CHARGED-UP RESULTS

(Photo by Anaylee Hough) Reminiscing is a bittersweet feeling. With all the snow and gloom that we are getting here in the north recently, I can’t stop thinking about the sunny South. I went to South Carolina with my family to visit my great aunt, whom I’d never met before, in a small town called Summerton. My grandmother was born and raised there, and I had never been to the South before, so I was excited for a change in scenery as a girl from the city that never sleeps.  With a population of less than 800 people and miles and miles of fields and grass, Summerton was two hours away from the airport, and was definitely different from the polluted and bustling city of New York. The country was quiet with only a handful of cars passing by. Once my family and I got to my great aunt's house, my cousin welcomed us and told us that a guy down the road had just come over and gotten a snake that was slithering around the house for her. This is when I knew I wasn’t meant to be a southern belle.  (Photo by Anaylee Hough) (Photo by Anaylee Hough) One of my favorite parts of the trip was trying the breakfast food chain Waffle House for the first time. I had heard so much about the franchise and had wanted to try it for so long. I prefer pancakes over waffles, but my yearning to try Waffle House overcame that. The waffles tasted like cakes, the eggs were hot and cheesy and the sausage links were juicy. It was the perfect breakfast platter. Waffle House had a variety of different breakfast foods to eat, and it was a good amount of food for such a low price! Simply thinking about it makes my mouth water. I crave it almost all the time now.  On the two-hour ride to Summerton, I passed by many fields with farm animals. Seeing horses on the side of the road was very amusing. My little sister and I were so excited. My grandmother told me stories about how she lived on a farm and had to cater to animals. I personally wouldn’t have the ability to live on a farm in the middle of nowhere, but it seems like it would be a fun thing to experience.  (Photo by Anaylee Hough) (Photo by Anaylee Hough) After leaving Summerton, the real vacation began. Another two-hour drive, and my family and I made it to Myrtle Beach. We stayed at a hotel named Caribbean Resort with an ocean view. The pool and beach were one of my favorite parts of the trip. It was the middle of September, and the area was still very much active with tourists. The weather was perfect, not too hot with a nice breeze. Since my trip was during September classes were in session. I still had assignments to do, so I was getting those done while in my bathing suit. School always comes before fun! A couple of blocks down from the hotel was a huge ferris wheel called the SkyWheel. The ferris wheel is almost 200 feet tall, and you can definitely feel it while you're on it. It’s right by the beach, so it becomes even more intimidating at the top. I went at night, which added an extra scary feeling just seeing pure darkness below the water. There's a button in the middle of the cart that you can press at any time to get off. My aunt's fear of heights overcame her, and she ended up pressing it. It wasn’t fun for her, but I surely enjoyed it.  South Carolina showed me a different experience that I wasn’t used to. I was able to go deep in the South, where tourism was scarce. This made the whole experience feel more authentic. I was able to meet family members that I’ve never met before that I would always hear so much about growing up. Even though I personally wouldn’t reside in the South, it definitely left an impression on me that I will always hold dearly.

Photo via Washington Post - “ Members of the Army, Marines and National Guard  in the District remained on patrol in the capital until April 16. (UPI)” Revolution seems ever more daunting as I learn the language of politics. My head feels heavy on my shoulders, with migraines spurred on by the latest newscycle. I think about my place in this world and feel small. I feel scared. So many of us are. Some of us are immediately threatened by state violence, and many of us feel powerless to protect them. Many more are conditioned to turn away rather than face the violence with us. I try hoping that they are afraid too. I try including them in a vision of peace, peace I strive towards in my actions and choices. I’ve drafted this many times in journals and scrapbooks – on the margins of papers through three years of activism. Some of those little notes taught me more than I know now. Please bear with me, some of these topics are difficult to simplify. I urge you to ask these same questions to yourself. This essay is only a compassionate call to action. Dissenting is the last decision someone makes as an individual. Not that any action of disagreement is a rejection of self interest, nor abandonment of your own needs. Being an individual is not a terrible thing, but what I mean to describe here is a decision to act and think collectively, rather than move through the world as if you were not a part of it. Easier to point out than to accept. We need more time. This goes against school policy. I’m not risking my degree. We can’t force people to participate. Nobody is going to listen. I don’t do politics. I wouldn’t know how to do that. Someone else would be better. This isn’t an issue here. There are a lot of ways to say “I can’t.” I have to say “I can’t” too, sometimes, when the strain is too much on my spirit. After all, some of us are more at risk than others. It is the greatest trap of capitalism: Who has the time, who has the money, who has the energy, who has the ability, or the patience, or the bandwidth, and on and on. Revolutionaries throughout history have struggled to solve this problem: “the means” with which we keep fighting. Not a lot of us have them, that much is not our fault. This is a good moment to recall our emotions after Trump’s first, and now second, term in office. How often American liberals (a majority being white) treated oppressed minorities as if we were responsible for Trump’s power. Narratives are popular about the Arab communities in Michigan, or Haitian immigrants in the major cities or Latino Trump supporters in the blue states.  A slanted headline can kill someone, and it has. Our oppression must be our responsibility because white ignorance of reality is easier that way. So, what about the poor whites, or the moderate white women, or the millions of young, white, non-voters in urban centers? What about the ones with the means to vote, means to eat and means to speak freely? “ I get it .” Wrote Isaac J. Bailey, in his 2020 book “ Why Didn’t We Riot ?” “ None of us is above reproach on an issue so emotional, complex, vexing, and ever evolving as race in the United States of America. ” Bailey’s capacity for care shows through the conversations he has with cops, whites and politicians in this book. He does not make the mistake of admonishing white Americans from their complicity in Trump’s racist authoritarianism. “Black people are imperfect, too. But there are some racial lines black voters would not cross.” Bailey writes, “To make a bigoted man president is to inflict his bigotry upon black and brown communities, no matter the reason you choose to support him.” Bailey explores his own anger after Trump, anger which we repress and replace with respectability to survive in a white America in denial about its oppressive conditions. White Americans, obviously, did not dissent from the racial order in 2016, nor did they in 2024. I say all this to make a key point about individualism. Suffering and exploitation continues because of unwillingness to abandon capitalism’s sparse privileges. “This simplistic, individualistic notion of responsibility, that denies the impact of history, is precisely the reason so many historical [events] have been defined by racial explosions.” says Angela Y. Davis, speaking to a crowded cultural centre in Barcelona, Spain. We don’t have time here to talk about neoliberalism but understand it as the dominant social order. The neoliberal definition of ‘individual’ dehumanizes us as people. An individual is no more than a collection of skills to sell in a market for their own financial interest.  Community members are reduced to businesses competing for survival against each other. Davis draws our attention to the way individualism makes excuses for systemic racism today, “We have never seriously considered the irreparable damage done by the enslavement of African descendent people and the genocidal colonization of indigenous people.” Davis’s thoughts developed from her many confrontations within our capitalist system. She says, “Revolutionary change is not possible as long as we do not address the extent to which repressive apparatus preserves these racist histories.” Revolutionaries are always in conversation with each other throughout the world, but also throughout time. Robin D.G Kelley, an abolitionist scholar from whom I have learned much of my politics, has studied extensively the intersections of race, class, gender and revolutionary struggle. “One, race and gender are not incidental or accidental features of the global capitalist order,” he explains. Kelley asserts that race “is a structure of power,” and names race as “a means of structuring power through difference.” Kelley led a seminar with students at the Haven Wright Center for Social Justice, fittingly named “Where Do We Go From Here?” A student asked him “the means” question, asking Kelley how to go from talking about change to engaging in change. I ask myself this question a lot. His answer? “What I can tell you is who I learned from. I think it’s important for students, for people to come together and actually talk, and read together… to be able to figure things out together.” Kelley said. “We get defeated all the time because we get placed in isolation you know,” said Kelley, “as opposed to being in struggle together.” Let me clear up a misconception. Struggle is not the same as endurance. Endurance means “uninterrupted or lasting existence,” endurance is Black survival in White America. Enduring is the bottled emotions, the swallowed response to a racist classmate; endurance is dealing with it, because racism isn’t going to go away tomorrow. Struggle is an active verb. We struggle because we can’t wait for a hopeful tomorrow anymore. We struggle when we use the last of our energy to defy violent systems. Struggle is not a deep breath of air – but every thrash, kick and grasp towards the surface that keeps you from drowning. That is the struggle we all must engage with. Davis said one more thing I think finds its relevance here. She asked us to continually challenge our perceived normal, and to develop a wider understanding of revolution. What do I mean by dissent, then? ‘Dissent’ is political opposition to a government or its policies. Dissent is more than to disagree – revolutionaries' express defiance with words, with actions and with choices. Dissent is the last individual choice you will make. It means to join the struggle locally and globally. In turn, our solidarity gives us strength. Commitment to collective struggle gives us the means to resist oppression, even when state violence reaches its worst. When we act with the needs of our community in mind, we pursue a society free from imperialism, racial capitalism and colonialism. Dissent. We can’t wait for action anymore.

Welcome to Azam’s literary scrapbook. While most photo albums consist of pictures, this scrapbook will be full of words. It’s not quite a diary, although in appearance it may read like one. Here remain calculated entries of memories, adolescent lessons and human experiences translated into literary meaning. There is no other place to begin such a series than with someone I know who has been there for it all. For me, she ties many loose threads together. In life friends often come and go, this remains an undisputed and painful fact. I’ve known people only for a few weeks, until they walk away. In contrast, I still know some friends from elementary school, and we talk occasionally. Nevertheless, it is a different feeling when someone has been there most days to text you for consecutive years.  Especially through adolescent years, when one is exponentially growing and changing. A quote by American writer Elbert Hubbard goes, " A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you. "  For the sake of her privacy, I will conceal her real name with the Russian nickname Masha. Not only is it more informal, but it feels closer to the feeling of, essentially, a sibling in mental harmony. We have been friends for over four years, talking pretty consistently during that time. I would imagine that level of consistency might be rare to find, especially given growing up from turbulent ages of 16 to 20. Living in the same town, we had shared elementary and middle schools, yet we really didn’t know one another until 11th grade.  I believe that I learned a large part of self compassion and forgiveness from her. There were times when I could not show myself any compassion, and perhaps she should not have either at times. Still she remained sympathetic within reason and believed in me when I did not, which was a mutual exchange, I must add.  I introduced her to cross country and long distance running, and in turn, she introduced me to the glory of Trader Joe’s. Win-win. I introduced her to my friend, who became her boyfriend, and she later on introduced me to her friend, who later became one of my girlfriends. Lose-lose, that was a bad idea. Now we owe each other a lot of indirect benefits and consequences simply via the law of cause and effect. She introduced me to my favorite Greek restaurant, and I introduced her to “A Quiet Place” which apparently, to her, is extremely terrifying. She carried a hand in saving my life once, as well as normalizing for me the concept of four passenger door vehicles that only have two side doors. I helped her realize why Stratton Brooke State Park is the worst cross country course known to man, as well as the fact that there is a distinct difference between Billy Joel and Bob Dylan. I took her on a couple of dates when I first met her, and then she friendzoned me. In return, when I became best friends with her childhood best friend and her sister, I learned what it was like to really lose when friend groups inevitably split. I remember all four of us went to New York City one time, and we stumbled through Chinatown in the hot sun for an hour just to end up at this recommended restaurant named The Golden Unicorn. I will never forget this experience when I was dehydrated, and they kept giving me expensive hot tea in this giant penthouse. We now refer to this event as “The Nightmare At The Golden Unicorn.” I’m not sure how the most toxic friendship could become the most mutually supportive platonic system, but I do know it boosts my faith in humanity that there are good people out there who are willing to work through problems. Without Masha, I would really not understand the difference between a boys and girls sleepover; the difference between skincare and lights out at nine, versus passing out on the floor wherever and whenever without a toothbrush in sight. Without Masha, I probably wouldn’t have known as early as I did that the difference between the genders is damn near none in mind and spirit, at least as I see it. Minus sleepovers. Without Masha, I wouldn’t have been exposed to orthodox church pastries and a camp volunteering experience that made my dad lose his favorite water bottle in Monroe. Without Masha, I definitely wouldn’t have grown to realize so early the value in learning about other cultures and peoples’ differences, even if they didn’t align with my perspective.   Once you break down the assumptions and idealizations about someone that exists, you’re left with numerous flaws. We accept each other's flaws, and even if we occasionally misunderstand each other now, we always problem solve and rationalize. We hear each other out and work to fix the problem, as mature adults in my view must do. This system between us is strong because we have done it so many times before, and with much greater conflicts to the point where current obstacles appear minuscule in comparison.  She never gave up on me, so I have never given up on her. No one is perfect, but we share mutual respect as we’ve seen each other evolve through mental centuries of fortified relations. She taught me that good things don’t come easy, and waiting for them can result in miracles, such as the fact that we are still friends. I’d like to think I taught her resilience as well through personal struggles of her own. It feels validating and joyful to converse with someone regularly (even though I only see her in real life every month or so now) who knows everything about me. Many good friends can listen without judgement, but not all of them were there since the genesis of adolescence. Though we’ve been out of high school for nearly three years, I could not thank her enough. Given how intertwined our adolescent lives have been, I could never explain my adult life story without mentioning her, and I am an important part of her story as well. With all the empathy she has shown me in times where I could find no light in the world, I am finally beginning to foster self compassion. She is one of the kindest and sweetest people I’ve ever met.  The ironic part is I used to be in love with her, but I hope you believe me when I say that its irrelevance is so potent nowadays that it might as well exist in another lifetime. The fact that at one time it was deemed an impossibility to recover from that in itself shows the true healing qualities of time and determined human resilience. The heartbreak caused by setting each other up with mutual friends packed more of a lasting punch if I’m being honest. Without Masha, I really wouldn’t have many people to converse with about European history, literature, and writing, or people from high school whom we forgot existed. Without Masha, I would not know where my life trajectory thus far would have gone, for better or for worse.  Her application of logic to issues at hand, intellect, and kindness are things that continue to inspire me every day as a grounding force for humanity's goodness. I look into her eyes, and I am emboldened to know someone has known me so long without judgement or continuous drift. Few things stay the same, especially at this age, but I am beyond grateful for her anchor of mutual support. It’s a constant that can be appreciated in an ever changing world. We truly were so different nearly five years ago, and we had no clue of left from right. Adulthood came quickly and without warning. It’s here now, supposedly, but it doesn’t really feel like it.  I truly believe that I have learned to treat others better, and in turn how to treat myself better, because of our long term mutual exchange of regular support and friendship. So here’s to the future!

Photo Credit to Garret Morrow on Pexels Throughout your life, there are going to be certain objects that weave themselves into your individuality until they become something more. They become a part of your everyday routine, your ideals of comfort and a part of your identity.  For me, that object is a pair of Skullcandy Crusher Evo headphones. I've had them for years. They aren’t anything too flashy… the cushions have lost some of their fluff, the bass doesn’t boom as loud and the volume doesn’t reach the peak like they would if they were brand new. Despite all the years we’ve spent together, I feel like I would die without them.  What makes these headphones so important to me isn’t just their intended use, but how they play a constant role in my life. They’ve carried me through so much; they’ve become my escape. They help with the long sleepless nights, studying silence, blocking out all the noise when I need to focus and the stress of everyday life. And this all comes from listening to music, watching videos or just using them to have my own sense of personal space. They have never failed me and I rely on them heavily. In a world of loud sorrows, they give me the ability to take control of the day.  While the functional connection is always the first thing established, the strong emotional connection is just as important. Over the years, they have been with me through all the different phases of my life. The different moods, memories, challenges, friends and even certain songs I’ve listened to trigger thoughts that bring me back to specific moments in life. It’s almost like they have stored all of my most important memories. Honing to this, they are essential to me and cannot be replaced; losing them would be losing a vital part of myself, a memory bank that has unlimited storage.  If I didn’t have my headphones, my day-to-day life would not be the same. It would be much harder to focus. I’ve gotten so used to using music as the background noise of my life that concentrating would prove to be difficult, and the silence would be deafening enough to kill. Some of the most comforting places, like my bedroom at home or my dorm wouldn’t feel the same. The added anxiety when traveling would just overtake my mind, and I would feel more overwhelmed and overstimulated in my environment.  Looking beyond focus, music has always been part of my life, and it's something I am very fond of. It helps me process my feelings, whether that’s calming down after a stressful day at work or I need to hype myself up before going to hang out. Without my headphones, those experiences become dull and muddled as the moment doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Playing music out loud on a speaker doesn’t create the same kind of environment, nor does it invoke the same feelings as using my headphones. I need to feel the music and bass in my bones.  In all honesty, I do believe that I can technically live without them, but it would prove difficult. As humans, we are adaptable; over time, we will find alternative things that give us the same satisfaction as previous objects or items. Maybe I’d eventually get a new pair or start using a speaker instead. But these headphones and I have a specific connection that can’t be replaced. Even if I get a new pair or some other brand that is of better quality, they wouldn’t carry the same familiarity or comfort that these headphones currently bring me. So while I could actually function without them, it would be like losing a sense of myself that I wouldn’t fully heal from.  These headphones are bigger than their name; they’re bigger than their function. There are small things we depend on in our lives without ever realizing it. Everyday objects can have deeper meanings, and as time goes by we gain experiences and memories with them. It's not just about what their function is, but what they tend to represent: comfort, memories, and identity.  So while it might just be a pair of ordinary headphones to the average person, to me, they are much more than that. They’re a variable in my life that is constant. They are a tool and a lifeline that I depend on heavily, and a source of ultimate emotional connection. Losing them wouldn’t just be an inconvenience for a temporary time. But it would feel like losing a part of me that has shaped my experiences in the world.

My mother always told me I was beautiful. I was her perfect gift, and nothing would change that, but I never fully believed her.   As long as I can remember, I have been the “bigger” one in a family of gorgeous, slim women. I was the odd one out. I remember always being aware of my size, but it finally got to me in middle school.   “Jade, you would be so pretty if you were skinny.”  I was told this so casually by a boy in my class, no older than 13. That was the moment I realized my size decided my beauty. Not my personality or even superficially my face; none of that mattered when my body was that size.   I remember brushing it off in that moment because I didn’t want to show that the comment had gotten to me. I chuckled. I agreed. I allowed myself to be reduced to “the fat girl.” Something I had always believed to be true in the back of my mind had now come to the surface.   The older I got, the more I became aware of the rolls on my back and the marks on my stomach. I would sit in the bathroom and analyze myself in the mirror. I would grab my stomach and my arms, imagining what I would look like if I could just magically melt the fat off my body.   The older I got, the more I began to despise waking up in my body. All I wanted was to wake up skinny. I’d listen to weight loss hypnosis on YouTube and pray every night that when I opened my eyes, I’d be able to feel my collarbone and see my ribs when I stretched.   I just wanted to wear clothes without someone telling me everything that was wrong with me in them. I craved the freedom I associated with being thin.   Then the guilt started. Around 10 th  grade is when I decided I couldn’t eat in front of people because that was disgusting. If I dared to eat anything, I convinced myself I’d be judged for it. If I ate a salad, people would look at me and think, “Look at that fatty. Who is she fooling with a salad on her plate?” If I eat anything that is not healthy, I’d hear, “Wow, what a pig just filling herself with more carbs.” I wasn’t allowed to win.   After a day of hiding the fact that I eat food, though, I’m left to binge away all the sorrows and shame of being fat. I’d eat as much as I could because the feelings were eating away at me.   The feelings, the embarrassment is inescapable; I constantly remain in a state of shame. I’d think, “I shouldn’t have eaten that, wow, you’re really going to add extra cheese, all that ice cream, no wonder you look like this.” When I look in the mirror, I know exactly where I’d draw the lines. All along my body, where I would draw the lines of what I want to take away. All the flab, fat and stretch marks I want erased.  When I look in the mirror sometimes, I can only see regret.   I still crave the freedom of being skinny. I wonder if I’ll ever know what it is to be thin. As much as I allow myself to wear what I want, I can’t help but feel shame for it. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve fallen into the habit of only dressing nicely when I feel like I must. I almost don’t deserve to be beautiful. I don’t get to walk around on a regular day and get complimented.   To hate your body is to hate the one thing keeping you alive. It’s to hate what lets you walk, what lets you breathe, smell and taste. To hate your body is an intimate hatred. It is a painful hatred. And I am so exhausted from this hate.  As much as I’d love to be perfect, I am not, and I never will be. The best I can do is be okay with who I am. And I really want to, so I’ll try. I may fall into bad habits much more than I’d like, but at the same time, I appreciate my body. I am proud of my body for pumping my blood and beating my heart. My body works hard to make sure I am okay, even when I am neglecting it.  I may still be apprehensive about trusting my mother, but I promise myself I will try a little more every day.

Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat Contributing Writer Juliet Legassa The shift happens almost instantly when a breaking headline drops, and within minutes, social media stops being just social media. Suddenly, selfies and the highlight reels of people's lives get buried under bold-font infographics, urgent captions and the same posts copied and pasted across everyone’s story. It’s like you can see the moment your timeline turns political.  Suddenly, it feels like if you’re not reposting, you’re silent, and if you are reposting, you’re part of something bigger. For a while, it feels powerful and important, like we’re all paying attention at the same time.  Then a week passes, and the posts slow down. The algorithm moves on. So do we. That’s why social media activism gets called overhyped. It can look like we’re confusing posting with the action of actually doing something. An article from Muse Magazine  talks about how Instagram story activism can blur the line between awareness and performance. Stories disappear after 24 hours, and just reposting something takes two seconds. It’s easy to wonder whether people are sharing because they care or because they are worried about what others will think, or worried about looking like they don’t care. Nowadays, silence can mean you are okay with what is going on.  Many Americans seem to feel tension when it comes to posting on social media. According to a 2023 report from the Pew Research Center , majorities say social media can distract from important issues or make people think they’re making a difference when they’re not. There’s a difference between liking a post and actually showing up somewhere to protest and make a change. Here’s where I think people go too far. The same Pew report found that nearly half of social media users say they’ve done at least one activism-related activity online, whether that’s sharing information, joining a group or encouraging others to take action. Sadly, that doesn’t even seem like a lot. For a generation that gets most of its news from a feed, awareness starts online. Before someone attends a protest, signs up to volunteer, or donates money, they usually see something about it on social media first. On college campuses, social media is the bulletin board. It’s how events spread, how students call out issues and how conversations start. Even if someone only reposts once, that repost might reach someone who didn’t know about the issue before.  Awareness doesn’t solve everything, but it does matter. I don’t think posting a hashtag is the same as real-world activism. It shouldn’t replace organizing, voting or having hard conversations. But I also don’t think it’s fair to dismiss it as meaningless. Social media activism can be shallow, and sometimes it is. At the same time, it gives people a low barrier to entry. It allows voices that might not be amplified by traditional media to be heard. It spreads information faster than any flyer ever could.  Maybe the problem isn’t that social media activism exists. Maybe the problem is that we expect it to be the whole movement instead of just the starting point.

I get to take advantage of Horseshoe’s publication schedule for this piece. This is going to be a special one because today is my mother’s birthday. I thought due to the fate of a new edition falling on March 6, I should choose to take the time to write about the woman who is the reason why I have a passion for writing today. For holidays in the past, whether it was Mother’s Day or her birthday, I had taken it upon myself to write my mother sentimental poems to go along with whatever gift I got for her that year. To me, I never found what I said in those poems to be anything truly astounding, but my mother was always moved by them because poetry used to be the way she expressed her feelings as well. I remember her digging out an old notebook full of her writing from one of the boxes we kept stored in a closet. She’d tell me about how proud she felt when a piece of hers was published in the newspaper.  I kept those footnotes about my mother’s life tucked away in my subconscious as I was trying to navigate my own.  When I felt like my world was upside down, I turned to writing too. I read something I wrote at my great aunt’s funeral when I was very young. I think that’s when I caught the writing bug. Not only was it therapeutic to get how I was feeling out on paper, but to read it to others and have them relate felt like a verbal hug. My medium transitioned from regular speeches into songs and poetry soon after that. I would binge watch slam poetry videos as a preteen. It inspired me to write about how I felt in complicated friendships and the way I was feeling about myself. Then, I realized creative writing can be about a community at large. When you feel like the only person in the world who is experiencing a certain feeling, you’ll most likely find out that many people have felt the same way too at one point. Acquiring this collective effervescence is all because of my mother. She has been with me through it all. She has loved every single version of me, even the ones that I’m too embarrassed to acknowledge. She played the role of both parents for me. She is the first person I call when I’m on my way home from class. She is the first person I text when I need to complain about something or someone. She is my best friend. She is my superhero.  She and I have so much in common. We have the same sense of humor. We both want to have things to do, but when the day an event arrives, we both dread having to go to it. There will be times when the most random event will happen and we’ll both say the exact same thing without even trying to. Sometimes, I’ll be walking to her room to tell her something and I meet her in the hallway because she was walking to my room. It’s like we're twins, but only 35 years apart.  My mother showed me her passion for writing when I was young, and I’d like to think that she passed her gift onto me now. Because of that, the rest of this piece will be something that I wrote for her that was originally a song, but has been reworked into a poem. I got the idea to write this when I heard a lyric from a song by Maddie Zahm called “Mothers & Daughters.” In it, she said “I’m slowly becoming my mother. What an honor.”  This is for you, Mom. Happy birthday. I love you. For Mom We’re in the kitchen after dinner. It’s like I’m ten years old again. I’m putting on my next performance, Only for my first best friend. She’ll join in halfway, then we’ll both say, The same thing at the same time. As I get older I can notice, That her brain is just like mine. I never have a fear of judgement. She’s my safety in the storm. And I hope that I’m just like her, When I reach my final form. I want to walk into a room, And act the way I do with her. But I think my truest self, Will always have to stay reserved. No one gets to know me like you. And I wish I could act the way I do, When it’s just the two of us in our own show, And just be that same kind of person wherever I go. And if it meant I’d feel better, I know if you could, You would stay here forever.

Photo Credit: Azam Hostetler The travel experiences I remember are typically the ones where things go terribly wrong. It appears that travel experiences, especially casual commutes, I tend to forget after a while. A drive through a familiar neighborhood, a bus you usually take, or a walk on a familiar forest trail are forgettable, however peaceful they are.  The interesting matters that you end up remembering are usually unknown, although they may be chaotic. Today, I want to share my most chaotic (yet memorable) travel story.  First, the context. I’ve had my fair share of eventful travel stories. A tiny earthquake once struck while I was on the Metro-North train with my family. Ironically, everyone else knew about it and was blowing up our phones, but we didn’t feel a thing. Then there’s the fishing charter off the Islamorada Keys, in which I was trapped on a 60-foot boat with ocean waves for 6 hours. A story for another time. There is, of course, the first time I took the M train to Brooklyn. In 2024, I was enrolled in a film internship in Brooklyn, in an effort to broaden my independence and ability to commute alone. I always took the L train, and after passing under the East River, it’s only three stops into Brooklyn. I got off at Graham Avenue in Williamsburg, which is not far into Brooklyn, at least for an unfamiliar traveler like me. However, one day, I became aware that the L train’s power had shut down. I was still in Union Square (14th Street), purchasing chocolate Babka in a crowded bakery, when I heard the news. An Uber to Manhattan to Brooklyn costs a fortune, and there is nothing scarier than the thought of being trapped in a metal box underneath the East River. The power came back on pretty quickly, but by that time I had already asked a pedestrian for directions. Soon, I was on the M train to get off at a stop within walking distance, albeit a little further away. All I remember is freaking out when the M train began rising over the bridge, as I had this preconceived notion that all subways traveled underground. When it began ascending and we were on the Williamsburg Bridge many stories up, I remembered filming it on my phone, as if it were some spectacle. I walked 30 minutes through an unfamiliar part of Brooklyn that morning towards the office, at one point running to be there on time while playing the Rocky theme song on my phone. Another travel story that embodied this quality of chaos was on my family’s Florida Keys trip for my brother’s birthday last year. My family and I drove north in our rental car from the top of the Keys (around Key Largo) to Fort Lauderdale Airport. I was essentially the passenger seat GPS. We left at 2 a.m. and my father and I were the only ones who understood how terrible a drive it was, since everyone else was sleeping then. I’m not sure if all road layouts in Florida are like they are in Miami, but it feels like every road has five or six one-way lanes. On the highway, it feels like you are merging onto another parkway every couple of minutes, and if you’re not paying attention, you will easily miss your exit. The main objectives that August morning, besides arriving on time, were to avoid crime-ridden areas on an early Sunday morning and to avoid tolls. We had been told this horror story by the rental car company, among others, which reaffirmed our belief that passing one toll would charge our rental plate ten dollars for every day we kept the car. On top of twisting and turning on six-lane highways with branching off paths, we had to avoid routes with tolls, which the friendly computer GPS always rerouted us back to.  We stopped for gas in Florida City, in a little bit of a sleazy area. Every other lighted building you passed was a showgirls club, a smoke shop, or a casino. Toward the end of the journey, we ended up missing a turn because we either misread or missed a sign telling us to get on another highway. When we looped back around to take the right exit, it turned out the correct highway sign had fallen off its post and was lying in the dirt and tall grass before us. I would be glad if I never returned to Miami, honestly.  Yet this is not the most incredible and memorable travel story I have ever experienced. I know that I am privileged to have had these experiences at all; I must say I am grateful. My complaints are an attempt to chronicle these mishaps as meaningful.  My third and final story involves miserable, extreme exhaustion.  In 2024, my family and I visited Malaysia to see family, which was my second time there. On the way back, we stopped in Singapore before stopping in the United Kingdom for a week. We spent an entire day walking around in Singapore after a night flight, sightseeing as tourists do. I remember being in the Singapore Changi airport, which is essentially a botanical garden with a waterfall that happens to have an airport inside of it. We boarded a 13-hour flight to London Heathrow, already exhausted after being awake the entire day. I am lucky that I am able to sleep on planes, but my family was not. I had fun watching “Monsters, Inc.” and then waking up to an airline microwaved English breakfast in a plastic container, as I looked out the window at dreary clouds. I’m fairly certain my older brother and mom got no sleep at all, and if they did, it was not good. We arrived at London Heathrow Airport at 6 a.m. My brother and mom had been up for nearly 24 hours. We had traveled almost 7,000 miles. We stayed in London the second half of that week in the United Kingdom, but the two days prior we were to spend in Daventry, a small town two hours north of London, where my mom’s cousin lived. This was my Malay grandfather’s brother’s daughter and her sons, and we were going there first to make the final trip home easier. What made this journey infinitely worse was not just the exhaustion, but our luggage.  My older brother has a nut allergy, about which little is known or cared for in Asia. One of the precautions we took was bringing a suitcase full of food to Asia to calm his worries and act as a safety net against anaphylactic shock in a nation where they seem to breathe and drink peanut sauce. This suitcase had been emptied and was now full of souvenirs. To make matters worse, my own suitcase was massive. I had made an unintelligent decision to bring a ginormous suitcase. I hadn’t expected a servant to fold my underwear in Kuala Lumpur or for there to exist washing machines in a Chinatown hotel. I had packed twenty pairs of clothing for twenty days in the bulkiest suitcase you could find, and now I was carrying my own weight. We essentially had four suitcases among three people. After boarding a shuttle to Paddington Station, we wandered around at 7 a.m. in a big station. Paddington Station is essentially Grand Central, but better. The London Underground is extremely efficient, but only because there are so many more train lines, resulting in many more ways to get where you need to go. However, if you’re running on no sleep in a different time zone and hauling your own weight in luggage while staring at a map that looks like Chutes and Ladders times ten, it’s miserable. Fortunately, they speak English in England, so we asked for directions.  We struggled for about 15 minutes walking to a line named Hammersmith and City, before boarding a train heading to a place called Euston Station. We stood on the train, exhausted, as a man talked near us in a British accent to a girl about how he was thinking about going to France on the weekend, but wasn’t sure about it.  Soon we were off at Euston Square, only apparently there was a difference between Euston Square and Euston Station. We needed to be at the station to take another train two hours north to Daventry, but we were essentially dropped off at a London Underground station. A good analogy for us New Englanders is that we needed to get to Penn Station in Manhattan, but we were still a couple of blocks away from exiting the New York subway. Unfortunately for our hundreds of pounds of luggage (not pounds of money, though I wish), there was no elevator here. I took charge and began lugging my 100-pound suitcase up the stone steps, which ascended above ground, but my luggage felt like ten ten-pound weights. Which it was. Soon, some people noticed our plight and, without talking, took our luggage and helped carry it up the stairs, which was extremely embarrassing yet very kind. That would never happen in New York, mind you. Once we emerged on the surface, I had to navigate my family, who were falling asleep through twisting and turning streets, when we soon hit a construction zone, which I had to navigate us through. We entered the real Euston Station and got on the first train to Long Buckby, which was a town away from Daventry. Having not sat down in over an hour and about to miss the current train, we took the first open car door in said train, which happened to be the last one. Finally sitting down with all our luggage, we sank into our seats with breaths of relief. About 15 minutes later, after we were already in motion heading North, an unfortunate announcement came on the overhead speaker. The last four train cars were to soon split off and detach from the rest of the train cars, so that they could join a different rail and head god knows where. Exhausted, we picked up our luggage and began moving up several train cars to avoid being stranded. My suitcase was too wide for the aisles, so I had to twist and turn it. We huffed and puffed, dragging these bulky boxes full of tourist souvenirs from Southeast Asia while bulleting past the beautiful green isles of English farmland.  There is not really a moral to the story here, other than that misfortune makes a better story. I think about this,and I’m glad it happened because it’s amusing to think about, even though at the moment I must have been about to pass out. This is the nature of adventure; everyday adventures do not need to be life-changing, international in distance, or expensive.  A good adventure is about the journey, even if it’s a small obstacle. Misfortune can even sometimes lead to rewarding experiences. It hardens us and emboldens us, as well as teaches us. If you do not go outside, the world will not show you its chaos. That is beyond terrifying, no doubt, but it’s still reality. Thank you for listening.

Photo Credit to Pavel Danilyuk When it comes to presentations in school, I like to describe them as “hit or miss” experiences. I feel like that phrase is a good descriptor for the overall feeling of giving a presentation. Some people don’t mind them; this acts as their golden moment.  This moment of confidence demonstrates their knowledge of an intended topic. You can even see it in their eyes when they realize that it wasn’t so bad, and they had nothing to worry about. For others, a presentation can cause a constant state of dread and pack on a mental weight that is consumed by anxiety and even sleepless nights.  Some assignments and projects energize people who receive them; the ideals of learning and sharing that information with others can make someone feel thrilled. For some, that can completely overwhelm them and make it difficult to move forward. The outcome of a presentation can vary depending on factors such as the environment in which the presentation is performed, the amount of advanced preparation, the interest your topic brings and the structure you decide to follow. Because of this, there are many directions in which the presentations can go.   When looking at them from an academic perspective, they are powerful tools that help you learn lifelong skills that carry over into your career, no matter which type you decide to pursue.  But for me, I just think that they are a great way to showcase the things that you have learned that also resonate with the value you find within the subject. It’s not just about memorization, but the retention of information and how you can articulate that to an audience.  Presentations also help you with public speaking, collaboration and time management abilities. They will develop far beyond the walls of your classroom. I remembered the first time I gave a presentation in a college classroom. I was thinking about how this felt a bit redundant because I had practiced so much that it was as normal as starting a conversation with my sister.  Many careers hold the standard true that being able to present ideas clearly is just as important as having the ideas in the first place. On the other hand, presentations can miss the mark entirely, and that can happen easily for some people. One of the main things that can break a presentation is anxiety. Specifically, zooming in on the realm of public speaking. When I first started my school career, we had to give a presentation about ourselves. I went up and felt like the only thing I knew well enough to talk about for five minutes was myself. I know how self-centered that sounds, but no one ever listened to me talk, so I didn’t know what to talk about when I got the chance. I ended up saying at most twenty words in those five minutes. Guess I didn’t know as much about myself as I thought back then.  I hated having that creeping feeling that others are judging you in more ways than one. It always made me feel a bit intimidated. I feel like this is a shared feeling, even for the students who know their material well. The shaking of the voice and the slight hand tremors, and don’t forget the stomach turns. Anxiety can take a real chunk of the passion for learning. When fear takes over, it's hard to put other things first. Not all presentations get presented at their full potential; the level of preparedness that goes into them is very important. This especially goes for group presentations. I really hate group presentations. I swear, they are the death of me. However, they can bring awareness to readiness and the amount of effort each member has put into the presentation. Some students tend to do way more work than others, while some students slap their name on the project and get a good grade.  As I have gotten older, I have learned to appreciate presentations. Although my feelings of hatred towards them will forever stand, they bring qualities that we need to bring to the table for practice. We need more practice in terms of communication at the public level and the encouragement of our own self-confidence.

(Photo by Anaylee Hough) With the recent Super Bowl LX and an iconic half-time performance by Bad Bunny, Puerto Rican reggaeton artist and superstar, let’s talk about the beauty of Puerto Rican culture. I've recently traveled there with two friends. A flight of less than four hours from Connecticut takes you to a tropical island with a beautiful culture, different sights to see, restaurants to try and more. In the picture above are houses with vibrant colors in Old San Juan, a historic area in the Puerto Rican capital. The area has many different buildings with different shops that sell things such as ice cream, jewelry and gems.  (Photo by Anaylee Hough - view from the second floor of Airbnb) The weather during my stay wasn’t the best. It would alternate from cloudy to sunny. However, the temperature stayed warm and comfortable. I stayed in an Airbnb in Carolina, in a neighborhood that gave a more authentic experience of the island. There were stray roosters walking around in the street, which was very interesting to see. The neighborhood was quiet and had colorful houses as well. The sunset, with the trees swaying in the cool breeze, was delightful and serene. During my stay, I had gone to many restaurants, most of them in tourist locations, but nothing was better than the local shops in the neighborhood I stayed in. Supporting local businesses on vacation helps the island financially and gives you a more authentic experience on your trip. You don’t always have to go to a fancy restaurant to get good food! (Photo by Anaylee Hough) (Photo by Anaylee Hough) In Old San Juan, the scenery is breathtaking and there are many historical buildings to visit. The first picture above is one of my favorite views from my stay, where the clouds were stretching across the sky. The North Atlantic Ocean provided more scenery. I’m a sightseeing enthusiast and love to capture a beautiful view when I see one. This is the perfect place to learn more about Puerto Rico’s history and be on the old grounds yourself.  There is a famous purple basketball court in La Perla, Old San Juan, (pictured above). The basketball court was renovated by The Carmelo Anthony Foundation and is called “Mi Gente” basketball court. I did not know the meaning behind it, but when I was enlightened, it intrigued me even more. La Perla is a calm neighborhood in Old San Juan with beautiful nature aspects and friendly people. There are restaurants nearby with different varieties of food for people to enjoy.  One of my favorite things about the country is the trees. Here up north, we don’t have palm trees, so it’s always amusing to travel and see them elsewhere. I highly recommend going to this area to get a historic background on Puerto Rico. An ice cold Pina Colada in hand and a walk around Old San Juan is undoubtedly a must.  (Photo by Anaylee Hough) I can't talk about Puerto Rico without talking about its nightlife! La Placita is the place to go for clubs and bars. Music is blasting all throughout the streets, with people spread out all over, conversing and bar hopping. La Placita is able to bring out an extroverted side in anyone who visits. Talking with locals and people from different parts of the world is always fun. All types of music are being played, from rap, reggaeton, EDM and more. The bars have free entry, which is definitely a plus. There was a guy on the street who had a row of different colored parrots on a rack. It was my first time seeing parrots up close and personal. (Photo by Anaylee Hough) An island can’t be mentioned without talking about the beach! The water was warm and the sun was hitting the beach perfectly. There's a different nature to being on an island’s coast. The beach is the perfect place to tan.  Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance has definitely put a spotlight on Puerto Rico for mainland Americans. With everything happening in our country today, like ICE and the government discriminating and harming innocent people, mainly people of color, I felt it was important to add to the conversation about Latin countries and their beauty. Puerto Rico is overall a beautiful place to visit and just like Bad Bunny’s memorable album, “Debi Tirar Mas Fotos,” rich in culture.

Photo credit: United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs (public domain) Bob Dylan's 1980s work is often seen as inherently poor, yet Dylan fans far and wide treasure his high points as much as his low ones. While some great music was released by Dylan in this decade, much of it was not well-received at the time. “Blind Willie McTell,” arguably one of Bob Dylan’s greatest compositions, emerged from this period, as part of a lost demo from 1983’s Infidels studio sessions.  Bootlegged until 1991, it was then released on a compilation. In the years since, it has gained acclaim as a narrative masterpiece chronicling slavery, racism and American history. The song made a consistent appearance on The Band’s tour setlists throughout the 1990s, which may have convinced Bob Dylan to bring it to his own setlists towards the end of said decade. With harsh biblical undertones, an eerie piano and Mark Knopfler on a twelve-string guitar, Dylan weaves together hurt and pain. Dylan has the tendency to leave his best song takes or demos off his studio albums. The original recording exists as something that feels raw and melancholy, perhaps contributing to fan appeal. Other songs from the same time period share similar levels of poetic imagery, such as “Jokerman.” Nevertheless, they don’t always seem to hold together a cohesive thread tying them together. “Jokerman” as a song is still beautiful, yet it’s more akin to a walking gallery of random art. “Blind Willie McTell” appears more so as a blurred portrait of history, with just enough that is needed to convey a particular feeling.  Blind Willie McTell himself was a roaming blues musician in the 1920s and 1930s. He was born in Georgia, either partially or fully blind, and after learning the guitar, he wandered in carnivals, train cars, schools, churches, farms and performed music pretty much anywhere he could. In order to avoid contractual agreements with record labels, he recorded under various nicknames for different companies. He recorded more than 120 titles, displaying to outsiders the poverty and neglect of the South. Eventually, he passed away in the late 1950s, leaving behind a great legacy of music. At first glance, the Dylan song appears to be simply a tribute to McTell. This is nothing new for Dylan. Other tribute songs of his include “Goodbye Jimmy Reed”, “Roll On John” for the deceased Beatle, "High Water (For Charley Patton)”, or even “Song to Woody” on his first album for Woody Guthrie. The melody and structure of “Blind Willie McTell” is loosely based on an American folk song, “St. James Infirmary Blues,” which was popularized by musicians like Louis Armstrong . Through folk song tradition, tunes like these have been reinterpreted many times. If this is true, it remains upsetting in the context of Dylan’s song, as Armstrong’s song is essentially a funeral in meaning. The chorus of the song goes as follows: “And I know no one can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell,” after presenting vivid descriptions of centuries of painful history. The lyrics themselves are chock-full of allusions to racist history and other cultural events. The line “ Well, I travel through east Texas, where many martyrs fell” references the violence in the postbellum South, cruelty spreading as if it were a plague, from “ New Orleans to Jerusalem ." The land seems biblically condemned, no matter the effort.  An important thing to clarify is that the song does not appear to point fingers in anger, like other ‘protest’ songs of Dylan’s (for instance, “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll”). The subject matter here is simply tragedy. It cannot possibly ever right these existing wrongs, but it acknowledges the destructive taint of prejudice on humanity. It provides almost a sense of past haunting, or lingering ghosts that we still feel and are affected by today. The lyrics contrast violent images like one hearing cracking of whips, with symbolic history of magnolia flowers blooming (a likely nod to Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit”).  The fourth verse depicts a well-dressed man by the river holding whiskey, in all likelihood an existing white southerner. Some lyrics even mention plantations burning (referencing General Sherman’s march in Georgia) or Civil War rebels’ yelling in battle. These last lines are altered on the Bob Dylan website to “Some of them died in the battle, some of them survived as well.” While not in defense of the Confederates, it depicts them as real people. It shows that no one wins with hatred and violence, but more so with an idea of apocalyptic pessimism  than a sense of rational understanding, which perhaps is nowhere to be found here. Humanity is not painted in an optimistic way. Blues music itself, sung and spread by musicians like McTell, is said to have spawned out of the simple need for catharsis and joy from people who faced some of the greatest injustices in history. Many forms of popular music were inspired, derived, or grown out of blues music, which emerged in the African American South. It can even be said by some that most popular music is linked or traced back to blues in one way or another.  To understand more about “Blind Willie McTell,” we may need additional context regarding Dylan’s place in his life at the time. There have always been biblical undertones in his music, but from 1979 to 1981, he had converted to Christianity officially (he was born Jewish), and in 1983, he had just emerged from that period in a move back to more secular work. While Bob Dylan cannot exactly speak to the Black experience, he did have his role in the 1960s civil rights movement and this may be Dylan attempting to understand his place in this world, as well as America’s place. Yet this song is no doubt entrenched in themes of religion. “Blind Willie McTell” offers a journey in nature that appears to be about salvation versus damnation in Dylan’s eyes at the time, expressed right from the opening lines “ I seen the arrow on the doorpost, Saying this land is condemned.” He references tribes moaning, which can be taken as African tribes, native american tribes or perhaps even the tribes of Israel. He mentions the undertaker’s bells, meaning a burial manager. The last verse even references God, saying that we all want what is God’s, in this world of despair and greed. In the last lines of the song, he looks out the window of St. James’ hotel in New Orleans, the recognized birthplace of the blues.  With everything tied back to Louis Armstrong’s “St. James Infirmary Blues” music, it suggests that a sense of relief or catharsis is needed to subdue pain in life, especially pain this great. If we are looking at the piece from a religious sense, then Dylan is asking if America itself, and in turn, if he and humanity could ever reach salvation for these historical sins committed. It appears that humans will always find a way to be tempted by power, corruption and greed. Not much in the depressing lyrics seems to scream out an answer to all that is being sung about, and this is simply characteristic of Dylan, who typically favors cryptic language. The song wraps up with Blind Willie McTell once more, singing the blues better than anyone else. Dylan was shaped, molded, and spawned from the music of the blues, absorbed as a child by musicians like Muddy Waters and Charley Patton. Hank Williams , founding father of country music and himself another inspiration for Dylan, also originally learned guitar from a local blues street singer. So while the chorus may seem unrelated and irrelevant, by the end of the song, it appears to be an answer to the suffering that is presented. Being inside the St. James Hotel, it is clear that Dylan does not live in New Orleans, and he is not as authentic as the blues movement itself, but he passively observes in pursuit of meaning. Blind Willie McTell was part of the blues, too, and performed anywhere he could, not for fame or money, but just because it remained soothing to the soul. If there is anything good that can come out of such terrible injustice and pain, perhaps it was the blues.  Even the idea that this was a forgotten demo further pushes the sense of ambiguous mystery, as this piece was never released on an actual studio album. Other future renditions of “Blind Willie McTell” include other instruments, and it almost distracts from the lyrics, at least to me. The arrangement in the original recording remains raw and touched, simply piano, the 12-string guitar, and the despair of Dylan’s voice. The song builds in volume so that by the end, the piano is intense and loud, bursting with tender emotion and torment. Many of Dylan’s songs evoke wonder and mystery, but there is something about this song that remains captivating and addictive. I admit, when I first heard this song and didn’t know anything about it, I wasn’t impressed either. Yet as you keep hearing it, especially if you know the meaning behind it, you cannot help but be gripped by its strong presence of grief and search for meaning. Blind Willie McTell was blind, but perhaps he could see what a lot of people couldn’t: the answer to the salvation that Dylan seems to yearn for. There never is an easy answer. It remains mind-bending to consider what Dylan is able to accomplish in less than 250 words in terms of telling a story. Yet this is not just a story, it’s a tapestry of generations of racism, abuse and historical trauma that simply cannot be shaken. At least to me, the song is wailing in torment, saying, look at what we did, and are doing. All we can do is stare out that window, looking into the city of New Orleans for meaning. Because nothing stays bad entirely, otherwise we wouldn’t have the blues.

Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat I have always loved riding the train. There is something about watching the world move through the windows while I sit still that makes me think about everything and nothing all at once. As houses blur past, I get a glimpse of people’s lives, and I get to decide whether it is a happy one or if I would want to be them in that specific moment.  A woman hangs laundry in her backyard. Children play in a park I will most likely never visit. An old man sits on his porch with the newspaper. It reminds me that I haven’t read a newspaper in months. There is something quietly dignified about that, the ritual of it. Unfolding the paper, sitting on the porch, maybe watching the sun rise with a hot cup of coffee. I wonder if he notices the world moving past him the way I do, or if he has long made peace with staying still and being in the present.  I catch these tiny frozen moments, and although I do not get the full picture, I can’t help but think that their lives must be simpler, lighter, easier than mine. Those children are acting on their innocence, and even though the watchful eyes over them might feel the weight of life, the children don’t know that, and they are not supposed to. If anything, gravity is the only thing keeping them on the ground. Otherwise, they would float in the air like feathers in the wind.  I am insanely obsessed with road trips for that exact reason. I get to stare out the window for what feels like an infinite amount of time, where I get to imagine all the lives I could have or must have lived. I get to think about my life up until this very moment, the decisions that made me who I am today.  I am a people pleaser, so I have been told. Why am I a people pleaser? My parents raised me to be obedient. Maybe a little too obedient, as it seems to get me in trouble now instead of praise. Different situations flicker in my mind just like the houses outside, moments where I could have been bolder but chose not to because I had to be obedient, or maybe I was paralyzed by fear. How strange that the very thing that once earned me love became the thing that now costs me my soul. While on the topic of paralyzing fear, I do remember my mother telling me once that fear was a liar. Sometimes I still wonder what exactly she meant. Did she mean that the things we fear rarely come true? Or that fear disguises itself as wisdom when it is really just cowardice? I never got to ask her, and somehow that question has managed to follow me across oceans.  The train rattles, pulling me out of my thoughts just as we pass a dog park. I love dogs; they are so cute. Although I think I might like cats even more because they cuddle more easily, or do they? With a dog, I guess I would be inclined to go for walks more often, but the food could be expensive. Speaking of food, what am I going to have for dinner tonight? I should eat something healthy, so maybe something with rice, something simple. I miss my mother’s cooking. Who would have thought that thinking about what to make for dinner could be so exhausting? I do feel tired, I could take a nap, no, I don’t want to miss out on the scenery.  Fear of missing out is a real thing. Opportunity cost, I guess. Whatever I choose to do with my time now, there are plenty of other things I could be doing at the same time. At least I learned something in economics class, if only my professor could see me now.  Behind me, I hear a mother say, “I love you” to her child. I have a mother, too, although I really wish she were here with me right now, telling me she loves me. Is what I am feeling jealousy? It certainly feels like it. How could I not be jealous of these children around me freely getting their mother's love and presence? I hope they don’t take it for granted. It is easy to take certain things in life for granted, especially when you’ve had them for too long. Love is often like that, invisible when it surrounds you, and a big black hole once it is gone.  The train enters a tunnel, and suddenly everything is black, just like me, I guess. It feels weird to think of myself as black. I never thought about that until I moved to the United States. I always knew I was a woman, not that I could really forget it when I was raised in the literal “women should be in the kitchen” culture.  No, but seriously, what am I making for dinner? I should probably meal prep so that I don’t have to have this conversation in my mind all the time. Would this be considered me talking to myself, although no one can hear me or judge me, but can I judge myself? I read somewhere that not everyone has this voice in their head. I wonder what that feels like. It is probably weird not to have it. I am so used to the voice in my head that I probably would be a completely different person without it. Maybe my inner thoughts would be quieter and emptier too.  We are still in the dark tunnel. I hate darkness. Some people fear it; I simply despise it. However, every time I come out of them, I always think of the “light at the end of the tunnel” saying. What is my light at the end of the tunnel moment? I always feel like my life is in a constant state of darkness. Okay, too sad, maybe I should think about happy things so that I don’t burst into tears in this very public space.  As the train finally drives out of the darkness, the landscapes change. The city turns into fields, then bodies of water, then fields again. My thoughts keep moving as fast as the train, even as I try to hold them still. That is the thing about train rides, they are the safest way to let my mind loose. As I sit still, everything inside and around me is in motion, and I can’t stop nor do I want to.   When the scenery becomes too dull to look at, I turn my attention to the sky and make funny shapes out of the clouds. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I have wished upon a useless star to become a cloud. Visualizing the places I would float over, or maybe becoming a bird, but then I would have to find food. I think clouds are better. I have always loved nature because of how beautiful it is; there must be someone behind it all. No matter how smart we are as human beings, there is no way we could make something so divinely gorgeous.  Oh yes, nature is gorgeous. So many times I have lain on the grass, contemplating the beauty of this magnificent sky. Clouds always brought mixed feelings to my stomach. On one hand, they are beautiful, and I envy them. But on the other hand, they remind me of snow. Snow and I have what one could call a toxic relationship. For one, it is pure, white, and so pretty. But it is also cold, and once the humans wake up, it turns into this ugly brown slush. It always makes me think how we children go from being pure, innocent, to dirty slush once that innocence is brutally taken away. That is usually when the cold slips in as the warm pink bubble has popped.  I always thought that it was quite lonely how each snowflake falls from the sky by itself. And although they reunite on the ground, what if they get separated? Yes, I know inanimate objects don’t have emotions. Or do they? As a child, I used to think that my dolls could feel pain, but I no longer believe that anymore. Why is it so hard to believe now? I am not talking about science-proven things; I am talking about why we don’t wish upon stars anymore. When did we decide that magic or imagination required proof? A teenager across from me scrolls through their phone, completely unaware of what is going on around them. They smile at something on the screen, and I wonder what it is. A text from a friend? A funny video? Young love? I hope it is love because love tends to make people smile like the one I am currently witnessing. Unguarded, unconscious, like their face just forgot to be careful for a moment.  I must admit I am yet to be struck by Cupid’s arrow. It should not be painful; I heard the arrow itself is not, but the aftermath might be. I remember smiling like that. It feels like centuries ago. When did I become so heavy? Well, not literally, I hope. Am I not fat? I mean, can I be the judge of that, or does it have to be someone else? Other people’s opinions can be so cruel sometimes. It is hard since we have been raised to acknowledge other people’s opinions as helpful feedback, especially from family members. I think family betrayal is worse than breakup pain. Then again, how would I know? I have never been broken up with. Knock on wood. The water glows under the warm sun. It makes me think about a wishing well. As unbelievable as that may sound, I have never wished upon one. When I moved to the United States, I learned really fast that even wishes had a price. I am not talking about monetary value; I am talking about a mental and physical tax where wishes are held over your head. Whether it is as simple as wanting to be a cloud or a bird, or complicated wishes that sound unrealistic as soon as they leave my lips.  We can’t bring back the dead, we can’t go back in time, and I can’t taste my mother’s food. I can’t see my brother grow up, and no matter how much I wish he wouldn't forget me, there is only so much I can wish for. They say let go of the things you can’t control and control the ones you can. What if you don’t have control over anything in your life, not even your own death?  I used to think that I could never survive without my family, especially my siblings. You know what, though, when they say “you are stronger than you think,” they mean it. The one good thing we have as animals is adaptability; no matter what it is, we will adapt eventually. Now I can’t guarantee you will still be the same person. I know I am not, but you will adapt accordingly.  The train is getting colder, or maybe my heart is the cold one. The only thing visible from the window is just trees. Big, tall, strong-looking trees. I should aspire to become a tree instead of a cloud. At least one of those could take me through the harsh reality of life.  The sun outside looks warm; it reminds me of when father used to take me to the pool and let me float in his arms for hours. I loved it, it was always the perfect temperature with the sun shining down on me and the cool water beneath me. If only he taught me how to swim on one of those trips to the pool instead of the endless floating. I sound ungrateful, but God only knows what I would give to see him one more time. To kiss his cheeks while complaining about his week-old beard. To dance on his feet in the living room to our favorite music. We always seem to have the same taste in music. Another harsh reality in my life is that all my comforting songs just make me miss him more. Should I read? I need a distraction, not that I think it will stop my mind from spiraling.  The Catcher in the Rye  is my ultimate favorite book. It might be an unpopular opinion, but man, do I love it. Holden and I would have been such good friends if we met in real life. He and I have a common understanding when it comes to people being “phony.” I call it a mask because we all walk around wearing them, including me. And between you and me, I think Holden was wearing one as well. I would be a super-phony if it were a thing, because I have so many masks that I rotate throughout the day. Some are for work, some are for strangers, and some are for the people who think they know me. The exhausting part is not the masks themselves, but it is remembering which one you’re wearing and for whom. The horrible thing about the masks is that once you have used them long enough, the real you disappears. You don’t know who you are anymore.  Perfection is my arch-nemesis. Perfectionism and I have been in a dance battle together ever since I moved to the United States, and spoiler alert, I am not winning. I was told so many times to not cause trouble for myself when my parents sent me off, which in my mind translated as: be perfect, or you have failed us. How exhausting it has been, trying to be perfect all the time. I know better now, but my twelve-year-old self did not, and she went through hell and back before she figured that out. No one is perfect, but we are told to be, and so we spend our whole lives apologizing for the distance between who we are and who we were supposed to become. This is why I love road trips, whether on a train or a car, all I have to do is stare out the window and the world and mind can have a dance battle until I reach my destination.