CHARGED-UP RESULTS

I have a complicated relationship with the winged insect known as the bee. It’s a tale that stems from childhood fears and eventually extends through maturating adulthood.  On the fourth of July when I was young, our deck at home had been cleared of a huge bees nest. I trusted my father when he said it was safe, so I naively thought all the bees were gone. Yet I stepped on one, and it wiggled right in between my toes and stung me. Childhood glorifies good memories into hazy dreams and depicts the negative memories as much worse than they actually were. Of course, this centered around blaming the bee itself and perhaps villainizing it throughout my life. The more logistical culprit would be blaming my father for telling me the deck was clear.  Throughout my childhood, if I saw a bee, even if it was the bumble kind, I would run away. And those ones mind their own business. Over time I grew to the gradual conclusion that honeybees are harmless, and wasps are the real villains. After all, honeybees help pollinate and keep our crop growing and the environment healthy. To my understanding wasps do also pollinate plants but not to the level that deems it necessary to the entire environment’s wellbeing. Flash forward to the present day, and my outlook on the winged insect has changed. The species are particularly annoying at picnics or barbecues, yet have reached a matured appreciation for their place in the natural ecosystem. This image above is not by any means a masterpiece of photography, but it remains thought-provoking.  So many things that appear fascinating about the species remain rarely common knowledge. Even the fact that honeybees die when they sting someone and only do it in self defense was not something I learned until my hatred of the insect had already grown, and by that time it was difficult to foster any sympathy.  This particular photo was taken at Mystic Village. The honey vendor had a honeybee nest in a glass case and was able to point out to me and my family which one was the queen out of thousands. I have come full circle from childhood. What was once perceived to be a wrongdoing created a conditioned affect for me to fear the entire species, even though they had done nothing wrong.  I still feel angry towards wasps, don’t get me wrong as I think hornets and other insects that aren’t honeybees go out of their way to attack other people. In the end it’s just nature and it’s not life or death unless you have an allergy of sorts. In the photo, you can see my reflection in the waning daylight and while this arguably detracts from the quality of the image, it also creates a sense of duality. Bees on one side of the glass, and myself standing on the other side of the divide.  My knowledge about bees has grown as I have gotten older, and I no longer fear them. If anything, I almost admire them. Pesticides, climate change and habitat loss threaten their existence and our existence as well to keep their species in line so we have effective crops.  In a way this can be applied to how we interact with other people. As a child, I was riddled with fear of the unknown, the physical bee sting evolving into a psychological phobia. People are often afraid of the unknown because it is what they don’t understand. This is a lesson that once we learn more about something that scares us, we learn that they either aren’t all that bad or that we have things in common. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not getting my bachelor's in beekeeping, but I do think it’s tragic that people continue to accept surface level truths, secluding their personal bubble to that of comfort and familiarity. Perhaps learning bees’ place in the world was part of growing up, as the more I learned the more I knew they weren’t inherently evil.  I guess that’s how I learned to love bees.

I let my anger get the best of me. Just like him. There are no words to describe being compared to someone your memories villainize. Though I knew my father beyond the anger, having one of your first memories of someone be something so traumatic doesn’t set a great tone, especially when you see them once a yNineteen. The last year of one's teens. The last chance to be a kid before the impending doom of your twenties begins to sink in. The age I am now and the age my father was when he discovered he would be having a daughter.  My father was a wild kid, according to the stories he has shared. I can only imagine what it would be like to have a conversation with him at nineteen. The same boy making music with his friends and getting into fistfights at the bar was supposed to be a parent. The keyword there is “supposed.” I would never consider my father to be a true parent, definitely not before my later teen years at least. I barely remember growing up but I will never forget the fear I would have being alone with him. One of my earliest memories, one that isn’t brought on by photos or hearing other stories, is of him. It is a memory of anger and aggression. My father walked in his college graduation when I was seven years old; he was 27. During that visit I watched him have a meltdown over some menial joke being made. I watched him destroy a centerpiece sitting on the table of the rental home my family was staying in. I can’t remember the words being said, only him throwing it and it shattering on the floor. I remember the fear I carried with me of ever upsetting him. I remember the wooden pieces scattered across the floor and my grandma asking me to help her clean them up.  He had left that night. Something he was no stranger to doing. He did go back but only because I asked him to. I thought I could bring my family together at that moment. If he went back to the house, everything would be okay. The anger that possessed that man was something I can only describe as evil. I feared ever upsetting him to the point where his eyes became even darker than they were. What I would never imagine at that age was that one day I would possess that anger. I never saw myself as my father’s daughter until one day it changed.  I can barely even remember why I was upset nor can I really remember the outcome; all I can remember is the words said to me in my fit of rage. “You’re just like your father.”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t be just like my father. I feared the person he could become yet there I was in my own fit of rage, realizing  I hadear… if at all. My father is not just an angry man. He is still a person with complex feelings and his own motivations and drive. For a long time I wanted to understand them. When I decided I wanted to go out of state for college, I practically only looked into schools he suggested and schools near him. I only looked at journalism programs because I thought that he would want that. Even though my father felt like a near stranger to me, I just wanted him to be proud. I just wanted my father to love me the way children were loved on television. During that time I convinced myself that this is what I wanted. I convinced myself these were my original hopes even though everyone saw through me. I chose to live the lie that I coincidentally wanted to be like my dad, down to living in the same city, when all I wanted was to feel connected to him. Studying journalism was something I did truly enjoy but nothing was better than the validation I got from my dad. I finally felt truly connected to him by something other than being related to each other. I finally felt like my dad was truly proud of me. Being in college only made me want to connect with my father more so I would attempt to reach out. I would do anything to be close with him. Go to his band practices. Even hang out with him and his girlfriend, a girl who is only seven years my senior.  Since moving to Connecticut, I have felt my relationship with my father improving. I have finally begun to feel like I have a dad; even if nine times out of 10 he still finds a way to hurt me, he’s still there and that's all I’ve ever wanted. In the years I’ve been in this state, I felt like I was finally learning what it was to have a father truly.  But I had a rude awakening. The girlfriend. She's great, don't get me wrong, but she's young, naive and complex. I’ve been in my relationship longer than she and my dad have but yet she moved cross-country for him. She’s 13 years younger than him and yet constantly talks about having his kids. He has kids… nay, he has one. Me.  While scrolling on Facebook one day, I came across a post saying they were looking for a new place to live, which I found strange since they’d only been in their place since March. But what stung was that they're moving to New York City. The city I was born and raised in. The city where I cried to mom about wishing my dad truly loved me. The city he left and with it left his three-year-old.  It's not fair. They can’t get this happily ever after. Not in my true home. I moved my life for him, all to have it crash down in less than 18 months. That didn’t matter. He has a family now, a real one. It's not the kid he didn’t want with the chick he doesn’t like but will tolerate at the occasional birthday party or graduation. He has a real family. One that isn’t broken, One where it won’t be the forced effect of babies having babies.  To truly be my father’s daughter is to be okay with the disappointment rooted in knowing you can do what you can and still not be the priority. To finally realize after 19 long years that people may grow and relationships may change but you have to be okay with being in second place. I am the age now that my father was when he learned he was having a baby and here we are. My father says, “I love you,” but I don’t think he knows what love is.

My weight enters the room before I do. It doesn’t matter if I’m having a good hair day. It doesn’t matter if I walk in with a smile on my face. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing makeup. My body is the first thing people always notice. The first time I noticed I was different was when I was five. I was going on the bus to school and made friends with two twin sisters. The seat I sat in that day became my assigned seat on the bus. I didn’t know the choice I made would turn out to be a bad one. Three kids in one seat on a bumpy ride to elementary school. I was at the end and I kept falling off. My naive self simply said, “I don’t know why I keep falling out of the seat.” One of the sisters turned to look at me and said, “It’s because I’m skinny and you’re fat.” I went silent. I had no idea how to respond to that. I was only five, but I already knew “fat” was an insult. I didn’t speak to them for the rest of the ride to school. That one comment consumed all my thoughts. I couldn’t get rid of it. I especially could not stop anticipating the ride back home. When the end of the day finally came, I was forced to sit with them on the bus. I cried to myself the whole ride home while they whispered to each other about throwing my backpack out of the window. The bus driver knew the state I was in and didn’t care enough to find out why I was upset. For the next few years, I would go back and forth with dieting. I watched “PowerGirl Fitness” on YouTube and was inspired by Breanna Bond’s weight-loss story. I tried one session of personal training with my father, but he called me a bunch of names when recounting what happened with my mom. Nothing ever stuck because I looked to food for comfort when nothing else was there for me. My weight was always the elephant in the room. People felt the need to acknowledge it, even when it did not correlate with the topic being discussed. I had experience being called names in real life. As I got older, my new battle was cyberbullying. If I thought that people could be so mean to my face, I had no idea how much worse it would feel from behind a screen. I posted a song cover on YouTube when I was 10. I didn’t know it then, but I would soon discover that whenever I got views, I’d receive comments about my body even if it had nothing to do with the post. “She’s chubby.” That was the comment. Nothing crazy, but at the time, I was broken by it. For some reason, it almost felt worse having a stranger comment on my body. The next time was when someone from middle school replied to my Snapchat story and asked why my Bitmoji wasn’t fat. As if I’m supposed to make sure my cartoon profile with a freakishly large head accurately represents my body. These were the same people who thought it was funny to make their Bitmoji a different race. And they were taunting me for having a thin avatar. When I joined TikTok, nothing was different for me. I kept posting song covers and joined in on dance trends. I was safe as long as the videos stayed within my social circle. All bets were off when the views skyrocketed. My most viral moment was an impression video that got over a million likes. Even though I had a sea of positive comments, my brain only focused on the negative ones. I called my impression “my biggest flex.” The video was humorous. I wasn’t dancing or trying to look pretty. I didn’t do anything that would warrant a response about the way I looked. Still, someone had to address the elephant in the room. “Your biggest flex is that you can stand on a scale without seeing the numbers,” someone said. These trolls loved to come out of the woodwork to spread the word about my body as if they were Paul Revere. “Look, everybody! She’s fat! Hey you! Do you know that you’re fat?” I recently posted about a television show I liked getting a second season. I was trying to be funny by stating my political ideology because the show satirically depicts conservative women. This obviously enraged some people. They had to find a cheap way of getting to me. A user called me a lifetime supply of bacon. Even though I’ve been working on my weight since the beginning of the year. Even though I’ve lost over 40 pounds. Even though I wouldn’t let myself go to bed until I reached 10,000 steps. It did not matter. That person was seeing me for the first time, and since I did not change enough, they still addressed the elephant in the room. I wish that people wouldn’t make assumptions about me before they really get to know me. I wish that before somebody got the chance to talk to me, in person or online, they’d get a disclaimer about what I’ve been through. They have no idea what it’s like to be deathly afraid to step on a scale for some math problem in kindergarten. To be only 10 and have a kid take your phone on the bus and laugh at you for having a dieting app.  To hear your family members echo the phrase “a minute on the lips, forever on the hips.” To have your grandparent be concerned about you working at an ice cream shop because it might be “too tempting.” To watch your friends call themselves fat when you know you’re much bigger than them, making you wonder if they think that way about you too. To go to the mall and leave with nothing because clothes don’t fit. To have friends say they could never picture you in a relationship. To blow out your birthday candles and have the same wish every year. To be thin. They don’t know. And I’m so painfully aware of it. If there’s anyone who knows I’m fat, I promise you, it’s me. It makes me avoid the mirror. It makes me run out of the frame when a picture is taken. It makes me feel like I can’t live  my life until I’m thin. But I’m not there yet. For now, I’m just the elephant in the room.

I’m a huge food person. I love eating, I love cooking, and I love finding places that make me feel like life is just a little better after every bite. New Haven is known for its pizza, and it deserves the hype, but there’s so much more to eat here. Between school, shoots and long editing nights, these spots have become my go-tos. They’re the kind of places that feed both your stomach and your soul. OhK-Dog New Haven 21 Broadway, New Haven, Conn. 06511 If you’ve walked near the New Haven Green, you’ve probably seen OhK-Dog. It’s small, affordable and always smells amazing. You can grab a meal here for $5 to $12, and it’s easy to get to by bus or on foot. The menu is all about Korean street food like crispy corn dogs, tteokbokki and bubble tea. My favorite thing on the menu is the Potato Mozza Dog. It’s crunchy on the outside, gooey on the inside and honestly perfect. There’s something about that mix of melted cheese, fried potato and the sound of everyone biting into theirs that makes the whole place feel alive. The staff is friendly, the energy is fun and the food never misses. Food Truck Paradise 351 Long Wharf Drive, New Haven, Conn. 06511 If you’ve ever driven down Long Wharf Drive and wondered why there’s a line of trucks by the water, that’s Food Truck Paradise. And yes, it’s as good as it sounds. “Five tacos for $10” is a phrase everyone here knows, and it’s true. My favorite stop is Tacos Santa Ines. It’s a red truck, and the woman who runs it greets everyone with the kind of energy that makes you feel instantly welcome. Her tacos are packed with flavor: simple, juicy and always satisfying. After that, I always walk over to Chicky Munchy for a piña colada and their steak skewers, which are truly life-changing. The food comes from all over, including Mexico, Puerto Rico and Cuba, and it’s all made with love. You can sit by the water, watch the boats and just enjoy. It’s one of those places where everything tastes better because of the atmosphere. The salty air, the music from the trucks and the mix of people chatting and laughing make it feel like its own little world. Mecha Noodle Bar 201 Crown St., New Haven, Conn. 06511 When it’s freezing outside and you want something that feels like a hug in a bowl, go to Mecha Noodle Bar. It’s a modern spot downtown with parking nearby, and it’s always packed for good reason. Their ramen selection is excellent, but my favorite is the Spicy Miso. The broth is rich and deep, the noodles are perfect, and the whole thing feels like comfort in a spoon. I also love the Kimchi Fried Rice and the pork buns. The fried rice has just the right balance of heat and tang from the kimchi, and the pork buns are soft, sweet and melt in your mouth. It’s the kind of place you can go to on a cold day, sit by the window and forget about everything for a while. The vibe is relaxed but cool, with a mix of students, locals and people who just love good noodles. Olmo 93 Whitney Ave., New Haven, Conn. 06510 Olmo has a reputation around town for being one of those spots that never disappoints. It’s near Yale, known for its bagels, brunches and creative use of local ingredients. Prices usually range from $10 to $20, and the quality makes it worth every penny. Even if you haven’t been yet, it’s one of those restaurants that people keep recommending with a smile. The menu changes with the seasons, and whether you’re stopping by for breakfast or a nice dinner, it’s the kind of place that instantly becomes a favorite. The atmosphere is calm and welcoming, a mix of cozy and refined that feels very New Haven. House of Naan Indian Kitchen and Bar 65 Howe St., New Haven, Conn. 06511 If I had to pick one restaurant that I could eat at every week and never get tired of, it would be House of Naan. I always get the Chicken Tikka Masala, and every time I do, I swear it tastes even better than before. The sauce is creamy and full of spice, the chicken is tender and the garlic naan is perfect for scooping up every bit. The restaurant has a modern look, dim lighting and a relaxed feel. It’s great for a dinner with friends or for treating yourself after a long day. Prices range from $12 to $25, and portions are generous. Every dish feels like it’s made with care. The Bottom Line These places have been my small escapes. Between busy weeks, film shoots and everything in between, they’ve been where I’ve laughed with friends, eaten until I couldn’t move and remembered why food is one of life’s purest joys. Good food isn’t just about taste. It’s about comfort, connection and finding little moments that make you feel at home. So next time you’re in New Haven and your stomach’s rumbling, skip the usual and try one of these spots. I promise, your taste buds and your soul will thank you.

To my peers, and to my community, It was winter break, December 2024 and while my mind was reeling from months of late rent payments and struggles with college courses, my mother surprised me for Christmas with a flight to North Carolina. She moved months ago, and what little she knew of my struggle on campus, she knew less of my struggle on my own. I was scared to step away from so much responsibility, even for a few days. My mother’s worry is worse than any anxiety. I couldn’t parse her seeing how I was during that semester. I was lost and ashamed of my academic performance. Mom was certain I needed time away from the chaos, and she was right. I just couldn’t pry myself away from what I was busy with. In her simple Charlotte apartment, I spent evenings with encrypted phone calls, signal chats and proton email chains, planning a northeast students for Palestine day of action. There was not a moment I wasn’t face first in my journals, so to the dismay of my protector. Mom had seen me restlessly toss and turn in the mornings over lost sleep. I was burning holes into the back of my notebook, erasing and re-erasing edits. Finally, near the second to last day of my layaway turned conference call, Mom sat me onto the couch for some quality time. I got to pick the movie and the snacks, just like we used to do at home. 12-year-old Patch would stay up finishing whatever was on FX, and mom’s promise not to fall asleep was universally broken (but I had never minded it). This time, sitting beside her at 20 years old, I chose to watch Judas and the Black Messiah. Fred Hampton’s life, assassination and the story of the man whose complicity got him killed. What moved me to start thrifting textbooks and stealing away into the shelves of Peterson Library was not some grandiose awakening of the self. I never had a perfect moment, and I’m certain there were no lightbulbs involved either. I never even considered myself leftist until this January. It’s a strange thing because I didn’t even notice the change until I noticed the questions. “What can get others to understand this?” “What is the real risk of protesting?” “Who can I count on to care about this?” “How do I know that without speaking even more?” Three simple changes in framing: How did this happen? Why is it still happening? How does it stop? Reaching the last wasn’t possible without accepting the place I was in. I needed to treat myself like a learning, growing person and not striving to become a monolith of leadership. Seriously considering that maybe if I don’t know the answer, I can teach myself to find it. Lead with my actions and act on my principles. During the New Haven Black Panther trials of 1986, Angela Davis was in confinement awaiting her moments to testify in court. In her interview filmed from the cell, she said something that stuck with me. “The real content of any revolutionary thrust lies in the principles; in the goals that you are striving for, not in the ways that you reach them.” I believe all my peers can learn for themselves how our system of oppression operates, and in exactly what terms and manners it trickles into our lives. I believe that for my peers to gain this awareness it will take a conscious, dedicated, long effort on my person to engage them in these discussions of freedom, because how else will these discussions come about? I stay believing, despite the raids and shootings and lynchings across America, that my peers and I will not be intimidated by any oppressive force. My peers and I rather quickly are becoming the leaders of our generation. That means by teaching ourselves to lead, learn and speak, we start to free ourselves from silent classrooms and isolated in-groups. I believe that with this letter, addressed largely to the Black student, the Latino student, the international student, the queer student and the Muslim student; and still so addressed to the wider campus community of workers, faculty, staff, families, friends and allies; I can rally you under our collective struggle, and stir the type of social consciousness needed for the moment of history we live within. I believe you are ready to lead in the same way I am. I believe that only trying will realize that potential. Always, Patch Isaiah Bowen Colon

Do you believe in ghosts? Well, I do. Throughout human history, people have always been curious about stories involving ghosts, spirits and the supernatural. Cultures around the world have their own version of these tales and stories of the unseen that linger between life and death. A ghost is often described as the soul of a person who died but can’t move on for some reason. Sometimes they appear like shadows or figures, other times they are heard through noises, whispers or footsteps. People rarely see them, or at least that is what we think. We often associate them with fear, mystery and religion. Some say that ghosts are not real and are simply a product of our imagination. Others believe that ghosts are real because of something they were told or saw with their own eyes. I am one of those people who know ghosts exist not because of what I have been told but because of what I saw. I was born and raised in Haiti. One of the well-known practices in Haiti is Vodou, or “Voodoo” in English. Vodou was introduced in Haiti when enslaved Africans brought their traditional beliefs to the Caribbean and mixed them with elements of Christianity. It is a constant fight between good and evil, God vs. Satan or Angels vs. Demons. These spirits, known as Lwa , serve as intermediaries between humans and the divine. Voodoo practitioners, known as Oungan  (male) and Mambo  (female), can communicate with these spirits through rituals. Such rituals include a ceremony called Gede , which is used to communicate with the spirits of the dead, among others. These ceremonies only scratch the surface of what we call “black magic”. In Haiti we have a saying that goes “magi pa monte avion”, which translates to “magic does not take planes.” It is a way to say that the less you know and believe in black magic, the better off you are. I remember my parents telling me that curiosity is dangerous when it comes to the supernatural. We grew up knowing that certain things are simply not done in our culture. Some of those stories were told to children to scare them into behaving, but other stories were so real that we saw them happen in real life. My family and I were always Christian. We grew up going to church. I was not exposed to a lot of magic in Haiti, but I definitely saw and heard enough. Every culture has its own version of magi . Some people use it for protection; others use it for their personal gain like money or revenge. One of the scariest things for me was when someone was about to die and they would say, “they have come for me.” That sentence used to terrify me. Nighttime in Haiti was bittersweet. We had no electricity so I would spend hours looking at the stars and using this giant book, bigger than me, to try to name them. The flip side was when someone sent you to get something either in the house or out back by yourself, with nothing but the moonlight to guide you. Suffice it to say, many of us were terrified. But then again, we would still come back and listen to more scary stories. Now that I am older and far away from my home, I have learned that most of those stories were not only true but also done by people very close to me. My parents tried their best to teach us not to be disrespectful to others and to mind our business. I now understand why my father practically built our home inside of a prison like a fortress. Four giant walls staring back at me. Another crucial lesson I learned is that jealousy makes people wicked. Some people can’t stand to see others succeed. Even today, that kind of jealousy can show up as a friend who tries to steal another’s boyfriend or destroy their careers. In Haiti and in many African countries, jealousy mixed with magic can be detrimental. On days like today, I feel torn. I love my country, but I do not like what is happening to my country. Whether it’s guns or black magic, both are hurting my people. Both are hurting me. On days like today, I am the daughter of another country.

When I first met you, it was the kind of unexpected meeting we read about in romantic books.  It was never about looks.  It was the way you waltzed into my heart, like you owned the place.  I wasn’t ready, yet you showed me grace.  Suddenly, I wasn’t so afraid of the male race. Or maybe just you.  You were the only exception that I knew. I introduced you to my diary as Elevator Boy. Our frequent meetings in the elevator brought me joy. My diary entries became colorful with words like “cute”, “smart” and “different.” I couldn’t put my finger on what made you so important. My lack of experience in the matter made it even harder to tame my feelings. You were the main subject in my weekly therapy briefings. The elevator became more than floors and steel.  It turned into a capsule of how I feel.  A simple space of buttons and light  Became a stage where my soul took flight.  I began to wait for the sound of its doors sliding open, Hoping for the chance of seeing you inside  As if my heart has already been stolen.  Every ding of the doors brought a rush of chance. Every glance of yours was a stolen dance.  Each ride, a coin toss between disappointment and delight.  I dreamt of you waiting for me in that steel box every night.  Little did I know you were about to disappear. When my phone lit up with your name, I thought I was going insane. Was I so smitten with you that I was dreaming about you calling me? If only I had known then that you were about to set me free. Not for my benefit, but because you were bound to fade. The story we started would never be made. Our honeymoon phase never saw the sun,  And yet you broke my heart before it had begun. Change and the unknown are sometimes my biggest fears. They always manage to bring me to tears.  Some days, to help with the pain, I blame you. Other days, I thank you. Some days I curse you for making me cry. Other days I whisper a desperate “why.” Thank you for giving me something to look forward to. Thank you for showing me that there are exceptions too. If only I knew our time would be brief, Maybe just maybe I would have held on tighter, through joy and grief. After you left, my words grew dark, My diary became a painful mark. Words such as “pain” and “fear” filled every line. “Forgiveness” struggled to intertwine.  I made a list of things I should have said. A hundred thoughts ran through my head. You were ninety-nine of them, the rest was one, That single thought reminded me that waiting on you was done. Yet still, the echoes of the elevator doors never erased. Your shadow remains in my memory’s space.  Lately, the diary entries about you have lessened. I don’t know if it means that you have been forgiven or forgotten. There are still days when I wonder where you are  And whether you think of me as much as I do. I hope you don’t, because then it would mean you are in pain too. My love for you makes me pray you have moved on. It is fine if I am the only one who gets to think of you from dusk till dawn. Does love disappear, or does it transform? I wonder if longing dies or takes on a new form. Perhaps it softens, perhaps it bends,  Perhaps it lingers though the chapter ends.  The elevator doors closed on us fast, And today I stand, even though our love couldn’t last.  Maybe your purpose was not to stay, But to teach me love in a perfect way. To show me that courage lives in the heart, If it dares to open, it faces the risk of falling apart. Your gaze through those doors showed my heart a dance, Two souls giving each other a chance.  Your role was brief, but your impact was deep. Your voice wishing me good night is a secret I’ll keep.  So, I write of you still, in rhythm and rhyme, Not to trap you in pages, but to honor the time.  For words are my keepsake, gentle and true, The only souvenir I have of you. And though the doors have long since closed, And though the story was never composed, Sometimes in dreams, the elevator will ring, And I’ll remember the joy a boy once could bring.

Jade Dream Edwards-Figueroa. It's 24 letters, 25 characters that define who I am. Without a name I am simply just someone. I could be anyone. But my name makes me unique.Not in the way that my fingerprints may, but in a way that’s authentic to my personality. To love my name is to love who I am, my story and the story of those who came before me.   Though with age and time I’ve grown to love the name my mother chose, and the surnames given to me by both my parents, this was not always the case.   I grew up in a small more suburban area of The Bronx called Woodlawn. Woodlawn is known for its Irish culture so growing up only half Irish made me feel like an outsider. To be a child of color in an area filled with white people is a culture shock for those around you. I grew up with no one ever being able to pronounce my last name. Aname given to me by my father and his before him was subject to ridicule for its pronunciation.   I grew up embarrassed of being a Figueroa  because having that name made me feel like I wasn’t normal, whatever normal may be.   As I went on through middle school, comments about my name became matched with some regarding my appearance.  They’d say “I wish my hair looked like yours” or “I wish I had your skin color. It's the perfect mix of white and brown.”  These comments made me feel out of place. In this Irish neighborhood my Irish descent was being disregarded by the fact that I am also Puerto Rican. Instead of being able to embrace both sides of me I was put into a box to fit one.   When I got older and attended high school, I attended a predominantly Hispanic school in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. At this school I finally felt like I would fit in, having been treated differently given my Hispanic background I was thrilled to be in a place I could belong.  But of course, that didn’t happen.  High school is a time where many people start growing into their identities, but for me it was just another opportunity to be lost in my own. Edwards, the name that no one ever batted an eye at, was finally the topic of discussion.   Suddenly I was being asked  if I was Italian and being referred to as the “white one” in my friend group. I had friends who were paler than me, but the biggest difference between us was they were fully Hispanic. Not two halves of something that could never be whole.  At this point in my life, I was begging for an ounce of understanding. Anything to make me feel like being a part of two different cultures would make me feel lucky. Not cursed. I began asking more about my family trees on both sides, putting in the work to learn more about my cultures rather than letting one define me. I slowly started to see myself as Jade Edwards-Figueroa, not just Jade Edwards or Jade Figueroa. I finally began to see myself as me.   Now this growth is still happening and no change happens overnight. There are still times where I can be sensitive to comments on my race or ethnicity. But all in all, I am happy to be finding myself and learning to love me as one whole person, not two empty halves.  Picture by Tasha Kamrowski

Photo by Donald Tong: https://www.pexels.com/photo/four-person-in-naruto-costume-65767/ The term “fandom” in my experience, strikes three major reactions: confusion, disgust or excitement. Fandom is used to describe a space that shares a passion of the same interest. The word is mostly associated with the act of “fangirling” on the internet. When many people hear fandom, they think about the fans of boy-bands or actors they “freak out” about and share their love with likeminded individuals.  Fandoms are nothing new. The term was created and used around the  early 1900s , then skyrocketed in use around the early 2000s.  The topic of fandoms currently exists in a semi-public-semi-private space. Discussing involvement in a fandom is a fact usually meant to keep to yourself or post anonymously online. It is deemed strange to be so involved with a piece of content.  Being a part of a fandom is perceived as a cringe topic and an embarrassing thing to own up to.  Content like fanfiction is thought to only be crude and works of “fanservice” and fan edits are deemed low quality and lazy.  Fandoms have also gotten their “cringe” rap from stereotypes that surround certain types of content like anime, manga and K-Pop. These are predominantly non-western forms of content that are often considered “weird” or “immature” to western audiences.  What many fail to realize is that fandoms and their components play a crucial role for the content we love.  When a piece of content is able to touch the heart of a viewer, many want to share the feeling of adoration to not only fellow fans, but to the creator(s) as well.  Fanart is a common practice to pay homage. The point of fanart was to take the time to create free artwork that encompasses the love for a character or scene within a favorite piece of content. Fanart is also a way for fellow creatives to recognize one another, practice artistic skill and provide a gift to those that created the specific content. Types of fanart are not limited to drawings and paintings. Fans also go above and beyond through cosplay and animations.  Fandoms provide a form of escapism and a safe space. Self-expression and creativity have no limits in fandoms. It provides a space for people to practice art and writing skills while also sharing their creations freely and at no cost.  Fandoms also contribute to the practice of close reading and media comprehension. Many individuals develop close reading skills through character analysis and examining settings, themes and scenes. Discussions regarding these components with other people also expose each other to differing opinions and viewpoints. These discussions and close analyses strengthen comprehension skills in a fun and creative manner.  But sticking to my word, I’ve decided to be “cringe” and share my favorite fandom and the art fellow fans created. It isn’t cringe to be passionate, it's cringe to hide your interests.  Red Hood: Resurrection  by Noah Beyer: DC Studios is one of the most well-known film production companies with their success in both the comic and movie industry.  Red Hood is a character within the stories of Batman that has captured the hearts of many fans. While his story is not the forefront of many comic issues any longer, fans decided to create what they wanted to see.  Noah Beyer, a fan of Red Hood’s character, took it upon himself to plan, write, cast and film a free-to-watch Youtube series detailing and following DC’s character, Red Hood. Beyer and his team have dedicated their effort and time into forming their own show that is accessible for anyone and everyone to watch.  Red Hood: Resurrection is also only funded by the team and whatever fellow fans donate out of the goodness of their heart for a fan series they enjoy.  This level of dedication and adoration for a character has created its own fandom within a fandom.  I found myself unsatisfied with the content and approach that DC took with Red Hood, and finding Red Hood: Resurrection scratched the itch I had regarding the approach to one of my favorite characters. I was also able to witness the skill level of the production and acting of the team. Watching such love and dedication be put into a project that is free to view is a gratifying and exciting experience.  Within the DC fandom, one of my favorite artists is instagram user @hiikeu. They are one of the most talented artists I have seen that creates many pieces of art ranging from Superman, The Teen Titans and Red Hood.  Supporting artists and interacting within fandom spaces allows you to find and support not only the original content you enjoy, but also support talented artists that were brave enough to share free content and fanwork for your viewing pleasure. It isn’t cringe to support artists and critically think about the content you enjoy. You may just find a community to interact with or a new artist to follow.

There are many museums in New York, and the one I was most familiar with as a kid was the American Museum of Natural History. You know, the one with dinosaurs and whatnot.  As going to New York City became a casual endeavor for me in 2024, the following year brought new insights into museum traveling, namely the spot called The Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the Met, for short. It’s the sort of place you can’t just spend 45 minutes in, like I did in the British Museum in London (trying to peer over a crowd of tourists snapping photos of the Rosetta Stone). At The Met they offer student discounts for admission where you can pay what you wish to donate. With my camera in hand, I was ready to snap away at some thousands of years old artifacts. The no flash rule applies to museum work for a number of reasons when it comes to photography in places like these. It’s to protect old ancient objects from light damage over time, to avoid disruption and preserve the integrity of the institution. The photo above was of a reindeer made of reflective iridescent bubbles. It wasn’t reflective enough to display me taking the picture like that of a mirror, yet it created a cool effect of bead-like spheres of various sizes that comprised the body. Combined with atmospheric dim lighting of the room the light shines off the creature in a spectacular way.  Yet the strangest part about this reindeer is that I believe it was taken in the ancient Japan section of The Met. The lettering on the orange banner in the background confirms my suspicion. Why would a reindeer be in the Japan section? Irrelevant detail to the story but an interesting point. The world may never know... Worlds collided that day. My best friend from high school happened to be in the city at the time, and someone who had become one of my best friends this past year was visiting the city with me. These two worlds converged in The Met as I convinced my high school friend to spend an hour with us in the museum. It was beautifully and accidentally arranged and I wasn’t sure they’d get along. They were from very different backgrounds. Yet at the end of the day they were tethered to each other in that moment by being close friends of mine. Back to the main point of this story, which is to not use flash at the museum. We were in a great hall of African sculptures of the sort, and my idiot instinct, a primitive reflex to be funny and win the appeal of others, broke the most important unspoken rule in museums: don’t use the camera flash. I barely got the flash going before I immediately pointed the lens down, knowing it was an awful idea. What was I thinking?  As if on cue, a museum employee shuffled over, as if I had stepped on an invisible tripwire. What had become a split second decision to spam capture photos of my high school friend avoiding my gaze, turned into a supernova of light that clearly attracted unwanted attention. There’s not too much left to say about The Met. Apologizing to the museum employee was borderline embarrassing but I quickly laughed it off. I suppose it’s just fun when worlds collide, especially those close to you. Old friends logically know you better, because they’ve been your friend for a longer amount of time especially at these pivotal ages when we grow up. Yet as old friends drift apart in physical proximity and can devote less of their time to you, new friends get to know you better in a more literal sense. At college, you’ll see them everyday or at least more often then the old friends. They know you better because they’re more up to date on the current happenings of your life.  It’s like the reindeer made out of bubbles. If the reindeer represents me, then it’s made up of individual pieces that create the whole. Whether those pieces or spheres in this case are memories or knowledge or connections with others, that’s up to interpretation. I just know that in the Metropolitan that day, it felt nice to be surrounded by people I knew I cared about deeply and I knew they felt the same. Even if they came from different cultures, time and space. Should I have taken a picture with flash in an open exhibit at a New York museum? No. Yet it’s just another humorous memory, another spherical shaped memory that adds to our whole being like the makeup of the reindeer’s body. We’re going to make mistakes in life, we’re going to have friends old and new, and sometimes we’re even going to feel out of place (like the reindeer did in the Japan exhibit).  But one thing is painfully clear. The donate what you wish for student admission to The Met is a real test of one’s moral qualms. I donated a dollar for admission. Oops.

What I have with my pets is a bond that goes beyond words. My car drives down the road near my house and my cat senses I’m nearby. She sits at the top of the stairs and waits for me to walk through the door. And the moment I do, I’m ambushed by seven pounds of unconditional love. She sits outside the bathroom door and cries while I take a shower. One might think she is trying to protect me while I’m in a vulnerable state, but I know that she wants to come in because she hates to be alone.  When I walk off the porch and into the backyard, she watches my every move. If I sit out on the deck, she stares at me through the window and cries because she wants me to come back and be with her.  She stares up at me from the floor when I sit on the sofa and she won’t jump up until I nod my head. It doesn’t even matter if my sitting position looks difficult to balance on. My cat will find a way to sit on my lap. Once she’s settled, she leans her head toward my hand until I pet her. Her purrs are as loud as a car motor. A simple steady rumble coming from her lets me know how calm and protected she feels with me. I remember when she was just a kitten. I had to keep her in my room for the first couple of weeks before we could take her to the vet. The night I got her, I was lying in my bed with her close to me. She curled her paw around my finger, and I immediately felt like a mother to this animal. I even call her my daughter. She’s there to comfort me as well. She can sense when I’m sick. When I was battling with a stomach bug, she laid down with me and kneaded my stomach. She was trying to make me feel better.  She sits with me most of the time because she wants attention and she bites my phone whenever I don’t give her enough of it. She wants me to only focus on her when she’s on my lap. But if something else catches her attention, she’s free to catapult herself off me. Then she goes and chases the light that’s reflecting off the metal name tag on her collar. She’s not always the most gentle creature. This is especially evident with how she treats my older cat. While she’s simply looking for a playmate, my older cat feels like his life is threatened whenever the youngest decides to pounce. I don’t condone the behavior, so I hiss and growl until she runs away. Whenever this happens, my older cat gives me a look that expresses how grateful he is that I’m there to look out for him. When I found out my older cat had cancer, I was heartbroken. I made sure to dedicate some quality time with him. I’d invite him into my room in the middle of the night because at some point, I won’t be so fortunate enough to find him somewhere in the house. I’d start bawling my eyes out whenever he sat on my bed with me. He knew how devastated I was. I would break down right in front of him and he would just rest his forehead on mine and rub his face on my cheek.  He was trying to wipe away my tears. My older cat is like a brother to me. I used to dress him up when I was a kid. I’d make him wear sunglasses or a cowboy hat. He was my little doll, and he didn’t mind. He never once tried to scratch or bite me when I would mess with him.  That black-and-white ball of fur has been by my side since I was five. I don’t remember a life that didn’t have him in it and I can’t imagine one without him. It’s gotten to the point that whenever I see him sleeping on a chair in the living room, I have to go and check if he’s breathing. I’ll randomly make a loud noise to check if he’ll still perk his little head up. I’ll do anything to make sure he’s still with me. I feel so connected to these animals. My daughter and my brother. And while it sounds a bit unconventional, I wouldn’t have it any other way, because they love me for the person I am on the inside.  It’s shocking how close I can be with someone I’ve never exchanged words with. I think that’s the beauty of our relationship.