CHARGED-UP RESULTS

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.

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.

Coney Island, also known as Luna Park, is not only a family friendly amusement park but a staple to New York City, especially for Brooklyn. The park has been open since 1859. As a native New Yorker, this park has definitely made its mark on me. I’d pack my bag with snacks and food beforehand since it’s an hour subway ride away from my home in The Bronx. But the ride is definitely worth it. The park has a long boardwalk and beach for people to enjoy.  Photo: Anaylee Hough The Wonder Wheel, (pictured above), is one of the most famous rides at the park. It’s known for being in the center of the park and has a grand presence. It’s a huge Ferris wheel in the middle of the park with carts on the outer and inner parts of the ride. People definitely have different opinions on Ferris wheels. Whether they're afraid of heights or they say the lack of speed isn't thrilling, I still love them. Getting to the top of a Ferris wheel is the most exciting part! Getting to see the skyline and take it in is very therapeutic. There's a tunnel in front of the ride creating an illusion, making it seem like you're going under it. The tunnel leads to even more thrilling rides! I’ve never actually been on the ride mostly because I’d rather go to the beach than the amusement park, but the aesthetic and how huge it is is really exciting, definitely doesn't go unnoticed.  Photo: Anaylee Hough Photo: Anaylee Hough There are stores that sell hot dogs, funnel cake, ice cream and so many more delicious treats. In the picture is the park from the beach at sunset. The lights from the rides balanced so well with the sunset. Even though the park and beach were crowded during the summer, there was a sense of calmness and community. Any time during the summer a good day is guaranteed. Going on the Fourth of July   is   personally my favorite. The beach is crowded with people tanning, listening to music and playing volleyball. The boardwalk is filled with people from all different places. People around the neighborhood and on the beach lighting fireworks adds on to the fun. There's an aquarium as well. There’s even people walking around with snakes that you can hold and take pictures with. Not my cup of tea but maybe others might like that…  Photo: Anaylee Hough Photo: Anaylee Hough Last year, there was news spreading about the park permanently closing and becoming a casino. This news was devastating to me and everyone I know who grew up with the amusement park. The establishment remains important to not only the population of Brooklyn, but to New York City as a whole. The park should honestly get landmark status having so much history as well as being appreciated by many. It would be a shame for it just to become another unnecessary casino.   A petition was made to keep the park and I certainly signed up. Luckily, the casino project failed. I’d like to think the petition helped, even if that’s untrue. Coney Island has so many different things to love about it. One of my favorites is the names of the streets around it such as Surf Avenue, Mermaid Avenue and Neptune Avenue. They match the theme and give a sense of whimsy to the establishment and the neighborhood. Coney Island is well beloved by many New Yorkers. The park gives Brooklyn a different scenery and environment in such a modern and brutalistic city. The area feels like one for letting loose and having fun. Fun is exactly what everyone needs. It’s a great escape from the bustling city and is a treasure to the community as well. It’s the best way to have fun with friends and family. The park only being a $2.90 train ride away is convenient. The impact the park has had on me is definitely a strong one. I hope the park will leave its mark on others as well.

Watching the news has become infuriating.  I have yet to find a proper way to describe the tension between a brick, my television screen and my good throwing-arm. Our reality is not being reported on with accuracy or respect. Especially the communities of people who’ve been marginalized the most. It is impossible for me to remain stoic while faced with intentional erasure of Black and Latino lives in the national immigration narrative. Even further, as a student set to enter this field after graduation, I am exhausted with the lack of attention to basic principles of journalism, let alone to basic principles of humanity. We’ll expand on this research study  soon, but sit with this thought as you read: “Let us wonder whether it is desirable that marginalized community members trust journalists who systemically mis- and underrepresent their personal experience in the name of objectivity.” Take a look at just the first month of 2026. Keith Porter , shot by an off-duty ICE agent while sitting on his porch, has received little airtime. Renee Good and Alex Pretti, two more people killed by ICE in Minneapolis, are notably the only victims of state violence that receive continuous coverage. The repetition of “two people killed by ICE in 2026” blatantly contradicts upwards of 34 reported deaths  in ICE custody. Public accounts of ICE leaving detainees in the woods  with critical injuries. The amount of deaths is impossible to tally from this opaque federal government. “Why would anyone trust a news organization that treats obvious truths as debatable?”  wrote Press Watch editor Dan Froomkin, who founded the political journalism outlet in 2019 during Trump’s first presidential term. He writes about Jeff Bezos, billionaire CEO of Amazon, saying "Bezos uses trust like a cudgel.” (That’s a big, heavy hammer) Bezos took sweeping cuts from the editorial staff, claiming to “move [washington post] up the trust scale”, after acquiring the publication in 2013 for $250 million. Thirteen years to date, Bezos has slashed 1/3rd of the Washington Post staff in layoffs . Employees were told to “stay at home”- a difficult task for Lizzie Johnson, Washington Post foreign correspondent on the war in Ukraine. She is currently in the capital of Kyiv, living out of a car. “I was just laid off by the Washington Post in the middle of a warzone.” Johnson writes in a post on X, “I have no words. I am devastated.” Western journalism is corporate controlled. Six major media companies have total control over our access to information. Companies with wealthy editors and anchors who blend cathartic entertainment with dishonest reporting. The videos of Alex Pretti’s murder were shared millions of times in mere minutes. Yet it took six days for outlets to begin refuting DHS accounts of the shooting. A journalist’s credibility is dependent on their sources.  Tony Dokoupil, CBS evening news, proclaims that he ‘gets it’ when people say they can’t trust the media anymore. He said the legacy media loses trust “because we've taken into account the perspective of advocates…” “We put too much weight in the analysis of academics or elites,” said Dokoupil, “and not enough on you.”  It shouldn’t need to be said, but the news needs to be informative. Average Americans like to hear from an expert, or a human rights worker, or an official–anyone credible. That’s why I’ve compiled scholarly research on social relationships, human behavior, decision making and belief to write in Horseshoe Magazine. Diligence led me to an article from three authors on ( phe·​nom·​e·​nol·​o·​gy) phenomenology, approaching the news trust crisis from the angle of complex human experience. The authors take into account “the willingness to trust versus the decision to trust”  separately. Deciding to trust a news organization over one's own understanding is challenging. The study finds that people rely on “common sense” to resolve problems, rather than be overwhelmed with new information. Trust goes both ways.  “People must trust that their understanding of journalists as providers of detached accounts is accurate before they can actually trust a journalist…” said researchers. The news needs to be held accountable for lying to the public, rather than pursuing truthfulness. “The maintenance of journalist identities, organizations, and the news institution is a matter of power.”, said the study’s authors. Journalists need to cut free from corporate puppeteering. Our responsibility rests with our ideals. We share a stake in the democracy that our reporting supports, even when challenged by the powers that be. People-focused reporting should be the standard, as universal as gravity. A revolution in journalistic ethics will regain public trust. Actions speak louder than words, after all.

Photo Credit to Ana Karolina Pereira on Pexels The front seat of his car was dangerous and yet she found herself there more times than she could count. It was always reserved for her, not asked or offered, just expected. Someone trusted to drive her from school events and on grocery runs. That someone made sure the front seat was empty and available for her. Made sure she sat up front, the back seat was too cramped, too uncomfortable. Someone who needed her there within reach. Little did she know that shotgun was her death sentence.  She learned to make herself small in that seat, to angle her body toward the nearest exit, to count every minute and every second until freedom. Streetlights and stop signs blurred into one as each second felt like an eternity. The passenger seat became a cage with a seatbelt, a space where she had to be still and endure. She would dream of being a bird and slipping through the window crack to fly away from her cage. A strapped cage where an unwanted hand might rest too long on her thigh. Where comments about her being mature for her age and how shorts would make her more beautiful would be heard. She learned to tune everything out and disappear within herself as soon as she sat in that cursed seat.  She stopped calling shotgun in anyone’s car for years, even after it ended and she was old enough to refuse rides. The passenger seat carried the weight of those memories; the backseat was always more comfortable. She came up with every excuse she could as to why she preferred the back. She would say or do anything to avoid going back to that seat, that position, that vulnerability, that echo of powerlessness.  Until him.  He came out of nowhere, as they say. It wasn’t immediately clear to her that he had engaged in healing her and reintroduced her to the passenger seat. He rebuilt the seat just for her, and turned it into a beautiful place that had nothing to do with a cage. The first time he picked her up, she reached for the back door automatically.  He looked at her with curiosity in his eyes, “You prefer the back?”  She hesitated, reaching for the backseat became muscle memory. His asking  her if she preferred the back gave her a choice. It wasn’t a command. He didn’t assume she would want the front seat nor did he push it. She slid into the passenger seat, her body tensing up with old reflexes.  His hands stayed on the steering wheel. His eyes stayed on the road with occasional glances filled with concern.  “What do you usually listen to?”  That question snapped her out of her counting daze. When she said no to music, he listened and turned it off. The drive was just a drive, and he made it just that.  It took months. Dozens of drives. Road trips where she discovered  the passenger seat could mean something else entirely. That it could mean watching him smile at her music choices. That it could mean rolling the window down and letting her hand become that bird and surf the wind of freedom. It meant them splitting a bag of gas station candy and his presence beside her solid and safe.  The day she realized  she had stopped counting seconds and stopped wanting to flee was during one of their longest road trips. Hours of highways and hills stretched ahead, and it finally hit her that she was sitting in the passenger seat completely relaxed and even had her feet up on the dashboard. As they sang off-key to songs they both loved, she realized  the cursed seat had become her favorite place to be. He had given her something  she never had before. The knowledge that she could ask him to pull over and he would. That she could say stop and he would. Her comfort was his priority, that love looked like respect and patience.  Now when they drive, she calls shotgun. Loudly, playfully she races him to the car. He unknowingly fixed a broken part of her. The front seat of his car is not dangerous. It has become her favorite place in the world. A place filled with meaningful conversations that lasted till sunrise. Comfortable silence punctuated the first time she held his hand while he drove. A place where she is safe, a place she chose.  She sits shotgun now and it means everything to her.

Photo Credit: Bob Dylan Center in Tulsa, OK I’m not quite sure when I became interested in Bob Dylan, but it’s been nearly half my life. In the past two or three years, a simple heavy interest has blossomed into a spiritually-tuned obsession.  People who listen to older music are often looked down upon by some, and the further back in time that you go for music preference, the more your demographic of listeners inevitably collide with the baby boomers. That never bothered me much, though. Since then I’ve seen three of Dylan’s live shows, made over a dozen YouTube video essays about him, listened to 40 albums worth of studio work and several bootlegs and live albums.  People say Taylor Swift fans are crazy. People say BTS fans are crazy. No, Bob Dylan fans ARE CRAZY. Instagram has become an echo chamber of the algorithm feeding me posts from the vibrant Dylan community online. I know Bob Dylan lyrics for every emotion, feeling, memory or experience. People may laugh if I say he’s like an old friend, but music is one of the ways that people make sense of the world and to say he’s done that for me is an understatement.  Since there are so many eras of this artist’s work, there is such variety that saying Bob Dylan is your favorite artist is almost akin to stating that you have a dozen favorites. There’s protest Bob, electric Bob, folk Bob, country Bob, stadium tour Bob, divorce Bob, circus clown Bob, gospel Bob, 80s Bob, acoustic cover Bob, depressed Bob, blues and folk rock blend Bob, growl voice Bob, Sinatra cover Bob and finally the current era; Rough and Rowdy Ways Bob. They are all distinctly different in his voice, music style, appearance on stage and his character. A common complaint with casual Bob Dylan listeners is that of course, they believe his poetry and lyricism are great, but his voice is terrible. I have learned to love his voice, which I admit is an acquired taste. The best way I can explain it is, would you want all actors and actresses to be beautiful and handsome? If Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” was conventionally attractive, I’m certain the film wouldn’t work half as well. He’s just the right mix of odd-looking and disheveled and you can almost trust he’s a regular person in the beginning, perhaps even someone relatable. That’s how I feel about Bob Dylan’s voice. It’s sharp when it needs to be, piercing if the song requires it. Grave and serious sometimes, other times shouty and loud, sometimes crooning and soft. Other times, it’s emotionally evocative and touching in a way I’ve heard no other person sing.  You see, the vocal gods didn’t bless Bob Dylan with a traditionally good voice. Singers like Freddie Mercury, Adele or Mama Cass are naturally-born amazing singers. Dylan was not. As a result, Dylan appears to have adapted his vocal range to fit whatever music he happens to be singing. His voice isn’t conventionally attractive, but in that it feels more human, singing like you or me. He projects with personality and selects character for what is needed.  Many people strictly know Dylan for his 1960s work, but he has been a chameleon his whole career. He’s seemingly not trying to impress anyone. He hates the press and makes his own concert setlists regardless of what the audience wants. In the peak of his 1966 fame he escaped to live in the woods for eight years, and didn’t even show up for his Nobel Prize ceremony in 2016. So yeah, you can argue he’s also somewhat moody and grouchy, but who isn't? I’d rather a celebrity take a day off to nap then present themselves as happy when they are not. His production of art is not chained down or altered in any way by anyone’s expectations. Part of the reason he remains relevant despite remaining elusive and distant, is his changing character. He reinvents himself and his music pretty often, and it’s not for attention. The story everyone knows is that he switched from political folk protest songs to electric rock ballads and made everyone angry in the ‘60s, yet he has done that his whole life. He doesn’t care what other people think, and that’s the way art should be. I would argue what was a much more jarring transition than the 1960s switch, was when Dylan in 1978 had been wearing a top hat and put on Elvis-style concerts with backup singers. Not long after he had a religious vision of sorts and changed to singing only original Christian music and preaching sermons at concerts only to revert right back three years later like nothing happened. People have a hard time processing the fact that his songs don’t stay the same. Lady Gaga is a modern artist who also has had many distinct eras. Yet today if she performs “Poker Face,” despite it being an older song, she would most likely sing it the way it has always been sung. Bob Dylan would take for instance a soft acoustic song of his released in 1964, play it with the loud Last Waltz band in 1976, and again in 2002 during the bluesy Love and Theft tour, all in completely different ways. And in between he’ll not touch the song for 20 years and pull it out on a setlist randomly. Soon thereafter it’ll return to the vault. He’ll change lyrics on the spot and many times the song won’t sound the same, which tends to make unaccustomed listeners angry. Instead of letting the song die upon its release, the art has an extended release, so that it is constantly evolving and changing, just like us humans. As an author revising his work, so is Dylan, bringing older material into the limelight in his new current style and reshaping it. His shifting backup band adds to this, too. Really, the only other person that achieved something similar in terms of being a chameleon that comes to my mind is probably David Bowie. But wait, it doesn’t end there. Dylan is a mythology first and foremost, and everything about his persona, music and history adds to this. The recent 2024 biopic “A Complete Unknown” isn’t completely historically accurate, yet if you’re a die hard Dylan fan, you’ll understand this is exactly the point. His autobiography, “ Chronicles: Volume One ,” is pretty much fiction. The Scorsese “Rolling Thunder: A Bob Dylan Story” documentary from 2019 has characters and stories in it that are outright fake. Dylan has always been a terribly unreliable narrator, dodges questions and presents more cryptic questions, and perhaps this is a way he stays present and away from the pressures of fame by pretending it’s not there. In addition, he heavily borrows from other music. For instance, in his early career as a folk artist, he leaned into the tradition of folk music which was to play what had been played by your father, and his father, and all fathers before him. Songs, words and melodies in folk tradition are passed around and borrowed, not in a plagiaristic way but more in a sharing of ideas and paying tribute. Bob Dylan in his early career borrowed a lot of these things and made them his own by adapting them to how he saw the world in that current moment. In his late 1960s country period, when he played on a Johnny Cash TV show, he became Cash, in a way, and mixed it with his own creative spirit. Whether it be the Rolling Thunder Revue touring band, gospel singers, George Harrison, or Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, he absorbs these talents and grows and grows.  While collaboration perhaps is not Dylan’s strongest suit, his ability to shape shift from genre, to idea, to concept and to theme, is what keeps him alive. My favorite album of his, 2001’s “Love and Theft” is a blues rock tribute that contributed to his growth as a person and an artist. His latest studio work from 2020 is full of allusions and references to pop culture and humanity, because those are what contributed to his creative being. It cannot be denied that his impact on modern music is immense. Part of the reason why the fanbase stays alive is that new things are being discovered every day. This isn’t entirely unique to Bob Dylan as an artist, but it makes everything more fresh and more exciting. In the early ‘90s, Dylan and his team began releasing their own bootleg compilation albums. Many artists at the time had their concerts recorded illegally, bootlegged and sold off as that was the only way to access owning artist content that wasn’t a CD or vinyl. Remember, there was no music streaming. In these self released Dylan bootleg editions, upon which the series now has 18 editions and is still continuing, never before unseen content is revealed decades later. Such content included forgotten demos, alternate takes with different lyrics and musicians and live recordings from tours. Sometimes there are released brand new songs that have never seen the light of day for decades. On top of YouTube concert videos and forums on websites compiling concert audios, there is endless content to discover. He’s been touring nonstop (save during Covid) since the end of the ‘80s. It is surreal to see someone who has had such an impact on your life in real life. Many who are uneducated on his setlists are expecting to hear greatest hits like any other artist at this age, yet Dylan divides us just as he did in the ‘60s by playing what he wants.  Since I’ve listened to all of his studio albums, even the songs that are considered deep cuts make me excited to hear live with his great band. Sure, he sounds old, but he IS old. And that feels genuine, at least to me. Even if the songs don’t sound exactly the same, the ever changing arrangements of classics is exciting to see unfold, like theatre. He isn’t even the greatest person to be honest. He introduced marijuana to the Beatles, dumped Joan Baez for a shotgun marriage, may have released 1970’s “Self Portrait” just to alienate fans and turns off many by how grumpy he sometimes is.  At the same time, he played a big role in the Civil Rights movement, performing in front of Martin Luther King Jr. at the March On Washington. He made other civil rights-themed songs throughout his career, has supported the LGBTQ+ movement, made a Christmas album for charity and received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from Barack Obama. He helped create a sense of normalcy for songs past radio expected length, so let’s forgive him for playing an electric set at Newport Folk Festival, shall we? Those people just weren’t ready to hear the future. Dylan’s lyrics and music provide a constant and reliable soundtrack to the ups and downs of my life. He is a comforting familiar embrace of lyrical poetism, genuine feeling and expression in an otherwise confusing and cruel world. I engage with the fan community on Instagram, have endless bits of information and lore at my disposal and in my journey of knowledge I have learned a lot about myself through the love of music.  Bob Dylan will turn 85 this May, and I cannot thank him enough for how he changed my life. The pursuit of self-actualization, the mystery of not knowing everything in life is imbued in his work. Many of his songs end right before the message is revealed. When asked about song meanings, he is vague. It’s up to us to interpret, not him. That’s the beauty of his art, as every one of our interpretations can be correct based on how we feel. As he sings on “Key West Philosopher Pirate,” that’s my story, but that’s not how it ends.

Photo credit to Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels On Christmas Eve, my mother printed page after page of cartoon movie tickets to go along with one of the gifts she got for my grandmother. More effort was put into this gift because of its sentimental value. She was trying so hard with the presentation because the actual gift was a promise of something that would happen later.  The plan was to take my grandmother to the movies to see “Song Sung Blue.”  It was a thoughtful gift because my grandmother is obsessed with Neil Diamond. The woman has an array of discs containing the man’s entire discography. When she’s the only one in the house, she will excitedly rush over to the stereo and blast his music. It gets to the point where neighbors can probably hear the enthusiastic “Play it now, play it now, play it now” being chanted by the 84-year-old fangirl. Taking her to see the movie was a perfect plan. The only problem was the movie wasn’t about Neil Diamond at all. I was the only one who watched the trailer. And I only watched it five minutes before we were to leave to go to the movies. That happened because I was looking at the cast beforehand and saw that Hugh Jackman’s character’s name was Mike. My heart dropped. Who the hell was Mike? That was the moment when I found out the movie was about a Neil Diamond tribute band, and not the actual singer. That’s where my knowledge on the subject ended. Upon breaking the news to my mom, she begged me to be the one to tell my grandmother because she was afraid of disappointing her. So I did. Yet when I told her, all she asked was “But they still sing his music, right?”  They certainly did. And whenever they did, I’d look over and see my grandmother with her eyes shut tight, singing along to herself. I knew she would still have a good time watching the movie regardless of whose story it was depicting.  What surprised me was how invested I became in the movie. I had seen no promotion for it, so I had no idea what the story would entail. And I was mainly going for the act of seeing a movie instead of caring about which one I was going to see (I love the popcorn with layered butter). I got choked up at so many scenes. I felt that tingle of movie magic I hadn’t felt for a long time. It’s because I knew nothing about the plot and because of that, I couldn’t easily predict what was coming next. The setup suggested that the entire story would just be about a Neil Diamond husband and wife tribute band gaining popularity in Milwaukee. Then, reality hit the audience, literally. Kate Hudson’s character Claire got run over by a car that drove straight into their home while she was gardening. I knew there had to be a moment where a conflict would arise, but I didn’t expect it to be as jarring as that. Claire had to get her leg amputated and was put on heavy-duty drugs to help with phantom pains. Those drugs either made her sleep through the entire day or just lay there with no motivation to do anything. Her character even started hallucinating and had to go to rehab.  The cheerful tone the movie started with had an abrupt shift that turned it into something more meaningful. It emphasized the struggle. They had to get past a bump in the road that was more like a mountain. When the characters got back into their groove, I thought the worst was behind us. We would only go up from there. I was wrong. So very wrong. Hugh Jackman’s character Mike had a bad heart and he had a couple scares throughout the movie. His stepdaughter even had to use a defibrillator on him when Kate Hudson’s character got run over. There hadn’t been an issue for a while. The movie was coming to an end and the tribute band was going to perform a headline show on the same night Neil Diamond was in Milwaukee. The tribute band was also going to finally meet Neil Diamond. That morning, Mike’s heart started acting up and he hit his head on the bathroom counter. Rather than going to the doctor, he closed the deep gash on his head with nail glue. He didn’t want to postpone the greatest moment of his life.  He got through the performance, but died in the car right before he was about to meet his idol. My stomach churned, but in a way where it felt good that the movie hurt that much. I was even more taken aback when I found out the movie was based on a true story. Not everything was exact, but I still felt connected. My family did too. My mother posted on Facebook and told her friends to see the movie.  I agree. More people should know about it.This story was more interesting to me perhaps compared to what a possible Neil Diamond biopic would have looked like. I probably would have never even considered seeing the movie if I was going to the theater alone. It made me wonder if I should consider stepping out of my comfort zone more often and watch a movie that doesn’t always fit my interests. I might be surprised. That’s how people find out about more things they are interested in. And thanks to “Song Sung Blue,” I smile when I hear the living room stereo blasting Neil Diamond songs because I feel like I have a connection to it now.

Red Dead Redemption 2, Rockstar Games Over winter break, I interacted with a few sources of media I could not look away from. When the break first started, I was surrounded by videogames since I was finally back in my room at home.  I decided to play a game I haven’t played in a while; Red Dead Redemption 2 by Rockstar Games. When I loaded up the game, I felt this rush of adrenaline and memories from the first time that I played it. It made me feel a bit old, as the game came out nearly 10 years ago. But it made me happy to see Arthur and the entire gang.  The mechanics were still smooth with great graphics and resolution. This game is close to my heart because of how well the overall story is told. It is riveting with deep emotion that deals with complex and realistic characters for the time period we are set in. The relationship that Arthur, Dutch, John and many others share is authentic, placing you in this real, broken and diverse family.  The amount that you are able to do with the open world makes it immersive, and even the smallest interactions you have can make big impacts on your game play.  I finished the game in about three to five days and definitely recommend it to anyone out there. One of my favorite things about playing Red Dead Redemption 2 is how immersive the game is. You can play through the main story one, two, three different times and still experience new things. You can do smaller quests, hunt around the forest, play minigames like dominos and complete an array of different challenges. There are also player specific things that can be altered, like Arthur’s honor level. Doing either a massive amount of good or bad things affects how others treat you.  Another game I can’t step away from is called Balatro by LocalThunk. Although the game may look simple, it calls for a total balance of risk and reward to win your runs.  This is a rogue-like game that is more for my strategist and card players out there. It takes basic poker hands and revives them to a fresh new deck, building a bunch of different mechanics that can help improve your run.  This game is all about adaptability; each run performed can require a different approach in strategy. There is an interesting aspect that allows different card deck types to be played, all having a unique perk to them that can make or break your run. The joker system adds another level of planning and a good amount of critical thinking. No run is the same, with different jokers being randomized and the possibility of running into new blind bosses. There is a shop where all jokers can be bought, and even that refreshes every run.  The game's overall style gives it great personality, and it is easy to learn the basics. Balatro is a game that can be played at any swiftness, so both long and short runs come out of this game. The best feeling is watching the screen light up with an exploding ball of fire due to a perfectly played hand at the final boss of a long Balatro run.  One of my favorite things that happens when I am playing Balatro is when I am trying to assemble a good joker lineup to win the run, and the joker I am looking for is available in the shop. It all comes together like a grand symphony orchestra. It is extremely satisfying to collect all the jokers and complete all the levels I need to reach the required score to complete my run.  I love video games with all of my heart. I like the ones that give me either the most immersive experience or that make me calculate my every move. Nothing compares to the feeling of beating the machine as a player. But these are also games I can enjoy again and again. With every playthrough, I get a new sense of urgency for the immersion it gives me.  These were the pieces of media, specifically in the video game sense that I interacted with over my winter break. They both remain very near and dear to me and I hope that there are games that are special to you. Whether it's a new book or a new video game, I would encourage everyone to find a piece of themselves in certain media; there is nothing else like it.

It’s January, again. And in all honesty, this one may bore you. I thought it would be a great idea to return to my column this new semester and reflect on how far I’ve come and figure out where I want to go from here. If I look back at where I was a year ago, I had returned back to school after hearing bad news time after time again and was stuck in a state of limbo. Every time life took a hit at me I figured that there was nothing that I could do to change the situation. So, what did I do? I sat there and accepted it. And while I don’t regret the things I’ve done in life, I do know that the decision I made during this time was a mistake. And I set myself up for failure, literally. But that’s besides the point, It was such a difficult time for me as a growing adult. I’ve experienced hardship but nothing like this; I didn’t have any previous knowledge or wisdom to get me through that. But my understanding now is that the majority of the times, we won't know what life will put us up against and that’s exactly why were able to grow from these events that take place.  I turned 20 this past January, and genuinely, I thought I had hit an early midlife crisis. Apparently, I’m still in this damn boxing ring with life and it’s still swinging at me when I don’t want to put up a fight. But this entire month has just been a reminder that I can still do it, I can win, I can overcome because I’ve shown strength and I’ve shown resilience towards defeat. So, I won't give up. And continuing to compare this January to the last, my state of limbo can be seen as a lack of action but I could also change my perspective towards it all. The limbo I was faced with was caused from a lack of direction. And in this semester I am building a path for myself in order to reclaim control. You’d think that as a “breaking news segment producer” I’d only have to report on news happening around me and not actually have my life be news after news after news. And I think it’s important for me to once again be in control of my own narrative. And when its coming down to me and life still being in that boxing ring, I’ve got to remember that it isn’t about how many hits I’ve gotten in our how many punches I’ve avoided but rather learning a strategy to win the game because the bell hasn’t rung yet, and all the hits I’ve been getting has just been my warm up.  Perfection is a straight line, to which many of us can’t follow but I’ve learned that it is progress that makes the difference. Progress is messy and exhausting but its so worthwhile to see how far I’ve come and where I’m heading as the person I want to be. Things have changed since I last shared a piece in this column. I’m currently making satisfactory progress here. While that’s a good sign that better things are coming, it doesn’t mean that I’m in the clear. And if I’m being completely honest, I hated this feeling. It has been such an awkward point of doing the best I can and just barely missing the mark every single time. It’s frustrating,yes, but I’ve now found it humbling. The long days, late nights,and tough conversations are what opened my eyes to taking responsibility and continuing to put in the effort. It continues to create new goals for me to hit and drives me to keep pushing. And honestly, I just don’t think I’ve hit all my goals,so for now, I’ll accept it and continue to be uncomfortable.  But as of now, I am truly excited for what this semester will bring,as I look forward to the expansion of this column, the courses I’m currently taking, and my new position on Charger Bulletin News as the Breaking News Segment Producer. I’m grateful as it all feels like another step forward. And while I haven’t perfectly figured out my work life balance, I have my priorities, I understand what I have to put first and I know where I need to divide my energy. I can’t predict the future, but I can do what is necessary to shape what it may look like for me. And when I find it out, or maybe while I’m still discovering it, I’ll continue to take you along through the column. I’m nowhere close to done and I’m not where I want to be, but I am still here making progress and doing better before I can be all that I want.

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