CHARGED-UP RESULTS

I feel as if I’ve been on autopilot for this entire semester. My last semester. I was so focused on completing tasks in my courses and fulfilling every requirement as the executive editor. It left me without a point in time when I really soaked in the fact that I only had a few months left at the University of New Haven. And now, it’s turned into only a few weeks. My journey through Horseshoe Magazine was a bit different from other people’s. I was in an interpretive and editorial writing class where what we chose to write for the course would most likely end up published in either the newspaper or magazine. Being focused on getting a good grade in the class, I never once planned on contributing to the magazine once the spring 2025 semester was over. I had already spoken to Susan Campbell, my advisor, about classes that fall and knew I would be contributing to something since I was registered for the journalism practicum. I had more experience writing for the newspaper, so that was my instinctive answer if I had to choose where I was going to write to earn the points for the practicum. I’d lay low. Fly under the radar and pass. Until Haiden Leach, the magazine’s managing editor at the time, sent me an email about wanting to talk after class. I’ll be honest. I think I had around four conversations with her in total, so I had no idea why she would want to talk to me. But when I did, her and Elisa, the executive editor, sat across from me and explained how they wanted me to take Haiden’s place since she was graduating. And the semester after that, Elisa would be graduating. Meaning within a year, I would become the executive editor. I remember my face growing red as the two of them overloaded me with compliments on my writing. They made direct eye contact with me as well, which made me squirm even more. It’s not necessarily that the attention was uncomfortable. I just wasn’t used to being seen. I can still picture the big smiles on their faces after they explained how everything would work, and how they grabbed each other's hands when they asked, “So…would you be interested?” So much for laying low. I didn’t have anything to do right off the bat because it was the end of the semester, but I still got to sneak my interpretive piece, which I did for extra credit, into the final edition. Called “Cardinal,” it was a discussion about my belief in feeling the presence of my deceased loved ones whenever I saw that particular bird. While writing the piece was something I did on a whim, I ended up winning first place in the Society of Professional Journalists (SPJ) contest under the column/commentary category. I didn’t even know Campbell submitted any of my pieces. For someone who was used to feeling like I faded into the background, recognition was a whole new experience for me. Recognition for something I loved to do. And I would get to write about whatever I wanted for the next two semesters. I approached my managing editor role in the way I know best, with anxiety. That, and just a splash of perfectionism. I spent the first couple of weeks feeling like I was messing everything up instead of helping in any way. I don’t cope well with not immediately being good at something the moment that I try it out. I learned how to properly complete my tasks rather quickly, but knowing of the inevitable graduation of the executive editor who could ease my woes with her melodic laughter loomed over me. I want to thank Elisa for believing in me when I felt discouraged about stepping into her role after she graduated. There were lots of times when I would send her novel-length texts about how I didn’t feel like I would live up to my peers’ expectations or that I wouldn’t know what I was doing. Her replies were always simple, but encouraging. “You’re already doing it.” That’s what Elisa would tell me every time. She knew I was ready before I did. And while I started to believe her, I still hesitated to ever say “I’m ready” out loud in fear of setting myself up for failure because I might sound too confident. The higher the expectation you have for yourself means more chances where you could be disappointed. That was my logic. Flawed and filled with self-doubt. Don’t think I had some sort of revelation or anything. That logic is still my default, but I’ve learned to give myself more grace over these last couple of months. I’ve learned that asking questions is okay, but when you ask the same thing multiple times, you need to find that reassurance within yourself that you know what you’re doing instead of constantly checking with someone “higher up.” I want to thank Patch for not only being the best investigative editor you could ever ask for, but also for stepping up to the plate to be the administrative editor for the magazine. Elisa provided ease because of how extroverted she was, but Patch brought great comfort because I felt like they understood me. They didn’t make me feel bad for taking a while to come out of my shell. They were patient and were always there for me if I needed someone to talk to. I also want to thank Abby, my managing editor and soon-to-be executive editor, for also helping me along the way. I honestly knew from the end-of-semester party in spring 2025, my first time meeting her, that I wanted Abby to be my managing editor. If I wasn’t texting paragraphs to Elisa, I was sending them to Abby. Out of everyone on the staff, Abby has been here the longest. She has watched the executive editor at the time build the magazine from the ground up to turn Horseshoe into what it is today. She has the most experience in the magazine, which is why I know it’s in good hands. I want to thank Azam for his charming randomness, which was able to pull me out of my funk if I ever felt low on energy. I want to thank Djemima for agreeing to be my literary editor even though she was nervous. I knew that someone with that kind of dedication and creativity deserved to be in charge of that section. I want to thank Taylor and Anaylee for agreeing to join when Abby sought them out in their shared English classes. I was amazed at how quickly those two were able to catch on to how the magazine worked in such a short amount of time. Lastly, I want to thank Campbell for pushing me to write for the newspaper and the magazine. If it weren’t for her, I would have never found the place that makes me feel like I belong somewhere. Signing off, Gabriella Pinto

Photo Credit - Nora G When I first stepped onto the University of New Haven’s campus, I didn’t think I was going to be an English Major. Thinking back, I had a vague and safer plan in mind, something that wouldn’t raise that question at family gatherings, “But what are you going to do with an English degree?” English and any style of writing felt like the ultimate secret, like something I kept hidden in the margins of my favorite book. Reading was always an escape as the library became my home, and I often wrote words that held no commitment. It had been years since such words had been etched from my pencil with such vigor as it did that night. The lead shaved to the slanted point of the years I’d blocked myself from taking that part of my mind solemnly. The change didn’t happen in a quick moment of clarity. It was a slow start, like all real changes in small, almost accidental events. The familiarity of the quiet cold air met me at the tips of my ears in my first semester. The low lamp light burned my eyes as I was buried under assignments and textbook chapters for classes that I felt distant from. Every page was re-read until I could remember the last line, but forgotten in the same notion once I turned the page. Different words were floating in my brain, and the crickets chirped, teasing my inability to think. I opened a blank doc, told myself I was still being productive without doing anything school-related, and started writing a poem. At first, it felt uncomfortable, like speaking a language you haven't spoken or practiced for a while. The meter was uneven, and the images were unsure of their likeness. But something kept pulling me further and further forward. I wasn’t thinking about structure, grading rubrics, or whether it met the class criteria. I just wanted to craft something honest and true to myself. When I finished, a strange feeling lingered along my skin. Steady, but not of excitement, recognition. Like I was in my childhood bedroom again. At that moment, something washed over me. I looked at my work, and all of my textbooks, and something changed. The words weren't perfect; in fact, they were a complete mess. But the feeling of these words escaping my mind and being etched into the world by my pencil, the feeling of home that I had missed. I missed the procedural-like atmosphere, consumed by a thesaurus of chaos, that shaped language into emotion, memories into meaning, and feelings into connection. The thing I missed most of all is the way of thinking that writing demands of you: patient, pensive, and unafraid of obscurity. The days that lingered after felt like time would decay. I reread the poem over and over, not to criticize it but to understand why it mattered so much to me. It was just a poem, something familiar. Yet slowly, the question formed itself: if this matters to me, why am I not chasing it? Choosing a major to pursue didn’t feel like something that had to be questioned anymore.It was a path that had started to expose itself after being hidden. What kind of work did I want to spend the rest of my life doing? What did I want to bring to the table? When I examined those questions, English didn’t feel dissatisfying; it felt like the most logical answer. Declaring my new major wasn’t theatrical. There was no public service announcement, no heartwarming conversations; it was straight crickets. It was a quiet decision, with submitted forms bearing official logos and emails to advisors for meetings and switches. A breath washed over me as I was finally grounded in a way I needed, the recognition that this was a line of work I had a heart for. Every sentence read deeply, writing carefully, and observing how language shapes the lens through which we see things. I stepped into a world where those things were prominent and not fragile. With all this said, the feeling hasn’t been the same since that day. The fresh start offered me a pure sense of excitement. The essence of rediscovery and possibility painted every one of my senses. Everything was painted a different shade, brighter, newer, bolder. Though the classes I took before would be something I couldn’t carry with me, the semester went on. But soon the initial clarity became clouded. Getting into the guts of being an English major, you quickly hang on to inspiration. But there is more than that; it's about revisions, frustrations, some burnout, and sometimes sitting in front of a sentence that won't cooperate with the rest of your work. Some texts will challenge you, not just the ones you would get along with. It's about learning different techniques, as writing doesn’t always convey a smooth expression of thought. It's a process of reshaping, reanalyzing, and starting over. There have been moments when the same cold air on daunting nights has plagued me, and I questioned my decision, not because I felt regret, but because I felt prowess. When something matters to you at an astronomical level, it is harder to go about it with a calm demeanor. The skates felt sky-high, bad drafts felt like water torture, and a difficult assignment lingered like shadows in the night. But that’s how I knew that the decision was real. The excitement that flowed through my body that night when I wrote the poem never truly disappeared; it had changed. It wasn’t instantaneous; it was grounding and laborious. It shows up in the smallest of ways every day. Sentences click together after multiple revisions, in a discussion group where the text takes us on a deep dive into an unknown direction, and in the notion comes the realization. I am learning how to think precisely and creatively at the same time. As time progressed and we approach the present, my feelings about the major have become more lasting. Looking back at the initial moment with that poem, the click of recognition I had was important because it revealed a part of me that I had locked away. The days that followed, the workload, and the ideas that flowed made it all stick together. I don’t know for certain where this path will truly lead me, and I’m okay with that in a way that would have made my heart race before. What I do know is that choosing English as my major wasn’t about having the answer to every question. It was about doing something that felt meaningful and the willingness to take it seriously. That night, writing that poem is engraved in my memory. I didn't just rediscover something that gave me an immense sense of joy. I rediscovered a way of thinking, a way of seeing, that I thought I was ready to leave behind. That, more than anything, was how I knew.

Photo Credits: Djemima Duvernat I am sure that we have all heard the famous "everything happens for a reason," but I wonder who the genius behind that was. I would love to meet them and subsequently get some explanations along the way, too. Being a college student is one of the strangest experiences of my life so far. I mean, there was a time when I could not wait to be here, but there was never a time when I longed to be an adult. Life took care of that for me, and before I knew it, I was an adult trying to have a childhood. How strange is that? Some days, I wonder if I can give it all back, but then it dawned on me that I literally never asked for it. Kind of what it means to be a woman these days, a constant broken record of "I never asked for this," and yet here we are. So, let's talk about what being an adult means: having my life together or paying my own bills? Does being an adult mean taking the high road or forgiving and forgetting? Some say, "don't let your childlike spirit die," but I sometimes feel like the people who say that have had the sweetest childhood, even if that is probably not true. I am not saying every thought that has ever crossed my mind has been a sane one. Being sane is overrated; we are all walking around being held together by coffee and duct tape, and some of us survive on energy drinks and prayers. I have not transitioned to energy drinks yet, mostly because of this deep fear that I will destroy my heart. Which is quite ironic when you think about today's dating world, where it is mostly all of us giving up our hearts to literal toddlers. It seems to be a trend to have a significant other, like everyone and their cousins seem to have someone. Then there's me; happier in my room with a book and a glass of water that I sip on like it is wine; at least until I am old enough to have the actual thing. I am wondering what chapter I missed. I must have stopped listening when they covered this during orientation. It is not like I have never had my heart broken before, yet still, I have never had a boyfriend. I have, however, had my heart broken enough by men to wonder: how do I love again? How do I forgive? How do I even let them past my walls? Nevertheless, if I am being honest, there are days when I feel this very strong urge to have a boyfriend. I know, I know. I just said I was happy sipping my water, but feelings are not always consistent, and neither am I. I think it is a fear of missing out (FOMO) if I am being real with myself. Everyone seems to be building something with someone, and some days I wonder if I am missing out on something beautiful. But then I come back to reality, and I think about the fact that I have been getting my heart broken for free and entirely without asking for it. No relationship, no label, no explanation, just damage, courtesy of men who did not even have the decency to earn the right to hurt me. So, the real question is: should I really choose to hand my heart to a stranger? Because at this rate, loving someone on purpose feels like the bravest and most terrifying thing I could ever do. So, what does love look like to me? Honestly, if we are going there, I would love a finance man, a trust fund, six feet tall, and blue eyes. But let’s be realistic, they were probably all claimed after that song went viral It is nothing to them or me; we are just two parallel lines that will never meet, and I have made my peace with that. Joking aside, I think what I really want is something quiet. Something that won’t cost me my sanity before it even begins. I want love that feels like safety, not a gamble.

Photo Credit: Anaylee Hough For spring break this year, I decided to take a last-minute trip to Florida. I haven't been on a spring break trip in my entire college career. It’s my senior year, too, so I decided I needed to go away. I’ve been to Florida before when I was younger, but I decided to give it another try as an adult. My friends and I went on a tour boat in Miami, and saw beautiful views of the Miami skyline before sunset and after. The boat route went through an area where celebrities' millionaire mansions were. The houses were huge. Every house had different architecture, Some were modern, and some were Spanish style, all beautiful and massive. On the tour, we got to see the famous rapper Rick Ross’s house. To our surprise, he was there on the dock! We got his attention, and we waved at him. This was definitely one of the highlights of the trip. The skyline was another great part ofMiami. The skyscrapers and the palm trees oddly blended well together. Photo Credit: Anaylee Hough Food is definitely a huge part of a vacation. One of the restaurants that my friends and I went to in Miami was called Cactus Club Cafe. This restaurant is very popular on social media because the famous Hip-Hop artist Drake mentioned how good their Peach Bellinis are, which is pictured above. The perfect peach flavor was good indeed and it wasn't too sweet. The staff was so nice and helpful. The aesthetic of the restaurant is beautiful for pictures as well. The food is good at a good price for such a popular restaurant. I got their Rigatoni Bolognese, which was nice and cheesy. Photo Credit: Anaylee Hough I also went to Fort Lauderdale for a couple of days. My friend and I walked around Los Olas Boulevard, which is in the middle of Downtown Fort Lauderdale. We stopped by this dessert shop called Hoffman’s Chocolates. Their cookie monster ice cream was tasty. The beautiful blue color is what piqued my interest in buying it. The only downside was that my mouth was blue for the remainder of the day. I knew this would be a consequence, but I couldn't resist. Photo Credit: Anaylee Hough Las Olas Boulevard had so many beautiful views of Fort Lauderdale. The Riverwalk by the New River has scenic views and massive modern yachts. Walking along the Riverwalk was very calming. People walk their dogs with beautiful buildings, restaurants, and clothing stores passing nearby. It had the feel of a city, but without the bustling aspect. This is a great place to visit if you want some time around the city part of Fort Lauderdale. Photo Credit: Anaylee Hough We can't talk about Florida without talking about the beach! Fort Lauderdale Beach was very lively and enjoyable. Especially because it was spring break, there were a plethora of people all over playing beach volleyball, tanning, and listening to music. There's a strip of restaurants and clubs across the street with loud music, making the beach feel like a huge party. The water was bright blue and perfect for a hot day. However, the weather can change in Florida in a quick second. It started to drizzle but the sun was still shining. It wasn’t too bad and everyone stayed on the beach. It honestly felt quite nice. A couple of seconds later, however, it started to pour as if we were in the Amazon Rainforest. 30 minutes later, the sun decided to make a comeback, and the rain had stopped. Overall, Miami and Fort Lauderdale are amazing places to visit!

SOME CONTEXT ON MY CURIOSITY I was a middle schooler when my mom took my brother and me to Gettysburg, P.A. I looked at the big field blankly, being too young to comprehend its magnitude. My older brother pointed to the spot where General Reynolds was shot down, and somewhere, there must have been where Union artillery blew thousands to bits in Pickett’s Charge, marking a major turning point in the Civil War. At some point soon thereafter, I read the book “The Killer Angels” and two others, which chronicled the events of Gettysburg and the war. I did not retain most of the information to the present day, unfortunately. Still, I remember finding it fascinating learning that some Civil War generals were veterans of the 1848 Mexican-American War (I will admit, I did not even know what that was when I read it). These veterans understood that massive charges of soldiers akin to Napoleonic warfare would now be too costly due to the Industrial Revolution. The weapons were suddenly just that much more deadly, and they knew that the shovel for digging trenches was just as important a tool as ammunition was. Most of the Confederate generals were made up of these experienced veterans, perhaps explaining why they prevailed in the first half of the year. You can take historical facts and apply them to the present in endless ways. They enhance understanding of things without even conscious awareness sometimes. When Ukrainian soldiers visited the University last year, they spoke about how American training had prepared them for desert conditions, such as in Afghanistan, not the urban forests of Ukraine. When they applied that specialized training in such a different setting, it was costly. In addition, veterans of the 2014 Russian Invasion understood new drone technology, compared to new soldiers who were unaccustomed to it. It just made that much more sense when combined with seemingly unrelated background knowledge. When you understand history, everything in life carries more weight. It provides helpful context, and it’s not just about warfare. I know why our U.S. Congress is split into two houses, and therefore better how it works today. I know what helped lead to the Soviet Union’s collapse, so perhaps I know a little better what the villainous Putin now hopes to achieve. I know how Napoleon’s conquests spread not just intense nationalism to many parts of Europe through his code, but also sexism ingrained in law. My father’s parents grew up in the Great Depression, who saved every penny and finished all the food on their plate. This must have seeped down to me, as I try hard not to waste food when I can. You see, I didn’t just become curious genetically; I had to have learned it. Another example was that my father always pointed out local buildings made of brownstone, because it was all mined from the Portland Quarry in Connecticut. Our neighborhood was built on the foundations of an old Boy Scout camp; that’s why there are rotted wood planks embedded in our far backyard. History provides vital context to the world you’re living in. MY FORMAL EDUCATION Over the past year or two, however, I have become extremely aware of how little the public education system actually taught me. A lot of what I have learned has come from my own curiosity. I do appreciate my 8th-grade teacher, who taught us about Andrew Jackson’s Trail of Tears and the living conditions of slave ships. He spoke to us about the usual George Washington’s crossing of the Delaware, of course, among other events that culminated in our nation’s founding. Yet, I really appreciated how he didn’t dart around subjects that were hard to talk about. We got a minute-by-minute timeline of September 11th, 2001, which is taught every September, of course, but I really only remember his lesson in particular. So for being eight years ago now, it must have been conveyed pretty well by him. The public education I got was very well funded, considering that I remember Hammurabi’s Code of Mesopotamia being a big deal in sixth grade. I took AP U.S. Government & Politics and AP European History in high school, and I have to say, those courses deeply impacted me looking back. It made more sense years later, visiting the British Museum in London to look at hordes upon hordes of stolen stuff from every civilization. Travel naturally provides cultural education, and although I have been privileged enough to travel overseas twice, one’s wallet doesn’t usually allow for it. Still, my exposure to global history was and is limited. Colonial history has been glossed over, told only from the victor’s perspective. I desire to know more about Asian history, for instance, something I know little about. It is all a blurred afterthought for so many, even in the 20th century, which I consider to be very recent. It’ll take me years to catch up, or perhaps my whole life. That’s why I worry, because if someone doesn’t have a conscious, alert motive to learn, they may not know anything about the world they live in. As much as I know, there’s always something historically that I don’t know. Or that no one knows for sure, but that they’re trying to find out. I’ve been called an old soul before, or even a nerd. So what, if I was looking up the story of Hank Williams’ death again? Or looking up the ancient use of elephants in war in relation to Alexander the Great? Isn’t that what the internet is for? I’m wary enough to try to dodge AI sources and other non-credible sources, fear not. Perhaps I care so much about it because, for how important history seems, it appears delicately fragile. Recently, the National Park Service began removing slavery exhibits as a part of President Trump's order to remove “corrosive ideology.” To say this is senselessly disgusting by any moral standards is an understatement. It however becomes even scarier if you know about historical attempts to erase previous history, and how dangerous they are. IN DEFENSE OF THE HUMANITIES We’re taking a bit of a detour here, but it’s an important one, I assure you. People have always divided subjects in such a way that many students identify as either a “math and science person” or a “history and English person.” It’s true, on a surface level, they appear to demand opposite skill sets. These unspoken categories of learning, however, could box people into learning only one of these simply by being labelled constantly. This has real history behind it. In the financial divide here against STEM and the humanities, it can be shown that the Cold War may have served as a catalyst for the US government funneling considerable amounts of money into science and technology education. One of these pieces of legislation, the National Defense Education Act of 1958, was spurred into action after the launch of the Soviet Union’s Sputnik. It was the first Earth-orbiting satellite, and Americans soon feared losing their global hegemony. These subsequent priorities on STEM have continued into this century, as the internet, digital tech and advancements in medicine require skilled professionals. I acknowledge this, especially when writing for a school known for its forensic science programs. There is no doubt in my mind that these skills are extremely important. However, everywhere I’ve looked, shows the arts, histories, sociology, civic education and communication have been under-prioritized financially. Without attention to the humanities, we may have critical thinking and creative problem-solving shortages. I believe we already do. We would have no theatre or music, philosophical outlooks, or understanding of world religions without the humanities. Spending time immersed in the words and beliefs of others changes people’s capacity to connect with them, it is shown. From better conversational skills, easier empathy, the humanities present solutions that aren’t just numbers; they are open to interpretation and endless. We need more of that right now. MY FORMAL PLEA I seem to love history so much that if careers and finances didn’t matter, I might just drop everything to become a historian. Journalism seems to be the closest I can get to it, which I must have gravitated towards unconsciously. I understand that for many, though, it is just extremely ingrained that they are better at one subject and not another. I can see this in myself. I did math in high school, and now I run from it like the plague. While I don’t remember myself being good at math, I certainly wasn’t bad. Otherwise, I would not have survived precalculus. To start learning again would require a motive outside of career or finance, but to develop myself. It would be a challenge, but nothing good comes easy. Start with what you’re interested in. Find an easy magazine with pictures. Browse the library for a topic that you love. There is no expectation to read an entire book, although I recommend it. A lot of people believe ‘everything happens for a reason’. I never believed that entirely, so now I’m changing it in my own personal way and saying that ‘everything happens because of a reason.’ The reason lies in history, whether it was last week or a hundred years ago. We have access to more information readily available to the literate public than at any other time in history. So if you’re bored and scrolling Instagram, confused about the stock market, worried about a worldly conflict’s complexities, or want to find out where your favorite sport came from, then do me a favor. Keep some history in your back pocket for me, will you?

I often see my adolescence as a well-worn, tattered tapestry or a dirt-stained quilt. The fabric is woven with trial and error lessons, backbreaking work, and long, tiresome hours. After some time and exposure to the rays of the sun, the colors of said quilt have become bleached. Seams split and worn out frays add to its layered texture.  I often lament how this tapestry of my adolescence used to be in its humble beginnings. Perhaps in speaking of innocence, I’m speaking of a universal metaphor for us all, as we all experience growing pains adjusting to adulthood. Even so, I have always felt particularly intense about this matter, almost obsessively more so than others. I view the quilt as a ruined rug; shredded and defined by its ugly patchwork stitches. Others seem to hold it up as a museum piece of bold beauty, which I find difficult to understand. They’d see the original fired bricks laid 4,000 years ago of a Babylonian structure in modern-day Iraq, and discuss its miraculous resistance to eroding weather. I’d perceive that same structure as carrying too much painful baggage; its 1990s Gulf War bullet holes are just the latest edition in a long line of endless barrage. A common illusion that one has as a young adult is that adulthood offers rich promises. For some reason, that checklist of having a job, a car, and a romantic partner seemed to line up like an Egyptian sundial to perfectly illuminate the definition of ‘making it.’  In such a baseline, naive understanding, I truly had to have held all of these ‘checkpoints’ at one point or another to realize that they didn’t define adulthood in the slightest, despite society’s conforming pressure. In addition, I have known many people who had all those things or more, yet either they decidedly handled them wrong or suffered the burnout intensely. The grass was never greener on the other side, at least not entirely in that generalized sense.  Some things are learned and then forgotten. Mistakes repeat until the lesson sticks. For instance, calculus had been discovered by Greeks, scholars in India, and others around the globe before Europeans developed it in the Enlightenment and the Industrial Age. As such, I’ve had to (as many do) learn these lessons over and over, until they finally stuck. It’s frustrating to know that the world would have advanced much sooner if the original calculus manuscripts hadn’t been destroyed, forgotten or overwritten in irrelevant Eurocentric narratives. However, we understand those concepts now, which is really what matters, even if it took us an eternity to get there.  I had begun an idea around three years ago, in one of my long-lasting literary landmarks. It was a rudimentary poem that I privately sang, with an audio clip of my friend playing the piano in the background. To me, this was the Ancient Babylon that really mattered and chronicled my being as a whole. While outsiders admired the impressive Ishtar Gate, I cherished broken copper bowls once meant for the dead. They spoke more for the reality of life to me than just its surviving highlights of great magnificence.  The words spoke of myself in third person, as a man who did not shroud emotions and who had a strong resolve like stones, more so than some. Contrasting peace and violent war, it was structured like a lost fable. Regrettably, it did not leave room for many nuanced complexities of the real world, making the vague concept easier to gravitate towards as an emotional anchor.  It centered around the concept of myself as a medieval court jester, spreading cheer and joy to courts far and wide, yet the real irony was that such a jester could mostly not smile or feel that cheer himself. It was an evocative doomsday knock on the door, begging for self-love, but it remained equally polarizing as a tragedy without a set solution.  While I speak of the past, I have come to the realization in its full, profoundness only quite recently, that my own memory is not often reliable. Externally, it may be easy to playfully tease a friend about their forgetful memory, yet I feel that that generalization does not account for all of the brain’s capabilities. I’ve always believed in a naive sense that my own memory was considered very reliable. I still really do remember a lot of my life, or a lot of my adolescence at least.  However, I have noticed that an emotional bias attaches itself to certain memories, perhaps more so than with my peers. An otherwise spotless pane of glass is soon frosted over with ice, often without my awareness of its full effect. This unreliable memory, even if only blinding me in certain spots, has surely pervaded much of what may be otherwise fruitful logic with swift cascades of emotion.  The joyful memories can appear ever more enchanted to points of minor delusion, and the sorrowful memories build atop each other, with the potential tension that one would expect from someone endlessly about to knock down a long domino chain that only grows with every passing day. This reinforces my intense pendulum swing of mood as not only a symptom, but a learned habit that builds off of itself.  I often feel like a child, in the best and worst ways. I know that I am endlessly curious and full of desire to learn everything I hear about, which aids me increasingly in my chosen career of journalism. I know that this childishness produces knee-jerk reactions that plagued me more in my adolescence than I’d want to admit, although I am advancing significantly in ability to counter thoughts that may otherwise prove hazardous.  Logic is the police to the crime of feeling too strongly. It’s just that the police used to take forever to get there, unfortunately, and sometimes still do. It’s interesting as the common definition of the word childish usually consists of images that come to mind of immaturity and juvenile tantrums. It holds a negative connotation, especially when used in a context of adulthood’s heavy responsibilities. I know that I may be immature in the sense of my silly antics, yet it does not reflect arguably more crucial aspects of my being. Childish also means light-hearted, spontaneous, imaginative, and open-minded. And a lot of energy, that too, which honestly isn’t such a bad thing now that I know my limits of exhaustion. They see me as a unicorn, but I usually feel like a pufferfish. It is the push of crushing despair that gets me out of bed early and out of the house. It’s the reason why I learned to problem solve and articulate interpersonal skills. Why I’m creative and therefore humorous. They counteract each other like two enemies ever so eternally fighting tooth and claw, as is the way of reality, sadly. Others that may be new to my life may pass through my illuminated window of hyper amusement and believe it’s desirable. I wish to explain as humbly and regrettably as I can that every extreme joy that I feel is matched every time, almost like clockwork, with a sorrow so anguishing and full of bitter blindness. The greater the suffering experienced; the greater the peace that is usually lived thereafter.  This cruel exchange ping pongs back and forth seemingly a million times a day, forcing me to adapt, as to not be stretched between tidal forces of a black hole. Back to the jester, of course. Is it possible that medieval jesters were also intellectual authors or poets? Is that court jester who entertains the court also a practicing doctor or surgeon? Can it be that the judge is, in addition, a criminal? That a noble knight is also of poor humble origins?  These things can certainly be true, yet it remains difficult to imagine that two contradicting ideas may both be correct in a realm of seemingly concrete beliefs. Some indeed say the jester lives life to the fullest, yet it may also be fair to say he feels more sorrow than many. Pulling apart these reinforced iron bars of deception that threaten to paint our world in such a narrow way that it simply never will be is a great struggle of the world, in my opinion. Everyone has a nuanced story, believe it or not. This emboldened curse or horrid blessing that I bear, whichever it is, fuses with the rational intellect I borrowed from my father and the empathic sensitivity that I loaned from my mother. Coupled with that logic on police duty, arriving swiftly on time as of late, I have been allowed to see the world in a way in an abstract yet hauntingly beautiful manner.  We tend to get wrapped up in our own lives. We believe everyone’s thinking about us, yet the only people who are worrying about ourselves with such intensity and destructive analysis are ourselves. We evade the reality that every passing soul is a being with family and dreams. Apply this to distant foreign wars or any massive statistic, and you’ll have trouble with this logical fallacy. I was recently in the Yale British Museum for Art, alone with my near-empty iced coffee, waltzing around like a fool. I remember looking up at these paintings of long-dead people. Drawings of poverty-stricken farmers carrying crops in British-controlled India. I could feel the sweat on their back, the tiresome nature of their body. They may have been experiencing heartbreak, helping an elderly relative with ailing health, or reminiscing about yesterday's humor.  I saw a depiction of a wealthy British woman in a sapphire dress, and wondered if she was married to a husband who gave her those jewels. What were her pastimes? What made her feel sorrow or fear? Ancient Babylonian structures are in sad ruin, yet they are also inherently beautiful due to their age. The tapestry of my adolescence (not even my entire life, mind you) is tattered and worn, yet its texture has built resilience and shaped character.  These things sound obvious when spelled out so plainly, yet in the moment, you’re just a being of flesh on a spinning tilted rock in celestial space. And it’s lonely, even if you’re surrounded by ten million strong. Don’t pretend it’s not. I suppose, if one such as myself really wanted to understand the jester, one would have to furnish art in pursuit of meaning, embrace light-hearted childishness when relevant, and walk the hills for centuries yearning for nothing and also everything.  I’ll be sure to remember to clear my frosted windows with photos and writings to remember prior years. The moment I became an adult was not when I turned 18, 19, or 20. It was to not have a girlfriend or own my driver's license. It was not when I entered college, either. It was when I began to stop fighting reality and knew that I couldn’t control it all. It’s when I gave myself room for navigating tough decisions that needed attention with logic and care. It’s when I looked in the mirror and knew that some frosted glass in my memories was inevitable. It’s not supposed to be a light switch, as frustrating as that sounds, with most issues. It keeps on going, as it does without final resolution. So thank you, loving court jester of the medieval courts, who brings such good laughter. I’ll forgive you for any wrong directions you gave or hearts you shattered. I’ll forgive you for any offended royalty you overwhelmed drunkenly or for your guilty internal struggle. The King just uses you for entertainment, I’m sure you know, but I really have seen enough of you to know that you truly, truly do contain multitudes.

Art by Azam Hostetler It is no secret that Bridgeport, Conn., is subject to local feelings of polarizing scrutiny, as well as avoidance and fear from those unfamiliar with the region. Bridgeport’s rates of violent crime are extremely high, and it has consistently held the highest population  of any CT city.  In 2019, law enforcement  reported that Hartford had the most murders and New Haven had the most burglaries, with both cities ranking highest in violent crime for the state. However, an accurate assessment places Bridgeport near or equal to those cities in crime frequency, with higher rates in other categories.   The city of New Haven achieves consistently positive press with various outlets  highlighting the city’s pizza scene and stunning Yale architecture. In comparison, Bridgeport has not received much favorable media attention, despite similar crime statistics. Matthew Muriel, a senior at UNewHaven, has lived in Bridgeport for most of his life and is of Colombian background.   “I think the reason why Bridgeport has a worse reputation is that it’s been considered a bad place for longer than New Haven,” said Muriel. “And when you go on the news, I feel like you don’t really see too much going on in New Haven. They don’t get really any big headlines as much as Bridgeport does.”   Muriel, who has lived in the north end, west, and east sides of Bridgeport, said that crime news in Bridgeport seems to be reported to news outlets immediately.   “New Haven actually has a higher crime rate than Bridgeport, believe it or not,” said Muriel. "New Haven has a lower level of crime, like they have a lot more petty theft, Bridgeport has more like higher severity crimes, but less of it, if that makes sense.”  Armand Majewski, 71, a lifelong resident of Bridgeport and a 1976 graduate of the University of New Haven, reflects on living through changes that turned local industry south. He himself worked in some of the major factories, served on the town committee, and was involved in education.  “What little bit of property we used to have used to be profitable from factories long ago,” Majewski said. "You know, Remington Arms, G.E., or Bridgeport brass; there’s a hundred different places that I could name that were once thriving parts of what kept this country safe in World War II.”  Around the time of World War I (WWI), Boston Avenue in Bridgeport held 13 interconnected buildings spanning across 80 acres. Tens of thousands worked  at factories and were housed nearby.   Soon thereafter, Remington Arms, acquired by General Electric, was supplying warring Allies in Europe with ammunition and weaponry. At the time, the Russian Czar was also a major customer in need of rifles.  “Connecticut’s rife with these pockets, Bridgeport’s one of them. They once thrived because they had all the factories that helped industrialize this country,” said Majewski. “Now there’s no industry there or anywhere in the United States; it all got shipped out.”  In the Roosevelt years of New Deal politics, the federal government faced a housing shortage in the wake of the Great Depression. A nationwide refusal  to issue loans and mortgages to African Americans in neighborhoods deemed ‘too risky,’ left many people of color excluded from new suburban communities. A policy known as redlining that deemed racial groups unfit to live together prevented minorities from obtaining insured loans.  Owen Jeffery Butler, 21, is a former student of UNewHaven and currently studies international affairs at George Washington University.   “I’m from New Jersey, but redlining has had an incredible impact on my town,” said Butler. "My town is almost entirely split between what you call the Valley and what you call the hill. And the Valley is all low-income neighborhoods for the most part, and very heavily minority populated.”  Butler, having personal experience from home and from studying in both New Haven County and Washington, D.C., expressed how widespread the effects of national redlining have been.   Online maps  from the University of Richmond illustrating segregation practices, show Bridgeport as a heavily affected area by this economic exclusion. Inexpensive factory housing built during WWI eventually turned into public housing projects with slum conditions.  Maps of 1930s racial redlining in Bridgeport continue to reflect present-day patterns, with entire neighborhoods graded and ranked by level of safety for investment. Well-funded high-income areas like the North End still to this day represent better neighborhoods.    Areas such as the South End and East Side of Bridgeport continue to experience heavy crime  rates and low income, with minorities  mostly living in these areas. These demographics align with online maps of the 1930s practice of state-sponsored racial segregation.   Although redlining was halted in 1968 by federal legislation , loopholes persisted, and the effects prevailed.   Butler, studying and living four blocks from the White House, speaks of clear racial and economic divides in Washington, D.C. that relate to local problems in Bridgeport.   “People are less likely to commit crimes if they have stable, well-paying jobs, because why get ahead when they’re doing pretty well?” said Butler. “A lot of lower-income neighborhoods often lack that, and a lot of people end up going into crime because they’ve got less to lose.”  Muriel appears to agree with these sentiments about crime.  “You have people that live in these cities that are struggling so much that their only option is to rob, kill, whatever it is, because if they don’t do it, they can’t feed their families,” said Muriel. “It’s a them or me, kill or be killed type of mindset.”  While violent crime cannot be defended, it reflects a lack of understanding among outsiders about the underlying conditions that have shaped communities. Despite similar challenges in other cities, a strong stigma surrounding Bridgeport persists. Exaggerative claims, such as assuming people from there are automatically not safe, or that someone would hear gunshots immediately if they had visited the city, reinforce this belief.  “Bridgeport does have a large amount of violence and drugs or whatever,” said Muriel. "But it always gets dragged out. People compare Bridgeport to Chicago, like no way it’s that bad.”   The census displays how diverse  Bridgeport is, a characteristic that locals say is a strength of the city.   Its rich past remains hidden behind the graffiti and closed down factories. For instance, the Freeman Houses remain on the South End and are the last remnants of ‘ Little Liberia ’, a former oasis village for freed slaves and Native Americans.  Kenneth Wright, 20, a student at Northeastern and a second-generation Jamaican, has lived in both the Bronx and Bridgeport his entire life. Wright attended a private regional high school to avoid the Bridgeport public school system, which he said is underfunded.  “We have a big Jamaican population, a big Latin population too, and Brazilians too,” said Wright. “Those are the main spots to eat in Bridgeport that I know of. Some good things are that we have Port Jefferson, so you can literally hop on the ferry and go straight to Long Island.”  Former UNewHaven students like Butler expressed no reason to travel to Bridgeport due to a simple lack of need. Despite the city’s lack of beauty in appearance, it’s still home to over 150,000 people.  “Those are places I used to walk around,” said Wright. “I used to go there and walk with my grandfather to get food and stuff…All these other towns, you can really look at them, like Easton, they have money.”  The diversity, food, and culture are what make the city special for Muriel. He expresses the need for street smarts and knowledge of the area for easier navigation. Muriel said, “If you drive through the east side, on a good, nice summer day, you’ll hear Puerto Rican music and you drive for like two seconds and it's Jamaican music, some R&B, rap, whatever. It’s just something that you wouldn’t get in a place like Fairfield or a place like Greenwich.”  He expresses love for the diversity and huge Latin community, which blossoms in celebration during international soccer events.   “We have like little mom and pop restaurants, I kid you not, from every part of the world,” said Muriel. “If I wanted Chinese food, Jamaican food, Colombian food, or anything I could think of, Bridgeport has it in quality.”   Areas with Section 8 housing are environments where residents grow up to experience social challenges, poverty and possible resentment. “They either end up in crime willingly or unwillingly, and they continue to abuse substances, ending up in a form of generational trauma,” said Butler. “If you want to solve this issue, you have to go after every part of it. Policy makers keep on trying to do it and it’s difficult.” Despite the longstanding challenges, Bridgeport is making a slow recovery. The city’s police department reported a significant drop  in crime in 2025. After years of development work, new apartment  units are opening on the Bridgeport waterfront.  “We’re building more apartments,” said Wright.“There’s one being built downtown and one being built on the port, which is going to be luxury and affordable apartments.”  Be that as it may, the apartments expected to open this summer will hold rents with up to $10,000, likely in an effort to attract higher income families. It can be said reasonably that many local residents could not afford such a price range. Meanwhile, wealthy neighbors who live close in proximity to struggling residents feed into understandable resentment and tension. For instance, Sacred Heart University  and its student housing itself have increasingly encroached into the city’s North End along Park Avenue. With a former convict serving as mayor, a persistent generational stigma and an outsider’s fear of violence, Bridgeport is often the subject of jokes. As featured on “ Family Guy ,” Bridgeport is painted as an instant danger to anyone who strays nearby. While stereotypes persist, the truth is more nuanced.   Decades of economic racial segregation have shaped communities and continue to contribute to poverty among minority communities.  Nevertheless, Bridgeport’s vibrant cultures and intense diversity offer strong sources of community. The food scene is booming, Port Jefferson provides water transport for many, and a rich industrial past adds to the city’s history. Attractions such as Bass Pro Shops, Beardsley Zoo, the concert amphitheater, and the accessible waterfront draw economic tourism to the region. Higher education opportunities exist at the University of Bridgeport and Housatonic Community College.   “Yes, Bridgeport, you know it’s not the wealthiest, not the prettiest looking, but it’s like our home, you know what I mean?” said Muriel.  While in contrast New Haven appears on the surface as tourism-friendly and safe, repeated cultural narratives and news broadcasting continue to reinforce a negative perception of Bridgeport. This furthers the problem by discouraging people from moving or working there.   There may be no need to defend Bridgeport, as its violent crime is evident to those who choose not to visit. Stereotypes can also reflect some truth, especially if shaped by social and economic context.  However, exaggeration of reality has distorted public understanding. Rich history should serve as a call to action to preserve, rather than let decline further.  Bridgeport can appear as an aggressive outlier, ye t it also remains a systemic victim.

Photo Credit: Patch Bowen Exigency, noun. “A state of affairs that makes urgent demands; that which is required; the state of being.” I’m a chronic info-hoarder, digitally and physically. I wouldn’t know where to start showing someone my watch-later playlist. I have every chapter of Lenin’s Revolutionary Theory of Organization  in a desk drawer, and the speech-to-text versions for each. My household drawers were stockpiles for filing papers, mail, tax forms, and IRS documentation. Don’t get me started on the shred paper filling stop and shop grocery bags, stuffed into every available corner. A career in investigative journalism makes sense for me, being raised financially insecure. Life in debt teaches you perseverance, or at least some resolve. I’m accustomed to finding documents, pulling papers and speaking in codes I don’t fully understand. That’s how I solved money problems at home and how my family saved me from theirs. I’m college aged and still prodding at people for the things I need to know. A degree from Fordham nearly cost my mother our house. She’s living four states away to better afford my grandparent’s medical costs, which have swallowed up savings for my secondary education. This degree in Multi-Platform Journalism isn’t going to save my family from poverty. It’s a hell of a motivating factor though. Saving is why I became a journalist. To save people, and that’s a simple thing to spend my life doing. Credibility,  “The quality or power of inspiring belief.” Consider who journalists are. What compels us to stand in front of picket lines or question federal authorities? Lived experience leads us to doing the work we do. This piece is largely inspired by the rhetorical undertaking of “How to Be an Anti-Racist”, by intellectual Ibram X. Kendi. I seek to define “honest” and “dishonest” journalism with clarity and specificity. This requires stepping backwards to assess where the news media has faltered. I’ve developed a spotting-framework for journalists to reference at any time, which will be published as a companion to this piece in Horseshoe Magazine’s final edition of Spring 2026. These criteria for effective communication will ultimately pave the way towards journalistic credibility. Impromptu Coverage Obscurity Equivocality Immateriality In 2024 I traveled to Washington, DC, with a cohort of 150 others who were disgusted by western complicity in Palestinian genocide. While on Capitol Hill, I spoke to reporters who were also moved to speak up for our fellow journalists in the Gaza Strip. I returned with a newspaper, fittingly titled “The New York Crimes.” Among the pages is a memorial to Anas Al-Sharif, a photojournalist who at 28 was sprinting towards shelled hospitals and bravely covering the Israeli military occupation of Palestinian land. He was killed, along with four other Al Jazeera journalists, in an IDF assassination. His eulogy is delivered and preserved by the Gaza Press Core and pinned up to the wall where I can see it at home. Al-Sharif was labeled a “Hamas militant," and his murder made headlines in CNN, ABC, and notably the New York Times, parroting Israeli propaganda. Not to mention the other four killed colleagues, who did not receive the same fabricated justifications for their deaths. Many passionate people just like me have been killed in the last three years. More journalists have been killed in 2025 than in the past three decades according to the Committee to Protect Journalists . More journalists have been killed in three years than in a century of Western imperial conflict, including both world wars, combined. This is the second consecutive year this record has been broken. Normalization of Deviance, “When people within an organization become so insensitive to deviant practice that it no longer feels wrong.” Frankly, the bar for copy editing is past subterranean. Articles are running with obvious grammatical errors, spelling mistakes, and even missing sources. The corrections aren’t in the headlines. Those updates, at times adding significant context to under-developed newsbeats, get buried by the algorithm. It isn’t what generates attention from users, so it doesn’t matter to the machine. If consequences are not immediate, repeated choices become easier to accept as normal over time. Cascading disaster is inevitable, yet decision makers in organizations do not see their choices as harmful; rather, they maintain that the deviant behavior was necessary. This phenomenon plagues organizations and institutions and is detrimental to the structure of public services like journalism. Consider the structure of most prominent news companies.   Shrinking newsrooms nationwide. More demand to sensationalize topics. Growing dissatisfaction with stories that do reach audiences. There is overwhelming, top-down pressure to manufacture profitable content instead of producing quality coverage. The average investigation costs above $200,000, from research to publication, and return on investment is never certain. News media cannot rebuild credibility if journalists are forced to make choices between employment and honesty every day. Sensibly, many choose a steady paycheck instead of braving the uncertain and dangerous field of independent journalism. There can only be so many lone wolf reporters in the field, though. “Individual communication skills are relatively insignificant in an environment where communication is distrusted by default” says Alan Zaremba, author of “Organizational Communication." Solidarity  Journalism, “…[journalism standing] for basic human dignity and against suffering, and is practiced through newsworthiness judgments, sourcing, and framing that center the lived experiences of people subjected to unjust conditions.” “The decision to report – or not report – on these conditions inherently leaves neutrality behind.” The Solidarity Journalism Initiative began at UT Austin in 2021, but this isn’t the first academic movement to address mainstream journalism’s inadequacies. The subject of “Human Rights Journalism” and “Peace Journalism” arose in the restructuring of post-apartheid South Africa in 1990. Journalists must consider the ways human lives could be valued as much as objectivity is. Omission of systemic patterns and historical context takes the news out of the news. This reduces stories to their passing headlines. No wonder so many drown in anxiety when CNN comes on the television. I pore over journal articles now, seeking permission to care about my stories from authority. I’m choosing not to dance around the loss of life now, for my own survival in a deadly news industry. I seek to archive good examples of thoughtful, honest reporting for others my age to reference. I hope that with these practices, human-centered ethics can rebuild the credibility of news as an institution in the global community. Surely, somewhere, another confused young reporter is searching through their folders for the answers as I did.  Solidarity might be that answer for them.

Photo by Adam Relkin Contributing Writer Adam Relkin To Mark Martin and Denny Hamlin, no kept coming up as an answer for wanting to change NASCAR for the greater good. Both never gave up and went out of their way to overcome incredible odds to make a change that has left the sport in a more positive light for 2026 and beyond.  I’ve been a NASCAR fan since I was six years old and have always loved the sport being a part of my life. After I had started watching, I noticed however that things were starting to go downhill over time. A decline in viewership and track attendance. The sport is not a talking point much outside of my house, especially since I was a kid growing up in a town north of New York City. Far from the sport's main market, the Southeastern U.S. In fact, the entire New England region has only one date on the NASCAR Cup Series schedule being at New Hampshire Motor Speedway in Loudon, NH. It took until 2025 for the state of Connecticut to hold its first NASCAR National Series race since 1970 when the NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series (NASCAR’s third tier series), made their inaugural trip to Lime Rock Park in Lakeville, Conn.  Some of the issues that fans and those in the industry had issues with included a controversial playoff format first introduced in 2014 and an ineffective business model of the sport. While the sport continued to rake in profits, teams in the sport would struggle to break even financially and operate at net losses and have to rely on sponsorship deals to stay alive. However, two racing legends who are well respected amongst fans, drivers and many in the industry did something that few thought could succeed.  Mark Martin, of Arkansas, scored 40 wins in his NASCAR Cup Series career spanning over 30 years. He may never have won a championship, but he was a fan favorite driving for legendary team owners such as Jack Roush and Rick Hendrick, among others, throughout his career. He retired in 2013, but remained a fan of the sport and was inducted into the NASCAR Hall of Fame in 2017. A controversial ending to the 2024 NASCAR season saw Connecticut’s Joey Logano score his third Cup Series championship. Logano was 12 th  in a full season long format (NASCAR has not used such since 2003) and had an average finish of 17.1 the lowest for a champion in series history. NASCAR saw the outrage amongst fans and began to consider changing the format after being against doing so.  NASCAR then formed a 30–40 member committee that would meet every few months to discuss and come up with changes to the format for the long term. The committee included NASCAR executives, drivers (current and retired), media journalists and personalities, team owners, TV executives and others. By this point, Martin had started to gain notoriety for complaining online about the championship format and other issues in the sport, but he refused to hold back because he was passionate.  He may have been the only one raising his hand and mouth in support of a full-season format in the first meeting, but as further meetings occurred, his activism led to more hands being raised. He wanted to be a voice and a platform for the sport's fans, who he believed wanted a full-season championship. While the first two meetings made Martin feel less optimistic about getting the format, he did later suggest returning to NASCAR’s 10-race “Chase” format instead as a compromise, which was used from 2004-2013 with no eliminations or rounds encompassing the final 10 races of the season.  When they did settle on the format, Martin felt like it was the biggest victory in his life, knowing he was able to get NASCAR to make a bold move, even if it wasn’t a full season.  “The fans win in this deal because even though they didn’t get what they wanted in it, they get a lot more than what they would’ve gotten if they stayed quiet,” Martin said in an interview  on Dirty Mo Media podcast The Teardown.  During NASCAR’s announcement of The Chase returning, NASCAR President Steve O’Donnell said, “What Mark did was, he got us to a position of what’s the right balance, and the balance between those who like the playoff and those that like that full season points and we believe we’ve struck that balance, we’ve got the best of both worlds where every race matters.”  Ben Kennedy, a former NASCAR driver and current Executive Vice President and Chief Venue & Racing Innovations Officer for the sport also said  that if not for Martin, the sport wouldn’t have made such a bold change to the format.  Being a voice for change can always go a long way if you don’t give up or stop, but what about suing your entire sport that you love to make change? Well, that can work too. Denny Hamlin has competed full-time in the NASCAR Cup Series since 2006. Hamlin has a resume of 61 wins, including three Daytona 500s and three Southern 500s, and is now a team owner in the sport, co-owning 23XI Racing with NBA legend Michael Jordan. Like Martin, he has not won a championship despite his record.  After over a year of failed negotiations regarding an extension of NASCAR’s Charter System (the sports franchising system, like other sports), NASCAR coerced all the teams  into signing a new deal or risk losing their charters. 23XI and another team, Front Row Motorsports owned by Bob Jenkins, refused to sign, viewing the terms of the deal as unfair and antitrust, which led to both filing a lawsuit against NASCAR in Oct. 2024. Both teams also cited the terms  as economically unviable for survival in the sport. Hamlin, leading up to the lawsuit, had been very vocal about the need for the charter system to become permanent and advocated for other things in the sport in general such as over development of NASCAR’s Next Gen Car, racing etiquette and the Damaged Vehicle Policy. He had voiced this on his own podcast, Actions Detrimental, which began in early 2023.  Hamlin also mentioned this before on the podcast that he does this because he loves the sport and cares about making it grow and getting the audience that it had when he was a rookie in 2006. He filed his lawsuit with that intention. Leading up to the lawsuit trial and hearings, both teams also had to fight to keep their charters through a preliminary injunction. They succeeded in December 2024, but a successful appeal from NASCAR in June 2025 resulted in their charters being taken away. Both teams ran unchartered from July until the end of the season. Efforts to settle the case before trial failed many times and the case went to trial in December 2025. After eight days of trial and calamity, both parties settled the case, Hamlin and NASCAR CEO Jim France were seen hugging each other, despite France staunchly opposed to altering the charter deal.  The settlement  included permanent charters, which were the main cause of the lawsuit, more say in decisions made by NASCAR, a share in international revenue for the first time, and a share in intellectual property rights. Hours after the settlement was announced, Hamlin posted on X (Twitter) where he said, “Standing up isn’t easy, but progress never comes from staying silent. The reward is in knowing you changed something.” As both Martin and Hamlin in the last year were able to make accomplishments in the sport that few thought they would succeed, this gives more pathways towards change if you keep talking. They both stood their ground and didn’t want to make a change for themselves, but for the greater good. Following in their footsteps, there are so many things you could accomplish that others will doubt you on. Be adamant about what you believe in, and always stand your ground.

Photo by Conor Doherty Contributing Writer Juliet Legassa College sports and athletes get a lot of hype from the outside, and their lives look glamorous. Athletes have games, team connections, school pride and access to many things other students do not have.  People don’t see what happens after practice - when athletes go back to their rooms, exhausted, open their laptops to start homework due by midnight, and then set an early morning lift alarm. Being a college athlete isn’t just physically demanding; mentally, it can be draining in ways that aren’t obvious.  Caraline Lambert, a rising senior on the Field Hockey team, said, “My mood can almost always depend on how my performance was in practice, or games. Even though my coaches, teammates, and others perceive me after a performance.”  Student-athletes are balancing full academic schedules with practices, lifts, film sessions, travel, and games, with little downtime. Even when there technically is free time, most athletes are thinking about performance -- what they did wrong, what they need to improve and whether they’re doing enough in their role. Playing time isn’t guaranteed for athletes, and performance can impact self-identity. That kind of pressure doesn’t just disappear when athletics ends for the day. The culture of sports makes this harder to talk about. Athletes grow up being told to push through pain and not make excuses. That mindset builds resilience, but it can also blur the line between being mentally tired and being mentally overwhelmed and drained. Admitting you’re struggling doesn’t always feel like an option for athletes. There’s a fear of being seen as weak or not committed enough to the team. Oliver Collier, a sophomore on the football team, said, “Yes, it gets hard, and there are tough moments. But you know it is hard for everyone and that you are all in it together.”  The National Collegiate Athletic Association has collected data on student-athlete mental health, and the numbers show it’s an issue. In surveys of more than 23,000 student-athletes across all divisions, the NCAA found that a significant percentage reported feeling overwhelmed by everything they had to do. 17% of male athletes, and 44% of female athletes. Rates of reported mental exhaustion and anxiety increased during the pandemic, although some numbers have improved since then; they have not returned fully to pre-pandemic levels. Women athletes consistently reported higher rates of mental distress compared to men. Many athletes also reported feeling pressure related to both academics and athletics at the same time. The NCAA has responded by creating mental health best-practice guidelines for member schools. These guidelines state that institutions must provide access to mental health services and treat mental health with the same importance as physical health. The NCAA  has also encouraged mental health first aid training for coaches and athletics staff so they can recognize warning signs and respond appropriately when athletes are struggling.  What really matters is whether or not athletes feel comfortable using the resources that exist. After talking to a student-athlete, and a Morgan's Message Ambassador (student athlete mental health club) Angelia Simou, a sophomore on the field hockey team, said, “I believe the issue is CAPS being our only resource. We no longer have a sport-focused therapist as we did last year, which costs athletes, as many may feel as though CAPS just ‘wouldn’t understand’ the sport aspect of their mental health.”  Availability to resources is one thing; accessibility is another. Athletes have such tight schedules, and if they cannot make room for mental health help, they will not do it. And some athletes may hesitate to book appointments because they don’t want teammates asking questions or for their teammates to worry or know something is wrong. Others may worry about how their coaches might perceive them if they find out they aren’t doing well mentally.  Simou said, “As both an athlete and an advocate for mental health, I think it would be very beneficial for our New Haven athletes to have a resource that can be sport-focused.” Mental health in college athletics is further complicated because it sits at the intersection of performance and identity. For many student-athletes, their sport isn’t just a hobby or pastime. It’s who they are, and part of their identity. Athletes are hard on themselves, so when performance dips or injuries happen, the emotional impact can be hard to navigate. When you add academic stress and personal life, it becomes clear why so many athletes report feeling overwhelmed in their daily lives.  Athletics can build discipline, confidence and lifelong friendships in collegiate sports. But expecting athletes to carry heavy mental pressure in silence doesn’t make them stronger. It mostly just makes them quieter. The national conversation about athlete mental health has started and the data proves it’s needed. It is important to question whether campuses are creating environments where athletes feel safe enough to actually use the support systems in place or if the culture of  “just push through it” is still louder.

Photo Credit - Erik Mclean As you get older, you come across paths that you have forgotten, and for me, it happens through music. Some songs become a part of your life’s soundtrack, and others are quiet and patient. They wait until the right moment to return to your memory as if it never left.  “Like a Stone” wasn’t just a song for me, it was a road that I will never forget riding on. The hummed feeling buzzed beneath something I was too young then to understand.  I was eight years old and sitting shotgun in a car with my dad. The faint smell of old leather and coolant was never able to get rid of the graveyard shift coffee that had turned cold. My feet dangled from my seat, and the world moved faster as the trees blurred into green shadows as they outran the dangers of something invisible. My baseball glove sat there next to me, a bit snug and very hopeful, just like all things were back then.  My father wasn’t a man of many words, but he never needed them. His music filled the silence, not with awkwardness, but a preciousness. We both knew that engaging in an outside conversation would somehow ruin the moment. The song would open low and deliberate, like footsteps that echoed down a school hallway. The bass didn’t just begin to play, it entered the room. It moved through the car and into my body, it settled somewhere between my ribs, and found a home in my heart.  There is a line that is about the longing for home and waiting. I just used to sing along then, not understanding but feeling it. At eight, the concept of loneliness was something that could be made out. It was known to me as more of a texture, or a quiet pause between. This song presented that pause, stretched it out, and made it into something beautiful.  My dad would tap his left pointer finger on the steering wheel, never missing a beat. He wasn’t performing; he was letting the music pass through him in the same way as me. I would sit there with my small and watchful eyes, absorbing everything with a realization that I was learning how to feel while being a dozen horizons away.  Those drives would impact me for the rest of my life. At home, some expectations make you feel as if it is performance review day, other things remain unspoken. The presence of my mother makes me feel the need to be careful, composed, and measured. I learned early on that I needed to have all my ducks in a row and needed to know how to present what was “acceptable”. Yet when I’m in the car, with the cool air of cracked windows swiping my neck as the wind whispers, I don’t have to act, I don’t have to fear.  The bass would come back, heavier with each beat. It invaded my chest, it was grounding. The feeling of weight would be lifted, and nothing needed to be said at all. The chorus would come next, reaching with desire about being home even when that place doesn’t belong to you. At the time, all I knew was the feeling, but I never doubted the words wouldn't follow. The feeling of searching would never leave.  The sight of the baseball field came too quickly. The crunching of the gravel under the tires as we entered the parking lot broke the spell just as the engine fell silent. The song lingered a few seconds longer, like it was soaking into the air and the seats, and then into our souls.  My dad would look at me, and that was enough to say everything needed. Years passed, as they do, without permission. Eight became eighteen, then older, and heavier. The world swelled, and so did the drawbacks. The places I once felt unquestionable became inescapable. The parts of myself that I jammed in the glovebox are ready to burst out. College is loud, but not the same kind I know. It's not just about the noise, but it’s pressure and assumptions. The constant buzz of being dedicated to work in a field you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to be in.  Then one late, exhausting night, in a room that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, we found each other again.   It started just as I remembered it, low and deliberate. I recognized it without a second thought. Not just the first few notes, but the weight it had. The bass didn’t just enter; it returned home. It moved through my veins with familiarity, pumping into my heart. It was a love that I could have never expected.  All it took was one blink, and I was back in the car. The smell of the leather, the quiet that the rolled-up windows kept in, my father sitting beside me in the driver's seat. A stage in my life where the definition of complication meant almost missing recess because another kid wouldn’t stop talking as we lined up at the colorfully decorated oak door. Now it all made sense.  The lyrics screamed what I couldn’t understand back then.  The endless search.  The longing for something permanent in a world that will always be shifting, even if you can’t feel it under your feet.  The something in the song about “finding a home” and going around didn’t feel hypothetical. It was like a recurring thought that I had in the back of my mind for years that came back to the front.  I sat there, older in more ways than one, and feeling the bass vibrate my body again. Every time we pull something to the surface, it is revealing. All my childhood fears, the silence that became my living space and the small moments where peace became a lifeline without me ever noticing.  I realized that those moments I shared with my dad weren’t just hushed drives, they were anchors. Those moments proved that while there are pressures, assumptions and uncertainty, there is a space where I could just be myself. Maybe that's what this is all supposed to be about. Not just the process of waiting, but truly enduring. Not just what you are searching for, but remembering everything along the way.  What some might describe as the “good life” isn’t a straight path. Honestly, there might not be a destination or even a “true” direction. It can be built out of moments that have been carved from destruction, chaos and beauty. Pieces of yourself that you get a chance to reclaim after being buried alive.  There’s hell in this, too. Straight cinematic hell, but not the loud kind. The kind where parts of yourself get lost and you have to choose if you want to move forward without them. The kind where you realize the mask is easier to wear than being yourself. But it becomes the only thing that feels real. As the song comes to an end, I gain something I wouldn’t have had at the age of eight. The escape I saw in those moments was my dad; he was teaching me a lesson. Stillness and presence are the most powerful connections you can have, and sometimes you just don't need words.  The song faded, and my automix began to transition us to the current year. The feeling ached for a long time after. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to search for anchors. I finally found the one that would secure me. I’m not completely repaired nor wrapped, yet it’s enough to know that things are real.  Like a stone, perhaps. Unfelt and static. But fixed, established. Alive.

Photo by John Mercatante Contributing Writer John Mercatante First Night Under La Tour Eiffel I thought I had a good idea what La Tour Eiffel would be like before arriving in Paris. There were so many photos and postcards that I thought that it would feel familiar or small enough to see with one glance. But as I walked towards it on a nice warm night with my girlfriend, the illusion of La Tour Eiffel changed every time I took a step closer to it until we finally got to the base.  We were standing with our necks craned back, quiet as ever and taking in every single part of the beautiful structure. I found La Tour Eiffel to be like some vast backdrop rather than something built; it was really fine-looking and genuine. There were a lot of people around us. The fact that they seemed frozen in time and space, as if they were all taking a breath and couldn’t release their breath until they arrived at the ending sight of the tower, was inspiring to me.  I’ll never forget my picture of La Tour Eiffel, however, I’ll always remember how I felt when I first saw that magnificent and grand structure. Before I went to La Tour Eiffel and was able to see its magnificent illumination and grandeur, all I had to go by in my imagination were photographs of La Tour Eiffel and what I believed to be its grandness. Not knowing that it existed beyond my imagination blew me away. Photo by John Mercatante Getting Lost in Venice Expectations for Venice's magic included structure - like a work of art, the gondolas, canals and the bridges are aligned in an orderly manner. What I found was chaos in a maze of beauty.  My girlfriend and I gave up trying to figure out where we were going or how to get there by using maps! We got lost wandering off the beaten path from tourists, only to find ourselves in beautiful secluded areas that most tourists would never discover. At times I saw gondolas drifting by me, and I instantly realized that the visual beauty of Venice is outdone by the fact that for many locals the aerial views provide an experience of normalcy.  Riding in a gondola is so soothing and calming, whereas standing and watching the gondola cruise by gave me an experience that provided me with more of a spiritual connection than I had imagined would occur by visiting Venice.  In Venice, photography isn’t the only thing you get to experience. There’s more to it than that. Everything about Venice was better than what I had expected. There’s something about Venice that goes at its own pace despite your readiness. Photo by John Mercatante A Quiet Sunset in Viareggio Initially, I thought Viareggio would offer me something beautiful and staged at the same time – a place swarming with tourists who try to shoot the perfect sunset on the seacoast. Yet the situation proved to be very different.  After having walked along the shore with my girlfriend, I could sense the serenity and the openness of everything around us – the openness of the huge Mediterranean that lay at our feet. Slowly but surely the sun started to go down and the sky began filling with diverse colors.  People were leaving the sea coast one by one, until we became the last two on it. All of it happened by itself, nothing artificial was put into action – there was no one who tried to organize a great scene. Nevertheless, being impressed by the scenery, I still took a shot for my photo collection. The picture left in my memory was not a photo, but its mood and emotions. Photo by John Mercatante Standing Before the Duomo Though I had seen images of it and despite knowing that it was big, there was no way I could have prepared myself for the sheer size of the Duomo of Florence and the level of detail with which it was made.   Once my girlfriend and I made that turn to see the Duomo, we both stood speechless. There was just so much detail on the outside of the Duomo to be seen. I expected to be blown away by the size of the building but I was left blown away by everything that was involved in making this piece of architecture. It told a story of the world over the past several hundred years and all it took for me to understand it was the exterior of the Duomo.  While I expected to enjoy the grandeur of the Duomo, actually experiencing the grandeur went above and beyond my expectations when you consider all of the craftsmanship, size and the immense amount of human labour that went into each generation of work. Photos may have provided a glimpse of beauty, however, they could never have conveyed the sense of one's own insignificance in comparison to the creation that would last for hundreds of years. Photo by John Mercatante Inside the Colosseum: Feeling History The Colosseum is a  remnant of a lost civilization. I envisioned it being more tourist-driven today, but the colosseum is still something magnificent. The pictures we saw were of something huge but age has broken it down. Standing in line with my girlfriend at the entrance I was surprised at how heavy and historical the building felt as we entered. While I was looking down into the middle of it, I could visualize everything that had taken place there, including all the people that were once there and how much history has been embedded into the walls.  I was impressed by more than the Colosseum’s size. It also provided me with a sense of connection to the past while standing at the Colosseum. I took a picture of it so I could show you how big it is, but my biggest takeaway about the Colosseum was that everything within its walls is very alive and has been alive for many years. It is much bigger than any single photo could show you.