No one is cool in middle school. Maybe an exception to this rule has already queued up in your noggin, but let me assure you once more that no one is cool in middle school. I was perhaps ‘popular’ occasionally, but it may be more accurate to say I was simply well known. As well known as you can be within a middle school, that is. However, this does not mean I was cool. A couple of prefaces. I’ve had a major glow up since then. In middle school, I looked like any other four foot tall Minecraft fan in 2016, with nerd glasses and a prepubescent face shaped like a cantaloupe. I’ve improved in appearance since then, at least I’d like to think. I was also an extremely strange child. Since then, I’ve reformed, and these days I’m now a strange young adult. I’ll give you some examples. I led the conga line at the school dance and was photographed dabbing. With flash and all. You guys remember that old trend from a decade ago? I ended up getting my first phone in 2018; a crappy android. Soon I was arranging Snapchat stickers that looked like my face into digital shaped fidget spinners and posting it on my story because no one taught me the rules of social media. I would talk out loud on the quiet bus in the morning, counting things I saw out the window, to the reasonable animosity of a boy named Brandon. I even developed an alter ego named Maza (my name backwards and glasses flipped upside down) who would speak in gibberish. In short, it was clear my bloodline wouldn’t be continuing as long as I acted like that. I am still embarrassed to know that old me existed. Then again, myself today perhaps does not contrast so strongly with this old self when it comes to my constant imagination or extraversion. Some of the unforgettable memories of middle school include the social movements I started. In the sixth grade, I walked up to this boy named Leo and asked him if he wanted to join a ‘goat committee.’ To this day, I have no idea where this came from. The goat committee began as a shared google document, with students’ names in it. We added members and their rankings, pictures of goats sticking out their tongues, plans for recruitment to eventually take over the world, places for goat art, and a sort of rudimentary Constitution. This ‘goat committee’ was ruled by friend Lennie and I, as well as this girl we were friends with. Dozens of members ‘joined’ the goat committee within days, and in response, a rival faction soon known to the entire sixth grade as the ‘water buffaloes’. Conflict makes things more exciting, of course, so we let the goat committee members act as spies within the water buffalo rankings. Soon everyone was talking about it, and it got so far that the principal was asked if she was a goat or a water buffalo. Whichever side you were on in this meaningless cold war of 12 year olds became highly significant. We wrote goat anthems, folklore, and even a document for record keeping. Although the fad only lasted a couple of weeks, I’ll never forget it simply because of how bizarre it was and of the fact I was the ringleader of it all. The second revolution I unintentionally spurred on happened in seventh grade when I became infatuated with this picture of a baby polar bear with its tongue stuck out. I remember waking up at 5:45 am in the morning before school and cutting out these trading cards I had printed. I had drawn different things on the bear’s face and assembled them into physical trading cards of numerous varieties and rankings, with legendary being the highest ranking. Looking back on this now, I haven’t changed at all in that regard. I would still most definitely wake up before the sun rose if some creative thought summoned me and I could not return to my slumber. One morning, I remember sitting in art class pulling out my Ziploc bag full of amazing bear cards, and everyone swarming me. Everyone was interested; there was no narrowcasted curiosity. Athletic guys, popular girls, reserved art kids, band kids and teachers alike. Later, in science class, my friend Nick blackmailed me, saying that he would make his own bear card trading line with a copy of my cards if I didn’t hand over the legendary golden bear card. It worked. These ‘amazing bear cards’ quickly spread like wildfire across the middle school, and I continued to produce more cards in new varieties. Other kids had suggestions for ideas for new cards, even willing to design them themselves. It became so bad that recess became an all out warzone over this ziploc bag I had full of cards. I remember rival factions of boys running across the grass, some trying to tackle me and steal the bag and others trying to protect me. All over a picture of a baby polar bear with its tongue sticking out. That year, I also made a shared google document titled, ‘the apocalypse’ with pages and pages of GIFs of spinning oranges on it that I had found. These oranges had hands and feet and even a weird face. For some reason, a classmate shared the document with thirty people, including the band teacher. One of the boys it was shared with had this document open in class, and upon attempting to leave the document, his Chromebook oddly would not let him. I soon got in trouble. I was called to a meeting with one of the faculty staff and the assistant principal, and they began drilling me on what this document was and why people were being sent it. I remember they had a computer out with the spinning bipedal orange on it so that it resembled in retrospect, some sort of FBI interrogation. I cannot remember the conversation, but I cannot fathom how I was meant to explain to men in their 40s what the hell that even was. My improvement in appearance since then I’d argue was truly a positive transformation. I really did look like a stereotypical iPad kid. However, I did not absorb the effects of the Internet in the ways that other kids did, as evidenced by my seeming innocence and continuing curiosity to learn anything and everything. One memory I’ll never forget is the end of middle school. For some impossible reason, I got through most of middle school unscathed by foul language. By the time it was ending, I still did not swear nor know many dirty words or phrases. I still don’t know how. I was like a diamond ring flushed down a septic pipe that came out the other end somehow still pristine. Perhaps because my time on the Internet had been spent making creative drawings, watching Minecraft videos and learning. Or that my friends were well-mannered and I lived in a well-funded public school district. Meanwhile, everyone else had probably been on sites like UrbanDictionary or Reddit, soon to become high school troublemakers. I was on the bus in eighth grade and I recall my friend saying one of these slang words, a dirty word, perhaps something most preteens knew by then, I cannot recall exactly. Upon realizing I didn’t understand him, he burst into laughter and remarked, “Stay gold, Ponyboy,” a reference to The Outsiders, the book we’d just read in class. When I look back at my time in middle school, I see it like an innocent dream that someone else had, separated by oceans of time. I really do feel to this day that back then I still was not aware of my own existence. That came shortly after this period for me, with exponential ripples. What likely adds to this perceived separation from the present day was the global pandemic that also came after. So much has happened since then that I find it hard sometimes to understand who I am as a person. I’m searching for some labels in a box before I find that I fit none of them. Then I’m alone again. But if there’s one thing that I can take solace in, it’s that I haven’t changed in that particular creative way that I describe here. Only now, I am aware of my existence. And that’s a troubling, scary and difficult thing to grasp. I still stand by my statement that no one is cool in middle school. Especially if you thought you were cool. Just maybe though, that’s the point. It’s humorous to say that I began social movements in middle school, yet without downplaying my experiences it may be true that I really did. I was the boy of revolutions, but more than that, I was also someone with the constant urge to create and share. So for now, I’ll pretend there is no box of labels. After all, I didn’t seem to care in middle school, and if anything, that was cool.

I was walking past a ditch. I wasn’t so close to it thatI would feel afraid of falling in. And not close enough where I thought to move over. But the problem is, I was just far enough away to forget that it was even there. In the entire time that I was walking right beside it, I could have made the effort to look around me and look down to see it. I could have avoided the ditch completely if I had just paid enough attention to it. And I blame myself because it’s not like it was hidden or a trap or that it spawned out of thin air. But I believed that there were other things I had to pay attention to. I was distracted. And it wasn’t one or two distractions, but it was school, work, responsibilities, expectations, and there were friends, my family, money, my future. It was also the overwhelming pressure to be the person I had sold to myself and everyone around me without realizing that I had simultaneously changed but still had to meet previous expectations. All these distractions felt important and they were important to me at the time. I had been so focused on the things surrounding my life that I didn’t stop for a second to focus on my surroundings, and how close I was to the edge. Each step taken after the other had no change to the naked eye. But slowly and surely the dirt beneath my feet was becoming more undone each time my foot hit the floor. The dirt loosening from under me was such a small thing that I had missed and it’s not like it was happening all at once, but it happened after. And as more dirt collected at the bottom of the ditch, I ultimately did as well. And I only realized once I hit the floor. I fell and found myself inside of a pit. And it hurt. I cried because I was in pain. And I cried feeling that there was nothing that I could do. But I cried the hardest because my life had fallen out of my control and was scattered all around me. My school responsibilities got buried in the dirt, my family and friends were unreachable, and my motivation and sense of direction couldn’t be found. And even while I was hurting in the ditch, I still tried to pick up the pieces of it all even though I couldn’t get to all of them. At some point, I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to collect the pieces anymore. It’s such a hard feeling to know that people are depending on you and yet have responsibilities to take care of. But I was too tired and overwhelmed and at some point, I lost my mind inside of the ditch. And I gave up. Although I might have been the only person who fell into the ditch, I wasn’t the first to know about it. Everyone around me has been successfully dodging their ditches while balancing their lives. And with that nobody knew that I was inside the belly of the pit. Nobody was looking inside the pit just in case and it’s not like I was telling anyone that I was there, either. And sure, some people would call or briefly check in with me but they were not actively making sure I was actually ok. I can’t blame others for focusing on their own lives, especially when they make an effort to check in on mine occasionally. I felt alone in the ditch that was so deep you couldn’t see the sun and everything was so far away. Still worried about the things I felt I had left behind while my future was depending on me, I was depending on me. And I couldn’t be there for myself. And the ditch was an isolating feeling, as I knew it wasn’t a common occurrence for someone to literally find themselves inside a ditch. I felt like nobody could understand what that felt like. I was so broken finding myself in the situation I was in while fighting with myself for being there in the first place. All different types of people walked by. Some didn't care, didn’t bother to look, stopped and stared. Some couldn’t help me physically but gave me advice and resources to use so I’d last another night. Good Samaritans would try to pull me out but were unsuccessful in their attempts. And through each encounter I had, every conversation, resource, advice and even helping hand I hadn’t moved my position. I was still alone in the ditch. But I knew that lying in the puddle of my tears and mess weren’t going to get me out of the pit either. I knew I had to strategize and begin my escape. I didn’t begin my escape because I had randomly gained strength, it was quite the contrary. I was still tired and aching and even scared of what my future would look like after all this damage had been done, even wondering if there was still a future for me left at all. Yet in the same breath, I was tired of relying on someone to help me out and just tired of still being there. I took all the advice given and I used all my resources and began to find ways to get me out. I started digging and building and climbing. None of the steps I took were big or made a drastic change, but I made some progress. I believed that the process took much longer than it should have, but I had to learn that getting better doesn’t mean it happens all in an instance. My progress consisted of barely getting through the day and taking full rest days but always deciding that I will try again the next. I continued to scrape my way up, the dirt would fall on top of me at times. The dirt covered my hands and clothes and fell into my eyes. And I’d begin to cry. In those moments I couldn’t even distinguish whether the tears on my face were caused from the dirt, from how tired I was, or from the pain I felt physically and emotionally or a combination of it all. And I had days where I needed to distract myself from my reality. And the other days, I didn’t have a choice but to sit with it. But what I learned is that each day counted towards something, it had to mean something or else I was doing work for nothing. On the day that I had finally made it to the top of the pit,I didn’t climb out gracefully. I was trembling and visibly distressed. I didn’t look different in a positive way.I was tired, sore and dirty. I came out of the hole barely holding onto what I came in with because so many pieces of my life were missing or had changed. I didn’t feel differently, either. I was still hurt but I was out. The person who fell into the ditch was carrying much more than she could handle and didn’t ask for help. Her pride overtook her and humbled her. Now I understand that hard work can come with exhaustion; people that help others might not always have enough to give; and you can at times lose sight of the things you found most important. Now that I’ve made it outside, I look at the road that’s in front of me. People are still traveling down the road, busily worried about themselves. It’s the same road I once traveled down but it now felt different. The feeling I had was knowing that I still had things to figure out even when I was still hurting, but my mind was a little quieter now. All that had once consumed my life had been lost and left within the ditch. I look at the road ahead of me and I see how such a long road can be tedious to many. But I look at it differently because I know what is right behind me. Although the road that I have to follow will be long and I’ll probably crawl my way down it, I still choose it over what I just endured. And slowly but surely, I begin my walk. And I’ll make sure to look at my surroundings, but I will not look back.

Photo Credit: Taylor Caesar Every published piece begins with more than an idea; it begins with a student's time, creativity, and heart, bringing that idea to life. It's easy to see only the finished product. A photograph, a poem, a painting, a story, or an article may seem like a simple piece of writing once it's complete and shared with an audience. What is harder to see is all of the work that came before it. The hours of thinking, experimenting, rewriting, second guessing and ultimately starting over. Behind every piece of publication is a student who went through the creative process and poured themselves into making it. Student creativity is often voiced but overlooked because the final product can mask the hard work behind it. A photograph might take only a few seconds to capture, but finding the right moment can require a good game of waiting, slow movements, small adjustments and seeing the world in a different light. A story can take up only a few pages, but it can begin with a single idea that a student carries for hours, days or even weeks. The finished part is the most visible component of the creative process. For many students, creating something for publication comes with risk, because sharing that work means letting others see something personal. Photographs can reveal how someone sees the world. A poem can express emotions that are hard to say out loud. A story can reflect fears, hopes, and dreams. Even an article about the most ordinary picture can become meaningful when a student takes the time to find the real person beneath all the world's words. This is what makes student journalism and creative writing so empowering. There is nothing simple about producing something that looks as good as the paper it rests on. It is about finding something worthy of saying and figuring out the best way to say it. The process is never perfect. Some photographs don't turn out as imagined. Writers stare at blank pages while the first few ideas fall apart halfway through. Drafts are covered in corrections, misspellings, and unnecessary commas; some photos don’t make the final cut; and existing projects get reworked over again. Creativity requires enormous patience because the first try is rarely the final one. Yet as students and writers, they continue. They continue because seeing an idea become something real is rewarding. There is a certain pride in looking at a finished publication and saying, “ I made this.” This work is more than just a grade or an assignment. It represents time, effort, and imagination. It represents the decision to keep going when the first few ideas didn’t work. Photography can especially capture these efforts in a unique way. A photograph can freeze one moment but tell a much larger story. A student photographer might spend their entire afternoon looking for the right image, waiting for the right expressions, the perfect lighting or the right framing. When the shutter snaps, the photo becomes a permanent record. Not only for the subject but also for the photographer’s patience. The same can be said for every other form of student creative processes. Artists make many decisions about shape, composition, and even color. Writers have to choose every word. Editors decide what shapes the page. Graphic designers create visually stunning images and logos. None of these choices are accidental. Each choice adds to the story the audience eventually sees. The most important part of student creativity is the heart and soul behind it. Students are not just assignment producing machines; they are young people trying to understand the world with their voices in it. Publication gives those distinctive voices somewhere to belong. When the work is published, it sends a message: Your ideas matter. Your perspective matters. Your work is worth sharing with someone. For the audience, a published piece may take only a few minutes to read or a few seconds to look at. For the creators, however, it may represent hours, days, or even weeks of work. The audience sees the photo; the photographer remembers everything that happened before and after taking it. The audience reads the article; the writer remembers every sentence that had to be rewritten. To the audience, the finished artwork reflects the artist's memories of mistakes that had to be corrected. That is the story behind student publications, the story that doesn’t appear on the page. With every piece, we leave evidence that a student created something and worked hard enough to make it shareable with the public. It reminds us that creativity doesn’t suddenly appear. It is developed through failure, passion and patience. So the next time you flip through a student publication, stop and think for a moment. Look beyond the photo, the language, and the page numbers. Read beyond the headline or title. Behind each piece is a student who spent their time turning an idea into something real. The page may be finished, but the heart still beats for the art of creation.

Photo Credits: Kathylovestoread Blog Post I was walking through the aisles of a second-hand book store when I stumbled upon a book. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. It sounded so philosophical. The juxtapositional title intrigued me even more. The unbearable lightness? How can lightness be unbearable? Honestly, after reading the book over the course of several months, annotating it densely, and pondering upon it for weeks afterward, I still can’t tell you. I have a few theories, but that’s all they are, just theories. I don’t want to divulge my theories (yet). I want to indulge, instead, in discussing something that has been on my mind lately: humans’ innate need to be witnessed by others. “We all need someone to look at us,” writes Kundera. I agree. I believe we long for someone to look at our lives, acknowledge us, and validate our existence. We just want to be perceived. Although I would argue that someone else’s perception of you doesn’t confirm your existence as a human being, I won’t deny that I am also instilled with this need to have an audience in my life. I’m certain you won’t deny it either. Milan Kundera groups us all into four categories, depending on the kind of look we wish to live under. This is what I want to unravel together. The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, or in other words, for the look of the public. Although celebrities are the first people that come to mind, it’s not just them. I know a lot of people personally who are like that. In fact, with the surge of social media influencers, it looks like almost everyone belongs to this category. But why? Why would someone seek strangers to perceive and judge them and enjoy that? Why is it only the attention of the unknown eyes they seek? Is it insecurity? Are they too afraid to be known? Or afraid to let someone get too close? Do they trust someone else’s definition of them rather than their own? The answer to this is probably simple, but I’m unable to grasp it. The second category is of people who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. “They are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners.” Kundera thinks that the people in this category are happier than the ones in the first category. When people in the first category lose their public, they feel as though the lights have gone out in the room of their lives. However, the ones in the second category can always come up with the new eyes they need. They needn’t be anonymous, just acquaintances. The only difference between the two categories is you’re more in control of your “eyes” in the second one. Then there is the third category, the ones who need to constantly be before the eyes of the person they love. He says their situation is as dangerous as the ones in the first category, because one day the eyes of their beloved will close and the room will, once again, go dark. This, I can agree with confidently, as I can recall many instances in my life when every waking moment of my life seemed to revolve around one person, and I felt as though there was nothing worth my attention but them. They are still alive, but not in my life anymore. And as “dangerous” as it was to lose them, I’m still very much alive in my life, too. So maybe it’s not that bad. Or maybe I’m just being biased. The book's main characters Tomas and Tereza belong to this category. The context behind that is irrelevant here, but let’s just say they’re both trapped in love. Finally, there is the fourth category, which he calls rare, as these are the people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers. I like the sound of that. I want to be a dreamer. The author draws an example from one of the characters named Franz, who traveled to the borders of Cambodia for a woman who didn’t love him. I want to clarify that this category of people don’t simply conjure up people who never existed, but their conscience is so strongly flooded with someone–a concept of them, a glimpse, a smell–anything that they manifest their full person into their daily life even though they are not physically present. “As the bus bumped along the Thai road, [Franz] could feel her eyes fixed on him in a long stare.” Anyway, Franz was so convinced that she was as enamored with him as he was with her, and they lived “together” for a long time before he traveled to Cambodia. He was living his life in a constant dream state. And he was as happy as he could be. It was the happiest time of his life. I don’t remember what happened to him in Cambodia, but I do remember not wanting to be a dreamer after that part. This category is, in my opinion, the most dangerous one because it takes away from your conscience, and how will you ever know? We could all be dreamers right now, and we just wouldn’t know. I don’t know which category I belong to. To quote myself from an article I recently wrote: for a long time, I would have the incessant urge to be seen. To be heard, to be confirmed. But one day I asked myself if I really valued anybody’s perception of me, and I realized that I didn’t. Since that realization, I deliberately made the circle of people I want to look at and be looked at much smaller and more meaningful. And once I stopped showcasing my life to others, I started feeling more alive. This book starts off with Nietzsche's concept of ‘eternal return’. Kundera poses it as more of a question: if you knew that your life would recur in exactly the same sequence of events, from start to finish, over and over again for eternity, would you still want to live it? Or would you want to opt out? I thought about that question a lot. I asked all my friends that question. Would you still be fine with doing this forever? And the general consensus was no. But I think I would. I think the point is to strive to be so intentional with your life that you wouldn’t mind living it again and again because you’re the one shaping it. Maybe the question isn’t Would you be fine with doing this forever? But rather, would you be fine with living like this if you knew it was going to repeat forever? Maybe he is urging us to take charge of our lives, instead of letting it pass by passively. Maybe true happiness is longing for the eternal return. Maybe I’ve strayed too far from the subject of the article, but maybe it doesn’t matter that much because it will happen again and again.

Photo Credit: Christian A. Goicoechea The door creaks open slowly, as if the room might refuse him. Blinding hallway light fills the nursery. The pink and purple pastel wallpaper makes the walls feel that much more illuminated. Jeremiah carefully walks in with Helena tucked into his arms. He starts to gently pat her on the back as he crosses the room. Helena’s soft snoring gets interrupted with every pat. “Goodnight my love. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers as he puts her down in her crib. He tastes the alcohol on his breath and quickly turns his face away as if the scent might wake her. He straightens and presses the power button on the baby mobile. The planets on the mobile begin to spin, but the melody struggles to start. He had just changed the battery yesterday. He presses the power button impatiently a few more times before a lullaby begins to hum against the walls. He turns around and starts to carefully walk out of the nursery. He looks back at Helena and wonders what she thinks of him. In the dim light, her face is hard to read. Even when she’s awake, he can barely understand her. He’s just glad she’s asleep so that he doesn’t have to meet her eyes. Helena’s fingers twitch and she begins to shift in her crib. His AR lenses read her vitals and display her heart rate starting to pick up. The notification startles him. He takes the lenses out and puts them in their case, irritated at how quickly they reduce her to numbers. He looks back at Helena and notices that the light from the hallway is hitting her closed eyes. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Simply admiring her. Then he finally steps back and closes the door. He turns and keeps his hand on the wall as he makes his way down the hallway. The hallway is decorated neatly with modern art and classic paintings alike. None of which are his own work. Jeremiah stops at the bathroom next door to the nursery. He puts his password into his WristPad before texting Rebecca. “I just laid the baby down. Do you think you can refill my glass for me?” He turns the light on in the bathroom and closes the door. Before he can even take off his WristPad, he feels the notification vibration on his wrist. “Yeah I’m in the living room now anyway. Same thing?” He stares at himself deeply in the mirror before texting back. “I had Jack in there tonight. You can add an ice cube if you want.” The message is delivered and left on read. Her silence lingered. He takes off his WristPad before turning on the sink as cold as it will go. When the sink is done filling, he submerges his face in the water. The water stings but he keeps his face under anyway. The lights above the sink’s mirror flicker. Only for a few seconds. The brief darkness frightens him. He hastily checks behind himself before looking into the mirror again. His eyes are sunken, with purple eyebags to accompany them. His long salt and pepper brown hair hangs down into his wet face. Disgust sends a chill through his body. He dries his face before leaving the bathroom and making his way to the living room. The ceiling stretches high. The smell of fall candles and waxed tile fills his nose. Nothing in the room looks disturbed. His glass sits full on the wooden coffee table. Next to it is the baby monitor and Helena’s pacifier. He takes off his slippers and sits them next to Rebecca’s. Rebecca types steadily with her computer in her lap. She barely looks up at Jeremiah as his footsteps approach the couch. “How is she?” Jeremiah softly rubs his temples as a headache begins to build. “She’s fine. But the mobile didn’t play right away when I turned it on, and I just changed the batteries. I think I need to buy a new one.” Jeremiah says, taking his glass off the table and taking a sip while sitting down. Rebecca hesitates before responding. “She likes that one though. It should be-” “And the lights keep turning on and off. Were you messing with the breaker or something?” His voice becomes slightly louder. Angrier. “No? I’ve just been responding to Janet about the Martinem Display.” Rebecca retorts. Jeremiah leans over and rubs a hand over his face. “Shit. I forgot I had to do that. Did Janet say what stage my display was on?” “Stage B. Next to Brooks.” She looks down at his glass she just filled, which is now half gone. She looks back up at him and closes her computer. “Are you okay?” Jeremiah takes another, longer sip. “I’m fine, really. The display just slipped my mind. I thought it was next Saturday, not tomorrow.” She places her left hand against his thigh. Her wedding ring brushes against his glass. “I could email Janet again. Tell her that you aren’t feeling up to it. You could sleep in a bit and spend some time with the baby. It’s one display, it's no big deal if you don’t want to go.” Jeremiah scoffs and stands abruptly. “It is a big deal Bec. It starts with one display, then another and another. And I’ll never do it again. Trust me, you have no idea how close I’ve come to quitting.” He takes a shaky breath. “But I can’t. I’ll lose all of this. I’ll lose you.” Rebecca tosses her computer next to her and it hits the couch with a thud. “You won’t lose me. Stop saying that. You can’t lose me. Don’t you see that I’ve been with you? Gallery after gallery. You haven’t slowed down for years.” She shifts towards the edge of the couch and her voice becomes stern. “I could deal with all of it. No problems and no questions asked. But we have Helena now and she needs her dad. Why can’t you show her how afraid you are of losing her?” Jeremiah flinches at the comment. Tears well up in his eyes before responding. “You just-you don’t get it.” He turns and spills some of his drink as he starts to head towards the basement. She grabs the baby monitor which she reads for Helena’s heart rate, respiration rate, and temperature. She looks at it before following Jeremiah. “Just talk to me. Please. Why can’t you do that?” They both walk past the kitchen and guest room before hitting the door to the basement. Jeremiah looks at Rebecca, and Rebecca looks back at him. “It’s hard for me to explain.” Rebecca looks at the door of the basement. The one place in her own house that she has to be cautious around. “But… I want to try.” She looks back at him. Into his eyes. Studying him for a moment. “Okay.” She nods softly and he opens the door. They walk down two flights of stairs before hitting the frigid bottom floor. “It was right before I met you. Before all of this.” He gestures to the original copies of his artwork. Bright neon colors splashed with precision on white canvases. She nods. Cold, damp air settles over the off-white tile. “I had just gotten out of Redd’s. That one dive bar we went to after Christmas last year?” “Yeah, I remember. The one with the-” “Broken pool table.” “-broken pool table.” They both let out a soft smile at the exchange. “Yeah. The good luck charm.” He looks around at his work. Choking up a bit before continuing. “No gallery would accept me. I wasn’t getting any commission. I had an art degree and no one had ever once asked my name. I couldn’t tell if I was untalented or invisible. I don’t know. I was living off what my father sent me and I would just rot away in a shitty apartment at the end of town with art no one wanted. Redd’s was what I looked forward to every single day.” He stops for a moment to look over at the room at the back end of the basement. His gaze lingering on the biometric lock. His lip trembles at the thought of opening it. “Anyway. I was walking out of Redd’s and I saw it… this thing.” The silence presses in. Rebecca perks up, waiting for his response. His lip starts to tremble again and he starts to stutter. “...I can’t-” “What kind of thing?” “I can’t explain it, I just have to show you.” Jeremiah grabs Rebecca firmly by the arm and practically drags her to the door in the back. He hesitates before putting his thumb down on the lock. It processes his thumb for a long moment. Longer than usual. “ACCESS DENIED.” A loud, computerized voice cuts through the silence of the basement. Making Jeremiah jump. “Shit.” Jeremiah wipes his thumb on his stained black shirt a few times before trying again. Rebecca just watches him go through the process. The door opens with a hiss of compressed air, making Rebecca’s jet black curls flow behind her. The baby monitor begins to crackle with static before turning off completely. Jeremiah turns around and looks down at the baby monitor in Rebecca’s hand. “What happened?” “I’m not sure. You’re sure she was asleep, right?” “Yeah I’m pretty sure when I left her she was asleep.” She caresses his arm slightly, sensing his nervousness. “She’ll be fine.” He nods and opens the door. He waves his hand to trigger the light. It’s dim at first but lights the entire room fully as a few seconds go by. It reeks of dried paint and spilled liquor, a gallery of small betrayals. They enter the room and it is filled to the brim with Jeremiah’s art. “They’re…darker than your other gallery pieces.” Jeremiah ignores the comment. “Are these new?” She asks as she looks around the room. Some canvases are piled without care on top of one another. Some with bent frames and warped corners. Jeremiah takes a sip from his glass. He doesn’t answer her and looks around at a few of them. Self-portraits where the eyes are painted in a dark vertical line. Portraits of body parts that bleed into the background. Rebecca goes up to a particular painting. It looks like a baby curled in the womb. Warm reds and oranges cloud the outer brim of the painting. It’s the only one that Jeremiah signed and under his signature is just a name. Helena. Dated two years before she was born. “What did you want to show me?” Rebecca asks nervously. “It’s over here.” They walk over to the back of the room where a black sheet lies over one painting that’s bigger than all the others. “It followed me. I saw it outside Redd’s and I wish I didn’t see it again. But it kept appearing. In alleyways. In reflections. It kept telling me never to tell anyone.” Rebecca starts rubbing her arms. She maintains the silence well. “Then things changed. Everything changed. My work changed. I actually started selling.” Jeremiah looks over at Rebecca. “Bec… I even met you.” His voice is soft, like his words are afraid to leave his mouth. “But I didn’t get better. I swear. Nothing about me changed. It’s like something was painting through me.” He’s speaking to the floor now. Even through the alcohol, his tone sounds rehearsed. His fingers hesitate, fighting against his own will. He pulls the black sheet off the painting. Dust flies off the sheet, which causes Rebecca to go into a coughing fit. Jeremiah fans the air around them, waiting for the dust to settle before looking at it. They stare at a portrait of a park. A version of Jeremiah is at the bottom while this thing sits behind him. A park’s streetlight stands beside it and it towers over the light. This thing’s face wasn’t misplaced. It was simply where a face should not be. Its wings sprawl out and fold in a way that makes it look out of place or broken. It just stands there. A grey mass residing in Jeremiah’s shadow. Jeremiah can’t take his eyes off the painting. He notices that Rebecca is doing the same. He clears his throat. “...Sometimes the fear isn’t mine. It’s like it stands behind me and I feel what it feels. Like it’s holding its breath. Just waiting.” She finally turns to look at him and he looks back at her. “So why didn’t you throw it away? Burn it?” The light above them projects their shadows against the walls harshly. For a second, it almost looks like Rebecca’s shadow has a pair of wings. Jeremiah blinks. Once. Twice. “What?” Rebecca asks while checking over her shoulder. That part of the shadow disappears. Jeremiah drags his eyes away from Rebecca and to the ground. Jeremiah swallows harshly. “...I couldn’t. I don’t know, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” He takes a moment in silence. “People started saying my name.” Jeremiah whispers. Rebecca doesn’t hesitate. “Was it worth it?” She doesn’t speak louder or softer than him. She meets his voice where it is. All while looking back at the painting. At this thing. Jeremiah stares at her. Looking for sarcasm, anger, denial, anything. There is none. She steps closer to the painting. Her breath bounces off the careful brush strokes. “You wouldn’t have trusted it if it hadn’t cost you something.” The baby monitor crackles in her hand. Helena’s heartbeat appears on the screen. Rapid. Scared. Rebecca finally turns toward him. “You wanted more than you had.” She continues to look at him. Waiting for him to look back at her before continuing. “So you were given more.” “At what cost?” His voice fractures. Jeremiah feels that pressure in the air again. It’s even worse than before. It isn’t behind him. The pressure mounds in front of him as it claims the space between them. The baby monitor crackles again before the light flickers. He can faintly hear Helena screaming from upstairs. An awful scream. His eyes remain on Rebecca as her shadow sprawls out into a black mass against the wall. A single tear manages to fall from his eye and Rebecca swipes it away with her thumb. “Jeremiah. Isn’t that what you wanted?” The End

Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat For years, if you wanted a good meal and an even better conversation at the marketplace, you looked for one man and one man only. He knew your name before you told him twice. He made eye contact with you and offered you his best smile. He never let you walk away without a "good morning" or a "smile, you might make someone else's day." He was the highlight of a lot of the students' days. They felt comfortable enough to bring their struggles and worries to him because they knew he would know how to help them. Who would have thought that such a relationship would bloom between the student body and a man behind the grill at the marketplace. Students called him the King of the Grill. Then, he disappeared. Where did the King of the Grill go? Students who had built their routine around stopping by his line were asking each other the same question: what happened to Kenny? So, where did Kenny go? Kenny Langston is 62, and before this campus knew him, he spent a couple of years working the grill at Quinnipiac University. Where he built a reputation the same way he built it here: one plate, one conversation, one smile at a time. Kenny has been working the grill for 15 years as King. Where did the nickname come from? "I try to do the best I can, and I am going to give them the best quality of food and services at the same time," he said. It was not a name he claimed for himself; it was something the students felt he deserved. So why did he leave the Marketplace, a place where so many students first experienced him? The choice nobody saw coming. "It is not like management ran me away or nothing," Kenny said. "It's a choice I made, and I feel like now it was the right choice." Students say that Kenny’s enthusiasm behind the grill is what makes them feel so connected to him. He reaches the student where they are and makes sure they feel a little home away from home. Kenny made a choice that he feared would take away his interactions with the students. Little did he know the impact he had on the student could not be erased so easily. Every year, after summer break, staff get the option to bid on open positions by seniority. When a coworker left her post at Smooth Haven for a job at Dunkin' Donuts, she came straight to Kenny. She believed that he would be great for the post and still have the same interaction with the students. The real reason came down to something quite simple: Sundays. The Marketplace didn't give him weekends off, and Sunday was the one day he wanted to protect, for time with his wife, and time for the two of them to attend car shows as one of his favorite things in the world. Since she works with at-risk youth during the week. "That's my time," he said. "I wanna spend it with my wife." It wasn't burnout. It wasn't a falling out. It was a 62-year-old man choosing his marriage over convenience or money and trusting that the students who mattered to him would find him again. What Kenny was really afraid of? If there was one thing Kenny said he feared about the move, it wasn't losing the job. It was losing the freshmen. "I was afraid I would not be able to deal with the freshmen," he said. During his years at the marketplace, he'd made it his mission to be an anchor for students in their hardest stretch. The first few homesick weeks of college, far from everything familiar. "A lot of them wanted to give up," he said. "I just feel like sometimes God puts certain people in certain places for a reason." He didn't need to worry for long. Students followed him. "A lot of them come up here; they already know me," Kenny said. "They say, 'I know you already, you're Kenny.' 'Cause you're all over Instagram." More than a paycheck. Kenny's connection to students didn't start as a job requirement; it started with his own kids, now grown, and what he wished someone had done for them when they left for college. Going to school away from home can be terrifying at times. There is no guarantee that you will be at home or that you will find your niche. Kenny knew that, and he sought to make sure that every student who showed up at his grill would walk away with a real smile on their face and the realization that maybe just maybe someone was looking out for them. "I notice, even if you watch the news, it bothers me that colleges, schools, and churches are where your kids are supposed to be safe," he said. "That's where they go through so much." At his previous job, working closely with student-athletes, he saw how much pain could hide behind a scholarship. Especially for students who have no choice but to perform for said scholarship. Students, whether they are athletes or not, all struggle with different issues such as homesickness, feeling overwhelmed, and becoming adults. Kenny stepped up and refused to let the student go through any of it alone. He was not told to do so; he chose to because he believed students matter. "A lot of them was going through a lot of things, losing family members and friends back home, and no one really knew what they were going through mentally," he said. "They could come to me and talk to me about anything, and I'm gonna give them the best advice that I could give them. I look at all of y'all like I look at my kids." There is something about hearing something like that from someone you see everyday and who puts a smile on your face everyday. Parents love their children a lot. In other words Kenny is expressing his love to all of the students he has been interacting with over the years. He was direct about what the job actually means to him. "It's more than just a check for me," he said. "Some people get a check and don't do their job,” he said. My father always told me: if you enjoy what you're doing, it never feels like work." In the end, Kenny says he was led to his new job. "I always put God first," he said. "I believe God made this move for me." He was caring for his mother before she passed away in March. "I refused to let her go into homes," he said. "Who's gonna show my mother love more than mine?" The motto. As for his legacy, Kenny is clear. "Just smile and make someone else's day," he said. "It's not always about you. If you make someone else happy, that's gonna make you happy; it's not about them making you happy." He has another line he repeats often, one he calls his personal motto: "Never settle for less if you deserve the best." Underneath all of it is something almost defiant. In today's society it is hard for students or young adults to love themselves. We are so used to comparing ourselves to everyone and everything else around those that we have forgotten that our only competition in life is ourselves. The only person you should be competing with is the person you were last month, last week or even last night. They said older means wiser and it seems Kenny has cracked the code and he has realized that at the end of the day you better make sure to be happy with who you are and love who you are because at the end of the day that is all that matters. "I'm 62 years old. I'm gonna always be myself," he said. "Some people ain't gonna like you because of your personality, or they say I'm too loud, but I feel good about me. If you love yourself, you gotta love yourself in order to love anyone else. I have crazy love for myself, man. Everyone that comes in contact with me, I try to show them that same love." So where is Kenny? Right where he chose to be, at Smooth Haven, still serving, still remembering names, still making eye contact with every student who walks up to his line. He didn't disappear. He didn't get pushed out. He just made a decision that puts his marriage and his peace first and trusted the students who loved him to come find him. They did. And now you know where to look.

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 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!

Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat When someone asks me about my favorite book, the answer comes with no hesitation: “The Catcher in the Rye." The truth goes beyond how amazing the book itself is; my love for the book is attached to the day I received it. It was my very first English class in the United States; I was drowning, not in the Atlantic Ocean I had crossed to get here, but in the sea of unfamiliar language. I felt so lonely even though I was surrounded by other students. I was overwhelmed by my confusion. The voices around me blurred into a kind of static I could not decipher, and I sat in that plastic chair, feeling like a ghost in my own body. Then my teacher handed me a French translation of J.D Salinger’s novel, and in that moment, everything changed. Suddenly, I felt seen; I no longer felt so alone.  My teacher could have given me a simplified English version, or not cared at all. Instead, she handed me love wrapped in beautiful literature in a language I could understand. She was telling me that while I learned a brand-new language, I didn’t have to lose myself. I am not sure if she was aware of what that gesture meant for me. A book in an English class is such a small thing to hand to someone, and yet the weight of it, the intention behind it meant the whole world to me. Without using words, she told me that I belong there just like any other student in the class. Her kindness opened a door for me, but it was Holden Caulfield who walked me through it.  What I love the most about the novel is the protagonist’s honesty and vulnerability. From the first line to the last one, he was completely honest with his audience, offering himself just as he was. It was the total opposite of what I was doing to fit into this new country. I was obsessed with doing things perfectly, from smoothing over my accent to the constant translating happening in my head. Every word that came out of my mouth was rehearsed beforehand and checked for errors like a student before an exam. Holden’s messy way of speaking gave me a sense of comfort; he spoke in fragments and repetitions just as his thoughts formed in his mind. Reading the novel in French gave me a strange kind of experience; it felt nostalgic in a way where if I didn’t hold on to this book, then I would disappear before I knew it. There was something deeply sad about reading a book set in New York, a city I could see from a distance, in the language of a home I had left behind. The two worlds met inside those pages, and for a few hours, I belonged to both at once.  When my English improved, and I read the novel in its original language, I experienced a different feeling. I was able to pick exactly what the author was portraying in the novel. The rhythm of “and all” and “it really did.” These words were the rhythm of a mind speaking to itself, and then letting it out for the world to see. These small linguistic patterns were so real, more real than I felt in my own body. Reading the same story twice, in two different languages, felt like watching the same film in color after seeing it in black and white. The story had not changed, but I had, and that changed everything about how I received it. The second reading was not a repetition; it was a completion. It closed a wound that I did not realize that I had.  This realization taught me something very valuable. I had focused on being perfect and not making mistakes, and I had forgotten that language could be an instrument of truth rather than plain accuracy. Holden showed me that my voice mattered more than perfection. I was navigating the gap between languages and cultures, and in my pursuit of perfection, I had forgotten who I was. I had treated English like a costume, something to put on carefully each morning so that no one would notice I was different underneath. But Holden, he never put on a show. He was the real him the entire novel; he showed up raw and vulnerable and refused to apologize. That was what made him unforgettable. The novel’s core idea of a catcher in the rye who saves children from falling off a cliff becomes a metaphor for my own life experience. Moving to a new country has its own kind of loss of innocence. I left behind not just a place, but I left home and an entire version of myself, a version who was happy, who moved through the world with ease and confidence, who never had to think twice before speaking. A version I tried hard to recreate.  Holden’s world was full of phoniness, people who performed roles that they did not question, who said the right things but did not mean them. I recognized myself immediately. I was part of the same people wearing masks to survive the day. I was constantly performing; I had so many versions of myself that I had lost track of the original. There was the version of me who smiled and chatted on the phone with my mother even when I was dying in class. There was the version of me who cried herself to sleep and cried some more in the shower in the hope of muffling the noise. None of those versions were bad or lies; they were survival. But survival and authenticity are not the same thing at all, and reading Holden’s furious refusal to pretend reminded me that I did not want to disappear into one of those versions of me. "The Catcher in the Rye" is my favorite book, not because it is perfect, but because it is the opposite. It taught me that being broken and honest is worth more than being fake and polished. I carry that lesson with me in every language I speak. When I write now, in English, I try to remember what Holden taught me; my accent is not something to smooth over, it is the proof of a journey. Every imperfect sentence I have ever spoken in these languages is a mark of someone who crossed an ocean and refused in the end to disappear.