CHARGED-UP RESULTS

Photo Credit: Zach Cregger. 2025. Weapons [Film]. Warner Bros. Pictures. Warning: there will be spoilers regarding the movie “Weapons” 17 elementary school children went missing from their homes at 2:17 a.m. All from the same first-grade class, gone, except for one.  “Weapons” stirred confusion amongst many critics and viewers regarding what this movie represented. From the use of witchcraft to a scene of a giant CGI AK-47 floating in the sky. What was the message?  After viewing the movie myself, there was one major point I think “Weapons” discussed and alluded to. Gun violence.  H.R. 1808  is a 2022 bill to ban the use, manufacturment and possession of semiautomic weaponry and large capacity ammunition feeding devices (LCFD)  as stated in the official congress website. This bill passed the House with a 217-213 vote that allowed it to be sent to the Senate. This bill, however, did not make it past the Senate.  217 voted in favor to pass it to the Senate, where the bill would die.  217 is a number soaked in the blood of innocents.  2:17 a.m.—all but one student went missing in the same elementary class.  A grieving father dreams of a floating AK-47 with the time 2:17 stamped onto it, floating above the house his missing son resided in. This felt like blatant criticism of the United States’ approach to gun violence.  The United States reported and documented around 226  school shootings in 2025 so far, while nearly 400  mass shootings have been reported and documented in 2025.  “Weapons” is a story of public grief, pain and anger in the wake of school shootings and a system that upholds and defends senseless death for personal gain. Let’s break down the different components of the story.  Aunt Gladys: Photo Credit: Zach Cregger. 2025. Weapons [Film]. Warner Bros. Pictures. Aunt Gladys is the witch antagonist that steals children and drains them of their life force to save herself from her own terminal illness. She turned the children into mindless robots. They don’t speak, can’t eat on their own and exist as the living dead in a basement awaiting her instructions.  Aunt Gladys arguably can be a symbol of many things, but I see her as the American system itself. A decaying body hidden under an extravagant design, convincing and full of life. The full-of-life personality she has taken from the children she had stolen from their families.  The business  of school shootings is a booming one. Drones, trauma kits, door barricades and metal detectors all make up the new niche industry of school protection surveillance that makes the United States billions of dollars.  Additionally, firearm and ammunition production in the United States was responsible for around  91.65 billion dollars  in economic activity in just 2024 alone. On the same topic, firearm and ammunition production paid nearly 11 billion dollars in taxes in 2024.  When crunching numbers, it is obvious that when faced with the debate of children’s lives versus protecting firearms, one makes the United States more money than the other.  The Second Amendment provides the Constitutional right to bear arms and the government remains firm on the interpretation that it includes the use and ownership of semiautomatic rifles and LCFD’s. But the amount of money these weapons make in the U.S. bars attempts to add checks and balances to the ownership and handling of semiautomatic weaponry, while still respecting the Second Amendment. Therefore putting children in harm's way for more money in the government's pockets.  Aunt Gladys represents the system trading the well-being of children in the United States for financial gain for the elites in politics and the manufacturers that sell these weapons in and out of the country.  Aunt Gladys takes over, residing in her sister’s house and controlling her family. Alex, her nephew, and the only child remaining in the elementary class, exhibits enough odd behavior to warrant the principal to comment and attempt to contact his parents. The principal was worried, but Aunt Gladys was able to charm and talk the principal out of most of his concerns.  No other adult filed a complaint, no wellness checks were on the family and Alex was left in the house with Gladys.  After the tragedy, Alex was placed into a different class and left to his own devices. No extra care was provided to him for support after such a traumatic event, Aunt Gladys was not checked and no house calls were performed once the school learned Alex’s parents were “ill” and “indisposed”.  She is the failing system that brushes past tragedy and children in need, thriving in the trauma that fills their pockets.  Many are familiar with the phrase “thoughts and prayers” regarding both survivors and victims of gun violence. Public schools can only provide so much support to students. The government, rather than implement that extra care, uses the dismissive “thoughts and prayers” to distance themselves from the problem. This only leaves children helpless and struggling to cope, perpetuating a cycle of forgotten kids in the United States.  Justine:  Photo Credit: Zach Cregger. 2025. Weapons [Film]. Warner Bros. Pictures. On the topic of dismissive behavior, Justine as a character represents the blame shift and implementation of unfair responsibilities to avoid discussing the root of the problem.  Semiautomatics can’t be regulated, so train teachers to be EMTs.  Is there a demand to protect children in schools? Demand teachers to accept becoming martyrs as part of their job.  What really committed gun violence? The gun or the person?  What can teachers  do to protect children from a school shooting?  You want your kid to be safe in school? Avoid light-up sneakers, sequence outfits and bright colored clothes so they blend in better in the dark.   Who’s really to blame: The school's surveillance or the teenager with access to a semiautomatic weapon?  But if the teachers followed the active shooter protocol as intended, the survival rate could have been higher.  Justine, the teacher who only wants to do right by each and every one of her students, is cast out of the community and blamed for the children being missing from her class. She is ridiculed, belittled, threatened, harassed and stalked.  She is just a teacher, not a detective, not a cop and not an all-knowing god with all the answers. A teacher who worries and cares for her students lives more than anyone else (besides the parents) in their community.  When people blame shift and demand the impossible out of the wrong people, the topic of gun violence continues to be shelved until the next mass shooting occurs. It is a vicious cycle of finger-pointing inaction that is done on purpose.  If no one knows who to blame, then the government doesn’t need to intervene besides saying heartfelt “thoughts and prayers” into a camera lens.   Other Details:  Officer Paul, a man quick to explode into violent outbursts and run into problems headfirst, is slow to provide insight and aid into the investigation of the missing children.  I couldn’t help but find similarities between the police department in “Weapons” and how the police handled the Uvalde shooting in Texas, specifically the 77 minutes  it took for the officers to confront the shooter.  The missing children used as weapons hold meaning. It is no secret that the topic of gun control, gun violence and school shootings are used as political bargaining chips for elections, bill approval and political party mobilization. Children’s lives are used as tools to gain votes, popularity and used as tools against political opponents. “Weapons” uses reality to create one of the most thought-provoking and subliminally horrifying movies of 2025. It forced the viewers to stop and think about the real terrifying moments in our society and the failing system that protects the massacre of children.  It reminds us that the true horror is the atrocities the United States government refuses to handle in favor of the financial and political gain it provides them.

The following poem is one of many reflections and feelings that I had during my academic process. This article “The Academic Cliffhanger, My Letters from the Edge” may continue to be a miniseries of my reflections through letters and poems. The 10 Stages of My Numbness: I wear a dreaded face and walk with it on I look like a zombie, I'm turning into one I can't feel anymore, what if I bit off my tongue? Listing all my stages of becoming numb Two things I lost, work ethic and motivation I miss those times where I valued devotion Why can't I be the same person that I was? Listing all my stages of becoming numb I know it's a cliché but three things must be told I wear a mask, but it’s just for show I laugh to hide, cover un-blown And I pretend your entertainment is so fun, while Listing all my stages of becoming numb For years I hated how I couldn't stop the flow My crying went wherever I’d go Now I couldn't cry a single tear again And just lie awake all night in my bed I now wish I could cry for fun - rather than Listing all my stages of becoming numb Your words couldn't hurt me if they tried Her words make me cry five thousand more times I’ve become resistant and your words sound dumb Listing all my stages of becoming numb I miss how 2020 used to be Life through six gray lenses is now all I see I wonder where the lenses came from Listing all my stages of becoming numb At what point did these feelings come to be Where the only hope is to the Lord, only to thee I scream, beg and pray O Lord please help me Not even knowing if you’d hear a thing Please bring down seven blessings from above Listing all my stages of becoming numb I give a declaration today, I haven’t eaten because the present filled me with dismay, The future, the only thing i’ll live for nowadays I stamp this saying with the print of my thumb Listing all my stages of becoming numb Everyday I switch from reality to my fantasy future Sleep for nine hours after a nap still in my school shirt People are worried but I’m never stunned Listing all my stages of becoming numb Today you’ve watched how I’ve become numb Another lifeless human by her lonesome Watch out for symptoms, every last one So that when listing all the stages, I’d be the last one And if I ever ruin the bright person that you might become You would be my tenth stage of becoming numb. This poem was written based on a constant feeling I had. My younger self had always been a very emotional person and it was easy for me to cry. Going through my challenges at home felt as if I could only anticipate for the worst to continue because hoping for the best was no longer worth it. I came to a point of numbness where I couldn’t cry at all. The thought of everything was overwhelming but my sense of hopelessness and being unable to change the situation overpowered how my emotions normally reacted. There have been many times where I just wished that I could cry at least once or shed a tear, but I just couldn't. I couldn't even force it out. I had never felt that way before and I hated it. I told myself that I couldn't walk around looking sad or defeated either. It could cause people to question my change in demeanor. I didn't want to have people in my life know what I was going through. Even though I’d put on a smile, it didn't actually reflect how I felt during those times. And the last thing that I wanted was to feel as if I was dumping my problems onto anyone else, so I kept them bottled up for myself. I could no longer just sit with this feeling anymore; it's not who I was and it isn't who I wanted to be. I wrote the poem as my first step to fixing the problem, realizing it and addressing it. Looking back at it now, I think I did the right thing. It fully captured who I felt in what I thought was a creative way. I made 10 different stages of my numbness and was able to portray how it affected my emotions, expressions, my work flow, the people around, things that I’ve missed and even my spiritual life. And then I chose to end on the note of warning the reader of the symptoms. At the very end I was worried that by telling you this would be putting all my troubles onto the reader, causing them to worry and eventually making you become numb to your situations. Which the whole poem is warning you to not do.

The holidays are supposed to be a time of joy. Yet according to the American Psychological Association , nearly nine in 10 U.S. adults describe some level of stress this time of year. 43% say that the stress of the holidays interferes with their ability to enjoy them. Whether it's anticipation of family conflict or financial concerns, there is enough evidence to suggest that the holidays are often overwhelming. As a kid, I loved Christmas. On Christmas Eve, I would track Santa on the NORAD Santa Tracker website, and put out cookies and milk. Unable to sleep due to excitement, I would wake up to stockings full and presents nestled under the Christmas tree. It was magical. But now that I’m an adult and I’m the one helping fill stockings and wrap presents, it’s arguably a whole lot less magical. Arguably the biggest strength of the holiday season is spending time with loved ones. But is repetitive annual gift giving the best way to show loved ones that you care about them? Something like a family vacation, a trip to the city or just a day of cooking and loved ones is sufficient in my mind to spend time with them.  Gift giving is important too, as a reward after a long, exhausting year. It’s also a way to let others know that you care about them. However, year after year, it becomes financially draining to buy stuff just for the sake of buying stuff. The notion that Santa Claus only gives presents if you behave well distracts from the notion of giving gifts and, more so, favors the receiving gifts aspect of the tradition. It may also provide feelings that children aren’t unconditionally loved if they are fearful of getting coal for not behaving their best. According to an article on Happy Family , children rely on their parents to be truthful. It’s how we understand and learn about the world. Continuously telling them lies every year can foster deep mistrust later in life when parental guidance is meant to be a source of security for kids. An argument against this is that the magic of being young and innocent can be taken away if they don’t experience the tradition of believing in Santa. I would argue that this is not the case, as there’s still wonder in the world to be explored at that age without believing in a heavyset man in the Arctic with a fleet of reindeer.  At least in America, we spend too much money on Christmas. It’s blatantly obvious that the holiday, at least to the wider world, is not about Jesus Christ; it’s about selling everything imaginable.  People extend the Christmas season from December into November in the hopes of feeling the comfort that the holiday season is known to provide a little sooner, and corporations take advantage of that “stressful need” to order Christmas presents as soon as possible. As a kid, I really didn’t understand the amount of effort and planning Christmas takes. Some gifts can be practical, like buying your father a new grill. Yet if you buy the wrong grill due to a lack of expertise, it's a huge problem. Instead of getting people gifts you’ll think they’ll like, it is often more convenient to just ask the person what they want. If it’s not a surprise, then there’s no point in making a big deal of it. Not to mention spending all this money is a huge financial toll on countless families. This sense of overwhelming capitalism is more apparent anywhere else than in the store of Five Below. You’d think you’d find cheap, affordable gifts in there, but I soon came to the conclusion that everything in that store was a want, not a need. Kinetic sand that looks like nachos. Slippers that look like dinosaur feet. Grinch themed hand wipes. Every single pop culture IP is being sold as merchandise.  They will sell anything because they know someone will buy it. I was about to buy a family member a prank gift where a roll of toilet paper didn’t actually pull off the roll, and soon I was sick to my stomach. We are quite literally just buying stuff to buy stuff because that’s the tradition. Now, a case can be made for children believing in Santa, but after they grow out of it, why not spend the money on a vacation instead? It’ll actually create memories with meaning instead of junk cluttering your house that will warrant a couple of reactions and then you’ll forget about it. I am not saying there is no such thing as good gifts, as maybe your dad really did need that new grill. I am saying that excessive purchasing is abused by the system because they know it works.  I am tired of making lists of things that will be bought for me when I know I want nothing. In reality, the money could be used more productively, especially if you’re just buying me an ugly Christmas sweater that can only be worn one month out of the year.  I already have a lot of material stuff in my life, and college tuition is expensive. Let’s just spend time together as a family instead, which is really the main goal anyway. Instead of buying those yellow socks for my mom this year, maybe I’ll try writing her a poem. Instead of telling my friends how much they mean to me, maybe I’ll write them a story or make a picture collage, or make a video for them on a collective inside joke. Instead of giving my brother a gift card to Raising Cane's, I’ll give him a homemade coupon where we’ll go there together and I’ll pay for him. I love the holiday season; the atmosphere is wonderful. But when it comes to the repetitive tradition of gift-giving in a format that has nothing to do with the many holidays’ original roots, it gets boring after a while. I want to cherish my loved ones and be cherished, but I cannot deny I am growing out of Christmas.

While grief may not be a gift by nature, I would consider it a lesson for life. I did not understand how other people seemed to recover after a death. I saw grief as the most difficult mountain someone could ever face. An impossible climb up a mountain with no clear path to the summit, where the air grows thinner with each step and the weight of loss makes every movement feel like walking through quicksand. Until I lost my aunt, I wasn’t familiar with grief. What happened to people who have lost others? She died in 2021, and with her passing my world shifted in ways I never anticipated. At first I was just mad. Mad at myself for missing her funeral. Mad at God for taking her away. Mad at her because she broke the many promises we made together. She broke her promise to come to my graduation and to do my hair like she usually does. I missed those afternoons when she would braid and twist my hair while we talked about everything and anything. In just one second, everything crumbled right under my eyes. She was gone, and there was no way for me to get her back. It took me a while to realize that she was really gone and that I needed to figure out how to move on in life without her. Tatie wasn’t just family; she was my best friend, my second mother and my biggest cheerleader. She had this way of making the smallest and most ordinary moments feel special. When I was younger, she would pick me up from school and bring my favorite food with her. She was a good listener and comforted me. She made me feel special, the kind of attention that made me feel like the most important person in the world. Her love was the most innocent, pure, free from judgments and unconditional. She loved through all of the versions of myself. The loss of such a love is what made her loss so devastating and her memory so precious. I had to learn forgiveness, a process more complex than one would think. Forgiveness they say is not just for the other person but also for you. Forgiveness for myself and forgiveness for her love. The anger I felt was grief in disguise. Forgiving myself meant accepting that her being gone doesn’t mean that her love disappeared. Forgiving her means understanding that she did not choose to leave, that she didn’t want to break those promises, and wouldn’t have if she had a choice. Death is not betrayal but part of the human life cycle. She might not be able to see me graduate, take tons of pictures and fuss over my cap and gown like she would have, but I know she is proud of me no matter where she is. She is no longer with me, but I will never forget her. On graduation day, she was there, in the morning sun, in the unexpected calm I felt walking across the stage. I heard her voice telling me I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. She is no longer here physically, but I will always have her with me, carrying her in my heart. Her laugh echoes in my mind when I need encouragement. Her advice guides me through difficult decisions. Her unconditional love reminds me how to love others with the same innocent acceptance. I realize we all face mountains sometimes, but it is the way we climb them that matters. Some mountains require patience, others demand courage and bravery. Grief has taught me that not every mountain has to be conquered. I learned to appreciate life and my community more because nothing lasts forever. Only memories matter in the end. The people around us and the small moments we take for granted. I don't know how I am going to react to future obstacles. I don’t know when they will happen and whether or not I will fall into the same despair I did because grief is unpredictable. What I do know is that it will be painful. It will not be easy. It is not supposed to be easy, but I know now I can turn the pain inside me into strength to face the future. Tatie’s love did not die with her; it lives on in me, teaching me that love is the most powerful force we have for healing and strength. (Djemima Duvernat will be the Literary/Personal Essay Editor next semester)

Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels If there’s one thing this Thanksgiving taught me, it’s that some family members have a time limit for how long they’ll show they love you. There’s a sweet spot. Family members will love you no matter what if you’re part of two specific age ranges: young children or the elderly. When you’re young, people adore you because you’re so cute, naive and full of energy. It’s okay to act out because you still have time to grow. When you’re a senior citizen, people choose to love you despite the bad behaviors you might present. And if anyone has anything negative to say about you, people will tell them to be respectful and will remind them that you’re from a different time. There’s no accountability requested of you because people just assume older family members can’t change since they’ve been that way all their lives.  If you’re 21, you’re screwed. Not all hope is lost if you’re male because you might have family members like those boy moms who want to date their sons. They’ll cheer on any little achievement of yours if you fall into that category.  I’m just not that lucky. When I walk through the door during the holidays, I feel as if I’m not supposed to be there. No one hugs me. If they do, it’s the awkward one-arm hug people do out of pity when they see you going in for one. No one wants to talk to me, except for the younger kids and…the dog, I guess? But the dog doesn’t really talk. It’s more of a spit in my hand and peeing on the carpet I just stood on. While not the best company, it’s better than being completely ignored. And if it weren’t for my younger cousins, I would’ve walked away thinking Thanksgiving was horrible. But I got to play games with them. No one seems proud of my achievements. I try to keep my comments limited so I’m not overbearing in a conversation, but the moment I want to say something about myself, it falls upon deaf ears. I pulled up a picture from last Thanksgiving to show how different I looked now that I lost 50 pounds. My cousin didn’t have a reaction. I doubt that she even looked at the phone. I got more of a reaction from her friend that I met that same day.  It’s like I’m invisible to her, and that stung the most because I felt so connected to her when I was a kid. After all, she was my dance teacher. Maybe she hates me because I quit. I don’t know. And I can’t call her out on it because she has reached the age where you just love her. She’s in the sweet spot. I’m not the only person she does it to. My mom receives some of the cold treatment as well. The only difference is that my mom will continue to include herself in the conversation, while I just feel like I’m wasting my time. I wish I were more like that, but I can’t fathom the idea of continuing to talk to someone who barely gives a head nod as a response. The only time my cousin talked about me warmly and lovingly was when it was about the past, when I was a kid. It’s not like that’s a rare thing to happen, but it makes me wonder. Am I unlovable now because I’ve grown up? This has happened with other family members too. I have a cousin who is my age and his mom used to be so loving toward me. I remember that at any given moment, she would give me a big kiss on the cheek. I didn’t find out until later that she despised my mother, my grandmother and my grandfather.  She stopped showing up to family events that had them there. That meant I never saw her. I wonder if that’s how she felt all along. And maybe she was saving my child self the burden of knowing that she hated everybody in my family. She just had to stick it through until I was old enough to understand. They don’t seem to understand that once I’m old enough to know the truth, it’s the child version that lives inside of me that gets hurt. These family members set me up for disappointment by portraying a false image instead of acting disinterested in me from the beginning.  Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it’s not that they stopped loving me, but they just don’t feel like they have to pretend everything is perfect all the time. Even if that were the truth, it still doesn’t stop me from feeling like an outsider in my own family. I always say that I dread the day when my grandmother and mother won't be around anymore. I know for a fact that barely anyone will check up on me or invite me to holiday dinners or family gatherings. They are the glue and the reason we receive an invite in the first place. Because my grandmother is in the sweet spot. Because my mother isn’t afraid to ask. I know. “The phone works both ways” is something my family might tell me if I ever told them how I felt. I’m just so jealous of the people who have big families and they all come around for the holidays. And from an outside point of view, it doesn’t look like it’s hard to try and have a conversation with someone. To get them to care. I just don’t think Thanksgiving would have been different if I hadn’t gone.

I never thought of myself as a good writer. I grew up in an artistic family, so people assumed I was naturally creative, naturally talented and naturally capable of anything in that world. My house was full of love, but it was also full of expectations. Expectations that always, somehow, pointed to me. My mother reached the highest academic and professional positions. The message was clear. I was supposed to honor the efforts of everyone before me by going even further. And because everyone in my home was a woman, and everyone was a teacher, the pressure felt heavier.  Be excellent. Be disciplined. Be better. But I never felt perfect. Not even close. When I reached my adolescence, I cracked under the invisible weight. I felt sick in my head and in my heart. I felt empty and disappointed because I could not meet their idea of perfection. So I told myself I no longer cared about being perfect. That was the only way I knew how to survive. Later, I realized something important. How do you surpass someone who has already reached so high?  You do not compete. You leave. I left Honduras and came to the United States for many reasons.  The first was freedom. Growing up international, the United States felt like the destination everyone talked about. You hear the stories. Opportunity is everywhere. Everything is possible. The second reason was uncertainty. I did not know my passion. I only knew Honduras did not have the resources I needed. For most of my childhood, I planned to become a neurosurgeon, a chemical engineer or an ophthalmologist. Instead, I chose communications. That choice confused people. Some saw it as wasteful. All the effort, all the sacrifices, all the money put into my education felt wasted on a communications degree. I carried that guilt silently, and sometimes I still do. When I was young, I had a guardian angel who believed in me. They gave me my first access to technology, an iPad which became my door to the world. But guardian angels do not always stay. Sometimes they leave to find their own purpose. When they left, I lost both them and the financial support that kept me in school. I am a person of faith. Deep faith. Sometimes faith is not about religion. Sometimes it is the simple, stubborn promise you make to yourself: I will do it no matter what. Being eighteen in a foreign country trying to survive, felt terrifying. This was supposed to be my golden ticket and I was watching it slip away. But it was not just about me.  It was about my mother, who never had the life she deserved because she spent it caring for a sick child. It was about my grandmother, who raised both of us. It was about my aunt, who drained her retirement so I could have a chance here. I would not waste their sacrifices. I knocked on every door I could find and eventually one opened. That door led me to another guardian angel. And that changed everything. I learned more as a student at the University of New Haven than I ever expected. I arrived at seventeen convinced that I had made it. I had not made anything. I was just beginning. And even now, I am still beginning. Graduating from the University of New Haven is not just a milestone. It is the end of a chapter that demanded transformation, discipline and honesty. I am grateful for the curriculum, but what shaped me most were the lessons that were not in any syllabus. Here, I learned what I am and who I am. I learned how I think, how I work, how I adapt and how I fail. I learned what integrity looks like in practice. I learned how to build a life far from home, in a place where nothing resembled the world I came from. In a campus full of diversity, I had to figure out where I belonged as someone who did not fit neatly anywhere. I was an outsider. I still am. But I learned that belonging is not something you wait for. It is something you build by showing up, by doing the work and by refusing to disappear. The faculty at the university taught me that my voice had value long before I believed it myself. They pushed for my presence in rooms where I thought I had nothing to offer. When I had no one to advocate for me, they did. I will not forget that. As I move forward, I want to keep studying, filming and telling stories. I want to create work that recognizes the complexity of people like me: people who live between countries, between identities and between expectations. My dream is to build a studio in the United States and another in Honduras and move between the places that shaped me. I may not know exactly what comes next, but I know who is walking into it. And for the first time, that feels like enough.

Photo by Emily Ranquist: By: Lynelle Fernandez When I was in high school, I took five Advanced Placement (AP) courses that transferred as credit when I enrolled in college. Having 15 credits before my first semester meant I was able to graduate in three and a half years instead of the usual four. Although I’ll finish classes this December, I will attend Commencement with the rest of my senior peers next May. This should be great news. Why am I not excited? There are plenty of upsides to an early graduation: I don’t have to pay tuition for another semester, I won’t have finals to take and I’ll be free from the stresses of schoolwork. On the other hand, I’ll no longer have the academic lifestyle I’ve had for as long as I can remember.   I think of the classes I won’t be able to take, like spring-exclusive courses or the ones that never fit in my schedule. If I could have one more semester, I’d spend the time taking electives in the fields I never got to explore. This semester, I registered for Introduction to Acting on a whim and I’ve been enjoying it more than I expected. I wonder what my experience would have been like if I had pursued theater more in-depth. Would I have found a passion for studying drama from an academic lens? Would I have joined the theater program as a crew or cast member? Were there opportunities and friendships I missed out on that could have changed my college experience? I think of the social aspects of college life I’ll miss out on. Although I wasn’t an avid attendee of campus events, the people I’ve met at this university through organizations and classes have changed me for the better. This not only includes my classmates and fellow club members but also the professors who showed me great kindness and attentiveness. After spending four years of high school without making friends, I fully expected to spend another four years alone. In retrospect, I don’t think I could have gotten this far without support from others. I think of  the personal lessons I’ve learned along the way. Three years ago, I was aware of my flaws but didn’t always know how to work on them. Recognition is a good first step, but progress comes from trial and error. From social fumbles to academic blunders, failures opened an opportunity to step back and analyze what went wrong. Although it is impossible to undo past mistakes, the best way to utilize them is to apply them to the future. What was once embarrassing and harrowing to look back on gets recycled into newfound wisdom, like compost for a garden. In the end, what is there to gain from all this thinking? By yearning for the past, you drag its dead weight forward. What has already happened cannot be changed. Danger arises when such thoughts delve into the hypothetical or unknown.  There’s a joy to be found in that part of life: you can never truly predict what the world has in store for you. Life is full of surprises and unexpected circumstances that impede any attempt to predict the future. Four years ago, I convinced myself I would end college friendless and jobless. As someone who is currently neither of those, I am incredibly grateful for the experiences that got me to this point. While I would have loved another semester to deepen my connections and learn more things, I know I will look back fondly on my college memories. My story is not over; it’s just the end of a chapter. The only way to find out what comes next is to have the courage to turn the page.

This is a picture of a bank built in 1866 in Danbury, Conn.  Compare that to a modern bank, say, your local M&T or Wells Fargo. Perhaps those modern buildings are more practical and efficient, but I cannot stroll past a brick building like this Danbury bank and not appreciate its charm with its rows of lined brick with a golden clock and adorned arches above the windows.  Someone might bring up the obvious point that buildings like this cost more to create in materials and design. They might say that affordable architecture that prioritizes sustainability and efficiency instead of beauty makes those practical buildings worth more in the long run. Yet as someone who knows nothing about architecture I still have to ask myself, if money is the main issue then why do so many buildings owned or created by people with money look so ugly? I suppose if someone has to mass construct a thousand Walmarts with the sole purpose of making money, it makes sense to cut corners, especially for energy efficiency and material durability.  You can see this contrast clearly at universities in the New Haven region. Yale University, a prestigious Ivy league with a tiny acceptance rate and beautiful campus was built 300 years ago. Now take Southern Connecticut State University, a state college with an arguably modern-looking campus, although it was founded over 100 years ago.  Both are good schools, but any person on the street would tell you Yale is the better school in prestige, influence and higher learning. The campus looks like castle grounds, not only reflecting its historical uniqueness but also its exclusivity and status. We associate good-looking architecture with good things. Southern still looks neat, but they don’t have a medieval courtyard. I’m not going to pretend there aren’t drawbacks to traditional architecture. It is known that old buildings like the ones at Yale are not very accessible. Some buildings have elevators but they are usually out of order. The sprawling campus is extremely difficult to navigate  for those with mobility issues and many facilities are without any accessible entry points. It is apparent that three hundred years ago when Yale was founded they were not perhaps concerned with people who are disabled.  Old buildings simply require a level of maintenance that new buildings do not require. Aging structures  require time and investment that many people aren’t able to keep up with, especially when the process itself of renovation opens up a can of worms including energy performance, outdated codes and faculty electrical issues. Beautiful charm and historic significance end up being sacrificed for higher energy efficiency and more modern functionality in this costly exchange.  My argument for structures looking pretty stems from the fact that we tend to be happier when our environment is pleasant. A study at the University of Oxford  found that even though happy employees do not generally work more hours than employees who are less happy, they are more productive within those hours.  If a corporation wants to maximize profit it can construct cheap working spaces for employees and focus on other aspects of making money. Now imagine if the corporation spent time and money to design and create a beautiful working space with glistening hanging lights and ornate rugs, painted arches and wooden doors. This would no doubt be more costly to the corporation, yet I would argue that the employees would become happier while working.  When they are happier, they are more productive. When employees are more productive then they do their job better and still make the corporation more money. An article at Forbes magazine  maintains that quality working environments and more comfortable atmospheres provide the space for better work to be completed. The cohesive argument against old structures is that they are costly to maintain. If you change an aspect of a historically significant window, is that ruining it? What if the window is faulty and provides either too much or not enough ventilation? Energy efficiency can be maintained in old buildings with care and money. On the flip side, some studies show that historic buildings often are more energy efficient than some modern buildings. Thick heat retaining walls as well as the fact that homes made better use of natural light sources and ventilation before electricity existed all contribute to this.  America has a lot of different styles of architecture – ranch, farmhouse, colonial, craftsman and that’s just residential styles alone. Combined with religious architecture, immigrant styles from Europe and elsewhere prove that this country does indeed have a rich architectural history.  Loss of architectural identity can in part be traced back to lack of regionalism in housing developments. In other words different places create general styles of buildings that are not specific to any one region or culture.  This creates a formula for housing development that combines little to no innovation and a desire to cut corners financially. This results in many places looking identical despite them being across the country. You can travel to Virginia or Oregon and you’re likely to find a similar looking shopping plaza nearby and streets that very much look alike. Architecture and how our world looks can represent our cultural values and moral beliefs , and culture in return shapes the meaning and purposes of buildings. If our world is declining in visual uniqueness and color, what does that say about our society as a whole? Is it a form of cultural decay? I hope that we can continue to use the beautifully designed blueprints that created such charm long ago and still combine them with the need for affordability and practical spaces the modern world requires. I am tired of walking through bleak urban scenes full of gray buildings with endless right angles. I’m tired of looking at buildings with shiny windows in rows that blind me with their monotonous flat stories that tell me nothing about what kind of building it is.  At the same time, I am tired of old buildings with crumbling foundations and toxic decaying chemicals. I know there has to be a middle ground where artistically appealing structures can be made more often instead of creating a skyline that’s made with the least amount of innovation. So let’s return to my picture, the simple brick Danbury bank. It’s quiet, it’s not as recognizable as a Chase Bank on a main road. However, there is something to say about its structure and form, the history it tells, and the culture it promotes. It feels durable, more interesting and credible.  Sure, the world is different now and we might not need to adopt the same styles, but that doesn’t mean that every highway overpass needs to be the same. I long for a world that’s colorful, not only in architecture but in mind and soul. I long for a world with intentional design and artistic prowess.  I long for a time when buildings looked pretty.

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

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

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

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