CHARGED-UP RESULTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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