothy Prince, who had been coordinator of leadership diversity and inclusion since 2023, also left the university in October, saying he struggled with the decision because of his relationship to students in multicultural RSOs. “Nobody ever thinks it’ll happen to them,” said Prince, “but I’ve seen three waves of this.” The job terminations of his friends and colleagues pressured Prince toward the ultimate decision of leaving his position in the center for student engagement leadership and orientation. Prince said he offered to stay with the university if he was promoted to assistant director of the Myatt Center, but administrators asked him to wait a year to have that conversation. Prince’s UNH position, listed in the university job opportunities  index, is now titled “Assistant Director of Student Leadership & Intercultural Engagement” .  That is three roles merged into one new position, (MCDI assistant director, associate director for fraternity/sorority life and programming and coordinator for leadership diversity and inclusion). The recent change removes “DEI” from Prince’s former title. One of the first to hear of faculty firings was Sheraud Wilder, a senior in psychology and president of the Gamma Alpha Tau chapter of Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity, Inc. Jurea McIntosh, sister of Zeta Phi Beta Sorority Inc., told Wilder she was terminated in July from her role as associate director for fraternity/sorority life and programming. Since beginning her role in 2024, McIntosh has frequently collaborated with Prince to advise the multicultural Greek Council. “Jurea tirelessly worked day in and day out,” said Wilder in a letter to Horseshoe Magazine, “to ensure that the FSL community was not only revived but thriving prosperously. Only to silently exit the university without any acknowledgment of the impact she left.” In Urciuoli’s study, she listened to stories from students and staff and explored the conflicts instigated by university leadership in their mistreatment of crucial student services, which are “seen from the outset as a diversity delivery vehicle.” One surveyed student  echoed Wilder’s sentiment. “One by one all these people who were so key in bringing us here started leaving,” they said, “and we started to see the qualms about our program on this campus.” Urciuoli’s research builds on a 2011 study, Ilana Gershon's ‘Neoliberal Agency.’  The capacity or act of exerting power, the agency to bring about change , is different from Gershon's ‘neoliberal agency.’ In agreement, Urciuoli says BIPOCs’ choices “are between limited possibilities, with the structural reasons for the limitations systematically overlooked.” Therefore, institutions have continued loosely establishing DEIAB programs, Gershon says, “as long as the cultural difference at stake can be commodified or otherwise marketed.” “For the more racially marked,” Urciuoli said, “their primary social function is their appeal…these [constructed pressures] reinforce rather than mitigate students’ markedness because they are the only ways in which students can acquire symbolic capital.”

This is the story of a headless mannequin’s journey through tragedy and triumph, as well as how she ended up at a college house concert party, as the center of attention for the first time in her life. In order to properly understand how Rachel was thrown into this life-changing situation, we have to first understand how I came to meet her.  On a Saturday, I and a fellow classmate ventured out to the far away land of Goodwill Outlets. In this space between traditional thrifting and heaps of donated goodies lies a gray area where dozens of fashion-hungry people search and sift through unwanted clothes and other items. I’m a rookie in the realm of thrifting, yet as we were about to move toward the cashier line, we spotted a disassembled jumble of legs and arms. I was initially hesitant to purchase such an odd assortment of mannequin parts, as the purpose of their use would be a mystery. Soon an idea was formulated in my noggin: to transport the mannequin to a new home. For too long it had been unwanted, cast away into the shadows, and in one simple act I could reclaim this lost piece of history and throw it into the limelight. To sweeten the deal, it was only $15, which was reduced to $10 once I revealed my interest to an employee. A tattered darkened husk of a plastic body–a proponent of designer clothing store displays–now found in a garbage pit of bustling shoppers. I knew at once this would be a rescue mission. Against my classmate’s better impulses and in line with what I knew my friends would enjoy, I purchased the headless mannequin in its entirety of disassembled pieces. She was soon named Rachel; her limbs were thrown into the back of my trunk. Later that day, I dropped off Rachel’s limbs at my friends’ apartment near campus, and they were taken in with loving and appreciative arms. I didn’t end up seeing Rachel again until about a week or two later when I visited the apartment and we were reunited. In the time that had passed, she had grown to amass something of a fanbase, many residents of the apartment greeting her on the porch as they entered and exited.  Now, she appeared confidently dressed in pajamas and a T-shirt. Soon the musicians entered the stage, which was actually the porch itself. It was Rachel’s moment to finally become the center of attention she was always meant to be. I took Rachel off the stage and carried her to the crowd of dozens, in which she became an instant party idol.  One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Discarded and lost a couple weeks ago, and being sold for dirty cheap dollars, Rachel was just that only a few weeks prior. Everybody deserves a second chance at redemption, and to me that’s what this felt like. As we enjoyed the concert towards the end raindrops began to fall. In the great evacuation of the porch concert electrical wires from impending watery doom, I grabbed Rachel to bring her inside as well.  I screamed her name like Harvey Dent does in “The Dark Knight” and rushed up a winding narrow staircase as, tragically, her legs became detached from her torso. Carrying both pieces up the stairs and screaming her name like a mantra as many people made their way past me, likely observing me as a goofball, I finally laid her to rest. Is it too much to make sense of this confusing world? Was Rachel just the center of attention because she was different from the rest? Or can respect actually be earned through true personality, charisma and kindness? I don’t know all the answers, and I surely don’t pretend to.  Everyone wants to belong, and everyone wants to fit in whether they admit it or not. It’s built into us like a survival instinct, as to join others you logically increase your chances of survival. Rachel wasn’t even Rachel until I called her that and gave her a home. There are people out there that you’ll never meet if you don’t start the first conversation, or lend a helping hand. Sure, some connections are coincidences. Yet it’s in us to make a free-willed decision to take that chance. It’s quite possible I was acting on impulse when I bought that pile of plastic limbs. All the same, however, sometimes you have to trust your gut. Now you might be dismissing this as a case that doesn’t apply to real life, but I would argue it does. Be yourself. Be weird. Be embarrassing and seek out discomfort in everyday life or else how will you be able to really grow? If you’re content all the time in your room, would you have ever frolicked with a Goodwill-sourced mannequin in the midst of a hundred college students while a band played on a porch? I think not. Seek the adventure. Go outside. Touch grass. Alright that’s a little on the nose.  It’s just I can’t shake the feeling that a lot of people do not understand that what other people think of you most of the time doesn’t matter or carry any actual weight?  The worst thing that could happen is you might be judged. But Rachel, oh Rachel, there’s one thing about her.  Rachel doesn’t judge.

SATIRE Pip Iguana Pinto, local pawfluencer, is making the rounds in headlines. Just as in previous times, she’s not sorry. I had the opportunity to sit down with Pinto to get more insight on the situation and to learn more about how she’s processing her fame. A new men’s litterbox was added to the first floor of the Pinto Tower. Although the litterbox Pinto uses has been on the second floor for years, with her own special door that only Pinto can go through, the star had to try out the men’s litterbox when it was added. “It’s new,” Pinto says. This is nothing out of the ordinary for the feline celebrity. One of her previous antics was peeing on the carpet because she was in a onesie and “didn’t feel like walking to the box.” She also went viral after being caught on video licking cat treats on display at a PetSmart and not paying for them. The star-studded kitten takes a second to collect her thoughts before she continues: “And another thing! The new box is stainless steel. Mine is plastic. It’s tiny. Meanwhile, the men’s box is like the size of a mansion. Why do male cats always get the better option? I think it’s sexist.” Pinto views using the men’s litterbox as an act of rebellion. She wants better conditions for women’s litterboxes. Stainless steel should be for everybody. She’s telling the patriarchy to back off. She doesn’t care about rules or expectations. Pinto will pee wherever she pleases. There’s a sudden disturbance during the interview when the paparazzi start banging on the window. They must have realized Pinto was here when they saw her custom Range Rover with the pawprint headlights. Flashes of light keep shining into the room as Pinto tries to keep her composure. “Pip! We love you! Can we get a picture?” a man with a camera asks, screaming from behind the window. Pinto sticks up her middle paw pad. Her manager walks over to the window and closes the curtains. After that, Pinto gets up and uses the curtains to sharpen her claws. She mentions that she hasn’t gotten her claws done in a while so she’s been forced to take care of them herself. She sits back down to continue the interview. “I hate when that happens,” Pinto says. “ They’re like vultures. They have no consideration for other people.” She pulls out a cigarette and puts it in her mouth, waiting for her manager to come over with the lighter. We start to discuss how she’s been processing her recent surge in popularity. She’s quiet for a moment, but then begins to open up. “I won’t lie. It’s been pretty challenging,” Pinto says while twirling the cigarette around in her paw. She makes a sniffling noise. “If I go anywhere , someone is bound to know who I am. I love the attention, but I also miss the anonymity.”  The cat starts speaking in a softer tone. “Before all this, I was just another brown tabby,” Pinto says. “No one would even give me a second look if I passed by them on the sidewalk. Now, I can’t even go outside. I miss it.” Let it be known that prior to her quick rise to fame, Pinto was raised as a strictly indoor cat. Moving onto the topic of the future, the sky is the limit for Pinto. She explains that she never wants to stay in just one lane.  “That’s for losers who only have one talent,” Pinto says. Her goal is to conquer the entire world. She won’t stop until she is a household name. “I’m talking about movies, shows, record deals, books and of course, a podcast. That’s the ultimate dream,” Pinto says with hope laced in her voice. The last time we had as notorious a feline pop culture multi-hyphenate was the famous Grumpy Cat. That cat was on every talk show known to man. She even had a Christmas movie where Aubrey Plaza played her. I ask if Pinto pulls any of her inspiration from the kitty with a permanent frown. There’s a pause and a look of confusion.  “Who? I’ve never heard of her,” Pinto says. “Then again, I wouldn’t know much from the olden days. I’m pretty young.” Finding no ashtray, Pinto puts the cigarette out on her manager’s arm. Reaching the end of our time together, I ask Pinto if she has any advice for other cats who want to make it into the business. She takes off her sunglasses and stares directly into my eyes.  “No matter what they do, they’ll never be as successful as me. Because no one can ever be me. There’s only one ‘Pip.’ Well, except for that chipmunk from that one Disney movie. That’s who I’m named after,” Pinto says. “Nevertheless, I dare them to try.”

SATIRE Photo Credits: Me. These are my crawl space squirrels. Say hi. Sept. 9 at 8 p.m. of this year marked the beginning of the enriching experience that was the three new additions to my life.   I was alone in my apartment—a rare occasion since I shared the space with two friends, so I decided to turn in early and get a head start on my nighttime routine.  Standing in the middle of my bathroom and scrolling through my music playlist, I heard what sounded like drips of water. Even more startling, I looked down and saw that my socks were wet. Water was leaking from the crawl space above my bathroom where the air vent resides.  Exasperated, I reach up to see what could possibly be leaking when the smell hits me.  No, this wasn’t a leak. It was pee. And looking down at me through the gap of my air vent was the beady gaze of a squirrel. Its cute little face pressed into the gap as it urinated all over my recently swept, vacuumed and mopped bathroom floor. Exasperation aside, I didn’t want to be rude, as the furry little friend was clearly trying to introduce itself.  Our first impression must have gone over well because soon after we locked eyes and I screamed in shock, it began growling with joy and clawing at the open gap with such fervor that caulk and plaster sprinkled into my eyes and nose, momentarily blinding me.  Now this could be taken as a mildly traumatizing experience, but I took it as a compliment. It isn’t everyday that someone likes your apartment so much they try to move in.  But like any responsible and kindhearted adult, I worried for the safety of such a delicate creature going so ballistic above my head. I took some precautions so it wouldn’t get through the gap and fall onto such hard tile (I called pest control).   But as the universe saw fit, I learned that pest control doesn’t take calls in the evening... nor do they handle animals inside a home, because why would they ever do that? But this was certainly a blessing in disguise. If pest control had come when I called, I wouldn’t have met the rest of the family upstairs.  When I reentered the bathroom, there wasn’t one pair of paws nor two, but three pairs reaching for me with violent passion, clearly unsatisfied with my crawl space and would much rather be inside my home.    Call me introverted, but meeting three new residents was just too much for me, especially as they all chirped, growled and yowled at me all like a choir.  Sadly, our apartment lease had strict rules on how many occupants can reside in the apartment. At midnight, when all my current roommates came back home, we did have to notify our landlord (you would have thought the presence of three squirrels in a crawl space would be considered an emergency. Turns out it isn’t). While the individual we talked to on the phone was very kind and worried, animal control was not… meaning both the landlord and apartment residents pestered animal control for months to come help the poor squirrels and were met with broken promises and radio silence.  But the past two months of radio silence from animal control bloomed into my roommates and I bonding with our mildly threatening companions in our crawl space.  How could you not get attached when for the past couple months you have had to duck and cover your head under the crawl space to not get peed on? Or the fact that at about 6 p.m. you can hear them scratching, chewing and cracking objects above your head while trying to use the bathroom. Or my favorite—the squirrels chewing on wires that made our light flicker and sitting on the bathroom light making it sag from the ceiling. The constant reminders of their presence became a comfort to us all.  My favorite memory of the furry friends is that their arrival in our crawl space somehow aligned with everyone in the apartment, me included, developing an unknown sickness that plagued us for weeks. Good times.  Another month of no-show animal control turned us into detectives. We were perplexed on how these squirrels seamlessly entered and exited the crawl space, so we sleuthed around outside. Our furry friends were geniuses and used tree branches that laid against our roof as a convenient ladder to hop right into our crawl space. I mean, come on. With that level of ingenuity, who could be mad? But wait, there’s more—they came prepared. The squirrels also realized brick is the perfect wall-scaling material, and wires are easy to grab as rope. Not only do they use the tree branches, but they can also rock climb the building to the roof like a squirrel Spider-Man variant. So really, it was a matter of when and how we all met.  But like all good things, it must come to an end. After three wonderful months of coexisting, they were humanely removed from our crawl space…evicted. Their entrance was closed off by maintenance. I find myself missing the constant state of fear and edge they would put me in when I entered my bathroom.  Before they were evicted, however, they left us a few parting gifts. When the outdoor temperature gets a little too warm, our bathroom smells faintly of barnyard and pee, assuring that we never forget our former pawed residents.  When they resided above us, they made a cute little nest that animal control forgot to remove with the tenants, so if the vent is on, occasionally a dusting of leaves and bark will sprinkle atop your head. It helps me feel especially refreshed and ready for the day when I get out of the shower and nest confetti sticks to my freshly washed head.  Occasionally they pay us a visit, climbing to my bedroom window sill and yowling outside from dawn to dusk. They scratch at the window pane and wave hello to me while I try to get work done in peace. It’s like they know when I need a break.  They haunt the narrative, if you will, reminding me of the bond we shared these past few months and the memories we created together.  I wish the best for my new friends and the next phase of their lives. I appreciate all that they gifted us—the lasting remnants they left behind, that we have the pleasure to deal with to this day.

It’s 2:19 a.m. The house is quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but that heavy  silence that makes you aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The click of the heater. The clock seems louder than usual. Everyone else is asleep. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, and I am the only one  awake. I should be asleep too. But I’m sitting here in the glow of my screen, thinking about something that keeps circling in my head. The person you are when no one’s watching. That version of yourself. The one that shows up when the world goes still and there’s no one to impress or perform for. The one that doesn’t care what your face looks like or what anyone thinks. During the day, it feels like I switch through many  different versions of myself. There’s the one that smiles at teachers, the one that tries to sound normal with friends, the one that pretends not to care too much about anything. Sometimes I catch myself laughing a certain way or saying things that don’t even feel like me. It’s like I’m building a character that people will like better than the real thing. But then the day ends. The lights go off. The noise fades. And I’m left with only me That’s when it feels strange. Because when all the people and the expectations are gone, I’m not totally sure who I am. When no one’s watching, I talk to myself out loud sometimes. I snicker to myself. I scroll through old memories. I think about things I never say out loud. I let my brain wander to all the stuff I hide behind jokes and small talk. I’m not funny then. I’m not confident. I’m  a person trying to figure things out. It’s weird how different we can be when we’re alone. Not better or worse, just… real. When no one’s there to tell you how you should act, you stop pretending. You stop holding your stomach in or picking the right words. You just exist. It’s not always comfortable. Sometimes being alone with yourself feels like standing in front of a mirror for too long. You start to notice every little flaw, every thought you’ve tried to ignore. You see the person you actually are instead of the person you want to be. And that can be hard. Because what if you don’t always like that person? What if the quiet version of you feels a little lost, lonely or tired? I think that’s the version that matters most. The person you are when no one’s watching is the one who feels the truth first. The one who knows what you actually care about. The one who remembers who you wanted to be before you started caring what everyone else thought. When no one’s watching, the mask drops. You can cry without feeling dramatic or judged. You can dream without feeling stupid. You can say what you think without worrying if it sounds weird or will draw eyes. That person might not be the one the world sees, but they’re real. Maybe the most real. Sometimes I think about how strange it is that so much of who we are is never seen. No one knows about the conversations we have in our heads or the moments we talk ourselves through something painful. No one sees the way we sit in the dark and try to make sense of it all. Those parts of us are invisible. But they’re the reason we keep going. I guess being alone isn’t just about silence. It’s about meeting yourself again. Without the noise. Without the pretending. And maybe that’s something we all need more of. The truth is, we’ll spend most of our lives switching between different versions of ourselves. Over time, I’ve learned you shouldn’t put on a character. You should embrace who you are. And if the people around you think of you a different way… they aren’t people you should be around. Maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to bring a little more of that real self into the daylight. Being brave enough to let the world see the person you are at 2 a.m., even if it’s messy, even if it’s not perfect. So here I am. It’s 2:19 a.m. The glow of my screen is fading, and the silence feels heavier now. But in this moment, I feel honest. I feel like myself. Not the version everyone else gets, just me — tired, overthinking, wondering, existing. The person I am when no one’s watching. And for now, that feels like enough.

SATIRE No one ever in the wildest dreams ever expects to be viewed as THAT person. The person who ends up experiencing such a tragic event that they are forever known by it. They are marked by the thing that happened to them, the thing that is so unspeakable, so… traumatic.  This is my story.  My daily walks are part of my special routine and it is something that I pride myself in; they're my way to decompress after a hard day crossing the road. My path is always the same from the roads, past the school and right through the woods. I’ve done it everyday since I could remember. That all changed on Clucktober 29. As I was coming to the clearing where I would typically enter the woods, I suddenly felt something hit my head.  It was a feeling I had never quite experienced before. It was a small but  mighty plop, leaving a small sting that lingered on my head. I reached up to grab it and found it was a small and round little thing that almost looked like it was wearing a hat. I immediately knew what it was… a piece of the sky. My stomach dropped as I realized more and more what this meant. “THE SKY IS FALLING!” I yelled in a panic as I began to run the other way.  I knew I needed to tell everyone and spread the news. They all needed to know what was happening. I mean who wouldn’t want to know that it’s their last day on Earth? Because I was in such a heightened state of worry, I zoomed through the street screaming “THE SKY IS FALLING, THE SKY IS FALLING.”  On my way through town, I could see the panic being incited by everyone–mothers trying to shield their babies from the panic. Citizens speeding through the streets in an attempt to reach their loved ones. I felt terrible for the destruction caused by my message but it did not matter. I couldn’t stop until everyone knew what was happening. It was my duty to let them know. I sped and sped as fast as any chicken could go until I made it to the town square, where I could share my news at the podium. As I confidently walked up to the podium, I was prepared to make my statement. I tapped on the microphone and was greeted with some quick minor feedback and the attention of all the citizens of Cluck Haven staring back at me. Through fear and nervousness I stood up and stated, “Citizens of Cluck Haven, as I am sure you heard today, during my regular 2:30 p.m. walk, a piece of the sky fell on my head.” Citizens began to shift from a state of panic to a blend of fear and intrigue as I spoke. “I am here to present you all with the piece that hit me.”  The crowd's intrigue grew as I pulled out the round little brown thing with a hat once again. “May I present you all with a piece of the sky.” I had succeeded in letting the citizens know the horrific news and I could now present my findings. I pulled out the sky and held it proud for the world to see. But something changed. Suddenly the face that was once a look of intrigue turned into confusion and exasperation. I just couldn’t fathom why.  “THAT’S AN ACORN YOU MORON!” I heard someone yell from the crowd. Strings of screams and profanities were aimed at me as I tried to fight back, “IT’S THE SKY! I SWEAR IT IS! JUST LOOK! NO ACORN LOOKS LIKE THIS.” But that was it. The people made their choice. The sky wasn’t falling, and me… I was just viewed as “crazy Chicken Little.” Life would never be the same after that. The next few days were extremely hard to get through. I was shunned by all of my friends and the town decided it would be best if I went to a center for troubled chickens. Tysons Home for Future Dino Nuggets, they called it. When I was admitted, I brought the piece of the sky with me. Everyone here believes me but that's not enough. My own town disregarded my warning and shamed me. So now I’m here at Tysons, wondering how I can ever get Cluck Haven to understand that the sky is falling and it fell on me. Thank you all for listening.