CHARGED-UP RESULTS

Hi, I’m Elisa, and for the past two semesters I’ve had the honor of serving as the editor of Horseshoe Magazine . Sadly, this is my last semester. I graduate soon, and before I walk away from this campus with a little more wisdom, I want to leave something behind. For those who don’t know me, I’m an international student from Honduras. That label—international s tudent —has been my identity for the past four years I’ve lived in the United States. Being international is a mix of pride, frustration and comedy. Pride because we’re brave enough to build a life away from home. Frustration because regulations and immigration policies can make you feel like you’re playing a game where the rules change mid-match. And comedy—well, because nothing makes you feel more "other" than being the only person in the room who doesn’t get the pop culture reference since you watched all the movies dubbed in Spanish growing up. (Yes, I still think "Shrek" sounds better en español.) If I wanted to, I could complain for hours about what it means to survive here—about visas, work limitations or having less than anyone else. I could tell you about crying in Walmart because you saw the one brand of cookies you used to eat back home, or about learning how to cook your national dishes with substitute ingredients that never taste quite the same. But instead, I want this to be a guide, a memoir and perhaps a word of advice for those who come after me—or for those who are already here, far from home, missing their family, their food or even just the sun on their skin. Because here’s the truth: My experience here changed my life. If I were to meet the Elisa who got off the plane on Jan. 13, 2022, she wouldn’t recognize me now. Who I am, what I believe in, how I see the world—it’s all been transformed. So if you’re a freshman stepping off that plane, suitcase in one hand and dreams in the other, welcome. From now on, in this column, I’ll call you Global Chargers. That’s what you are—students from every corner of the planet, carrying not just textbooks but also traditions, memories and hopes across borders. Global Chargers, this will be the best and the hardest time of your life. If you’re stubborn enough to stick through it, you’ll discover joy in the most unlikely places. Yes, you’ll cry because, “After this exam I can’t just go home and hug my mom.” You’ll sit in the dining hall wishing desperately for huevitos con frijoles  or whatever comfort food raised you. But you’ll also laugh in ways you never expected. You’ll build a family out of friends, and you’ll learn that your spirit is bigger than this campus, bigger than Connecticut and bigger than every obstacle thrown at you. Global Chargers often feel like we need to be twice as strong to prove we deserve to be here. Asking for help doesn’t mean weakness—it means you’re human. Whether it’s the international office, professors or friends, don’t carry everything alone. Home is far away, school is stressful, but you need that third place: the cafe where the barista remembers your name, the corner of the library where you always sit or the soccer field where you forget about everything else. Claim a space that belongs to you. Remember why you came. When things get hard—and they will—hold on to your “why.” Maybe it’s for your family, for your career, for the version of yourself you’re still becoming. That “why” will pull you through homesickness, bureaucracy and long winters. Being a Global Charger isn’t easy. It’s walking through life with a backpack that carries not just your laptop but your culture, your fears, your visa status and your dreams. It’s also proof of your strength. To those still here, still navigating, still finding their place: I hope this column can be your place of information, comfort or even confirmation that you are not alone. This campus might feel overwhelming at times, but your spirit is bigger. Bigger because you made the brave choice to be here today, far from home but closer to the person you’re becoming. So here’s my goodbye for today (don’t get scared, you got me one more semester), not just as the editor of this magazine but as a fellow Global Charger. Wherever you are from, wherever you’re going next—keep thriving, keep being stubborn and keep celebrating every single moment. I’ll be around for one more semester, so feel free to email me if you’d like to chat. You’re not just studying abroad. You’re building a life worth remembering.

For years there has been ongoing commentary that concerts have become a sea of phones,with audiences watching live performances through their screens. It is undeniable that smartphones have become a go-to for preserving moments and capturing snapshots of our lives. One example of this is filming concerts in their entirety. I was a firm believer that there was nothing wrong with recording, and that concerts were meant to be remembered in full.  The problem with my opinion was that I was 10-years-old when I attended my last concert. That changed on July 21, when I saw the band Ghost in person. The concert, however, was disclosed as a phoneless experience.  The announcement from the band's official ticket sale website sparked strong opinions on both sides. TikTok user @diixamond raised a valid critique under a post discussing the news, “I’m not spending all this money in this economy to see someone live and I can’t at least take home one memory.”  Average midsection seats range from $120 to $300 per ticket. When I purchased my tickets, I chose the nosebleed section, the highest and furthest area away from the stage. Nosebleed seats at TD Garden were about $80 each through Ticketmaster. For two tickets, the total was a little over $160 with tax and online fees. The cost of attending a concert only increases when you factor in the average overnight price of a hotel, Amtrak travel prices and the potential purchase merchandise.  Photo by: Abigail Riggins There is no doubt that concerts are no longer as easily affordable and accessible as they used to be. The frustration of being unable to document the event you spend so much money on is an understandable grievance.  Safety concerns have also filled social media in the wake of the band’s decision. There is always a risk for potential injury in large crowds. From the 2017 Ariana Grande concert attack in Manchester to the 2021 tragedy at the Astroworld Festival in the United States, there is a valid concern about concertgoers not having access to their devices in emergencies.  At my first concert without my parents, I had the same concerns as I queued in line to get my phone locked in a Yondr pouch.  A Yondr pouch is a small cloth pocket that you place your phone into that magnetically locks. To unlock the pouch, you must leave the venue and find an unlocking station to retrieve your phone. The pouch must be locked again before you can re-enter the concert.  The moment I couldn’t access my phone, I felt uneasy. However, there was not one area of the venue without at least four security guards stationed to help concertgoers find their seats and access exits. The event had one of the calmest and most controlled crowds I have experienced. TD Garden took necessary precautions such as metal detection, banning large bags and keeping the crowd in orderly lines. I had never felt safer in such a populated area.  The undeniable care and thorough planning on the venue’s part eased and put to rest the common fears many people had when confronted with the phone ban.  In the midst of this debate, I find myself seeing only the positives of a phoneless concert. While I can’t remember every detail of the concert, one thing I do remember is how connected everyone seemed to be. Hours before the venue doors opened, the streets were filled with fans interacting with one another. All that could be heard were people complimenting each other's hair, outfits, makeup and costumes. Strangers bonded over their excitement and love for Ghost’s music. While I was too shy to join in, others spent their time taking photos with one another and trading pins and bracelets. The knowledge of a phoneless concert inspired fans to make memories in different ways–by connecting with one another.  I can admit, as we waited for Ghost to get on stage, I was bored and itching to open my phone. Instead, my sister and I quickly took to people watching as I talked her ear off about the band’s lore and set list choice.  What was truly mesmerizing was when the music revved up and the band walked out on stage. There was no sea of lit screens disturbing the mood lighting. It was intense as everyone's eyes adjusted to the darkness and not one person lifted a phone above their head, blocking the view of the row behind them. Nearly 14,000 people’s eyes were glued to the stage, rather than their cameras making sure they filmed every perfect angle.  The crowd's response to the lead singer was even louder. So focused on what's in front of them, the audience’s participation during call and response moments was both intense and magical at the same time.  Tobias Forge, the lead singer, stated multiple times during interviews and social media posts that his choice of phoneless concerts makes him feel more connected to the audience. It’s clear that it must be an easier time performing to a captivated audience rather than singing to screens.  While I would have loved a video of my favorite song performed live for a memory keepsake (I refused to take out a loan for concert merchandise), I am grateful that I was forced to experience it with zero distraction. Through all the discourse about the phone ban during the concert tour, I think the lack of phones made the experience all the more memorable. Living “Rite Here Rite Now”–you’re welcome Ghost fans–made this truly a special occasion.

As much as I hate driving, my car is one of the most comforting places to me. I get to be alone, but I’m never lonely. When I’m alone in my car, the world melts away. My brain turns off and I become one with the music. I crank the volume up and escape from my life as I enter a moving concert. I get to choose the set list. For however long I’m in the car, I am granted an excuse to detach from my own reality and step into a more ideal one. The most dire thing in that moment is making sure the music I play serves that purpose. My stereo settings let me turn the bass up to the point where my car visibly shakes. The feeling is so similar to the seismic waves of a stadium during a concert. I let that feeling swallow me whole.  The expectations that people have for me no longer exist. The way that people feel about me does not matter. I simply enjoy the company of my speakers and act the way I wish I could at any given moment. It’s the way I truly am, but am too afraid to show to others. I can laugh. I can cry. I can belt along to a ballad as loud as I want. I am never too much. When I’m alone in my car, I can be myself . While there are times that I need a break from my life, my car provides me a place where I’m allowed to let my feelings out. As soon as I shut my door and turn on the ignition, I get to release every emotion that I’ve kept bottled up inside me. I’m not looking for someone to console me. The music is enough. There is nothing more therapeutic than going 50 mph down a country road while blaring a song about feeling misunderstood. “Too Strange For the Circus” by Debbii Dawson plays at a volume that’s harmful to the ears and blocks out any noise coming from outside. The tears can fall freely without feeling like my emotions are a burden to someone else. I can think about myself. I am allowed to take up space without needing a ticket. From my car, I can grasp that feeling of understanding that only exists when I’m watching someone spill their guts out on a stage. My car doesn’t judge me if I am too loud. My car doesn’t care how many times I play the same song in one ride. My car doesn’t tell me to calm down while I am bawling my eyes out after being criticized at work. My car doesn’t make me feel like I have to hide myself. I do understand that while my car may feel like a protective bubble, people can still see me. Even though my car is like a fishbowl, I barely think about how others on the road might perceive me. They might be doing the same exact things in their car, but the tinted windows just make it harder to see them. It’s in that scenario that I can see that other people are just like me. Everyone has their own way to decompress. Other people have the same thoughts running through their heads. However, I am unable to apply that logic to everything. I don’t know why I feel so protected from judgment when I’m in my car. I wish life was like a math equation, where I could use the same formula for every similar scenario. I want to go to a doctor's appointment as if I’m alone in my car. I want to walk around campus as if I’m alone in my car. I want to wander around a store by myself as if I’m alone in my car. I am so tired of feeling like I am not allowed to be somewhere just because it’s only me. I don’t plan out everything that I have to say in a conversation when I’m alone in my car. I don’t try to filter out things that might offend people when I’m alone in my car. I think people would like me if they saw what I’m like when I’m in my car. They wouldn’t just see a person who watches everyone around them and never speaks. I allow myself to be who I am, but only in secret. I guess I’m uncomfortable with who I am when I’m around other people. Why can’t I just be alone in my car all the time? Image by Adonyi Gábor on Pexels

It’s 2:03 a.m. My window is cracked open, and the longer I stay up, the more I lose precious sleep time. Still, my thoughts keep me awake. You know those nights when a random thought engulfs your mind and you can’t get it out of your head until you’ve pondered it? Tonight, for me, it’s the Library of Alexandria. If you know me, you know how much I love "what ifs" in human history, and this one is no different. I don’t remember exactly how I got here. Maybe it was a quote on social media, or more likely a TikTok that showed up on my For You page while I was doomscrolling. But once the thought landed, it stuck in my mind: What if the Library of Alexandria had never burned down? If you’ve never heard about it, or only vaguely remember it from a history class, here’s a short version: The Library of Alexandria was founded in Egypt during the third century B.C. It wasn’t just a place to store books; it was a temple to human history. Imagine a world where scholars from Greece, Egypt, India and beyond came together to study, debate and share what they knew. There were astronomers, mathematicians, poets, scientists and translators. It was a diverse and perfect culmination of human knowledge—something modern-day historians could only dream of experiencing. It’s estimated the library may have held 400,000 to 700,000 scrolls—not books, but scrolls—written by hand. Ideas that someone sat with, shaped and sealed in ink. Knowledge passed down across time and cultures, brought into one space to be preserved, understood and added to. Then it all went up in smoke. There’s debate about how it was destroyed. Julius Caesar might have accidentally set it ablaze during a military campaign. Others say it was gradually dismantled over time through neglect, political shifts and religious uprisings. No single villain, no dramatic cinematic moment—just centuries of apathy and missed chances. In a way, that makes it worse. Because it wasn’t just a building that burned. It was a buildup of many small problems that caused it to be lost to time. What were we on the verge of discovering? Could we have advanced medicine by hundreds of years? Could we have avoided wars with a deeper understanding of each other’s cultures and philosophies? Would North America have been discovered earlier? Who would have colonized what is now the United States first? Could we have developed technologies that still feel like science fiction today? It keeps me up (on nights like this) to think we might have known the Earth revolved around the sun centuries earlier, or had a working theory of atoms, the nervous system—even flying machines. These weren’t science fiction fantasies. There’s evidence some of this knowledge existed , or was close to existing, in those scrolls. And yet, here we are—picking up the pieces generations later. Starting from scratch on ideas that may have once already lived, breathed and died in those scrolls. Gone, because we didn’t protect them. What I can’t shake is that we’re still losing knowledge—not to flames, but to neglect. We’re surrounded by information, yet somehow more disconnected from understanding. There’s access, but not always intention. Truth competes with noise. We underfund the places meant to preserve learning and dismiss the voices that push us to think deeper. It’s not as dramatic as a fire, but the effect feels the same—we let valuable knowledge slip away. Quietly. Constantly. And yeah, I know—I’m just one person staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night. I’m not trying to solve the world’s knowledge crisis with a single thought. But it makes me wonder: What if we treated learning as sacred? What if we approached every conversation, every story, every piece of information with the kind of reverence the ancient scholars once did? The Library of Alexandria might be gone. But the idea of it—the dream behind it—doesn’t have to be. Maybe it’s in every open book, every thoughtful question, every time someone chooses curiosity over certainty. Maybe it lives again every time we choose to preserve knowledge, share it and protect it—not just for ourselves, but for the next generation. At 2 a.m., when the world feels heavy and the past feels painfully close, I think about what we lost in the fire. But I also think about what we still have the power to protect. Because knowledge, once lost, is hard to recover. But knowledge shared? That’s how you rebuild a library.

PHOTO TAKEN AND EDITED BY AZAM HOSTETLER At the southernmost point of the continental United States sits Key West, a town reached by a 100-mile bridge over a chain of islands. The city is famous for Ernest Hemingway's house and competitive seafood spots. With names like Hog's Breath Saloon and Old Town Tavern, places that appear to be restaurants are, in reality, bars that are hardly inviting for a family of four. This iguana lives in Mallory Square. She did not choose her name. Facing what should be the Gulf of Mexico and some dead coral reefs, this iguana couldn't care less about territory name changes or ocean acidification. Unbeknownst to the troubles of the world, all she knows are the rocks and the routine. Her name is Elaine. Every evening, she crawls out to bask under the sun, as cold-blooded creatures often do to regulate their body temperature. Other cold-blooded creatures include, but are not limited to, J.K. Rowling (regulating hate in her body) or, by no correlation, J.K. Simmons—wanting to throw a cymbal at Miles Teller's head. Just kidding. Yet Elaine doesn't know that she's named after Elaine Benes, a character from the TV sitcom "Seinfeld," and that part isn't a joke. Cosmo Kramer the iguana lurks about as well, an older male that shuffles in around sunset. He unfortunately wasn't available for a picture and declined to comment. The ice cream cart vendor named those two after characters from "Seinfeld," and in a sort of way she gave these iguanas a life beyond Key West's Mallory Square by doing so. Sure, this Elaine isn't Julia Louis-Dreyfus, the real actress from "Seinfeld." She's not dating Patrick Warburton in a '90s sitcom. Yeah, that's right. This Elaine is ready for the nightlife, yet we left Key West just as Mallory Square was about to get interesting. We couldn't help it. We had to drive two hours back to our overpriced condominium in some offshoot Florida Key with a name not even the Oxford dictionary could produce. It was a bit like going to see a play and leaving a third of the way in. I could say I've been to Key West, but spending five daylight hours there doesn't do it justice. I missed the street performers, jewelry and craft stands, live music and vendors. Elaine the iguana was there to witness it before she crawled back into whatever hole she lived in. She was like some sort of troll under a bridge. Instead of asking for a riddle (I could be mixing up the nursery rhymes), Elaine would just stare silently, as iguanas don't make noise—for instance, barking lizards don't exist. Lizards like these are silent, save for a cough or sneeze, and they certainly don't originate from fictional geneticists named Curt Connors written by Stan Lee. Why the ice cream cart vendor named the iguana Elaine, I still don't know. I had already snapped a photo of the green fool. In fact, I had never seen an iguana outside a cage this big, save the one time I went on a failed date to SeaQuest before PETA shut them down. The point is, the name gave the photos life and a story where there otherwise would just be a scaly green reptile. Even if I couldn't speak to Elaine, I could now imagine her personality. There even could've been a George Costanza or a Jerry Seinfeld if there were more lizards. Would their grandfather be Larry David, since he fathered "Seinfeld's" writing process? No use wondering. Our paths may never cross again, Elaine. Your life is confined to a paved square that's the epitome of nightlife as far south as you can go in the United States. I only experienced a couple dehydrated-looking tourists roasting alive under the unrelenting sun, and a couple sad food vendors setting up shop. I arrived too early to see the festivities, but just in time to meet a one-of-a-kind lizard. It's quite possible, upon further research, that these iguanas are invasive and I'm giving unfair attention to an animal species that's destroying Florida, but I'm sure Julia Louis-Dreyfus in "Seinfeld" would appreciate the shoutout. Our lives are so different, Elaine. We eat different food, see different sights and hear different things. Maybe I'll wish to have a life as simple as yours, without car taxes, homework or, you guessed it, drama in the friend group. If I could just live somewhere and bask in the sun, absorbing the solar energy instead of skin cancer, I think things might be all right. And she's probably envying me, and my bipedal walk and almost fully developed prefrontal cortex (five more years left by textbook, but I think I can make decisions well enough now). This is cliche, but perhaps we just think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. I know we'll never meet again, Elaine. Ten years from now, I'll flip through my haphazard Florida vacation photos and find your portrait, Elaine. Odds are I'll smile, remembering a sun-soaked lizard and a brief, shared moment at the edge of the country—a reminder of how unlikely characters can linger in memory long after the journey ends.

By: Haiden Leach Some foreground for this piece comes from the classrooms of the University of New Haven. I took an unexpected class for my senior year, but it was needed. I wanted to help share stories of those who are limited and whose voices are hidden. If you are interested in this course, here is a small description before you read on! Please enjoy. **Dr. Daria A. Kirjanov is a Practitioner in Residence at the University of New Haven. She teaches Russian language and interdisciplinary courses in the Division of Human Sciences and the University Writing Program. Her research focuses on Russophone literature and culture, diaspora studies,  and secondary language acquisition.   Description of the Course  RUSS 3304  “Stories of Displaced Lives: Russia and Eastern Europe in Exile” War, revolution, and repression have led to the displacement of millions of people since the turn of the 20th century.   “Stories of Displaced Lives: Russia and Eastern Europe in Exile” (RUSS 3304) is a multidisciplinary course that explores the many dimensions of how refugees and emigres approach displacement through storytelling.  Central topics in this course are political repression, cultural identity, resilience, trauma, and memory.  Course materials include films, documentaries, video testimonies, memoirs, prose fiction, music, and poetry written by or about individuals who have lived through some of the most significant upheavals in the 20th and 21st centuries. Students engage with the works of   Ukrainian, Russian, Soviet, Czech, Lithuanian, Polish, Jewish, Romany, Bosnian, and American writers and filmmakers. Attention will also be given to current refugee crises in other parts of the world. This course is conducted in English.** Different voices experience displacement in different ways, internally (psychologically) and externally (physically). Personal works of those affected will be told as they have witnessed events that will change the world.      We are seeing history play out, revealing the displacement of millions because of war crimes. Fear and screams echo through the air on what should have been a normal night in the world. While many slept or woke up to start their day, hell began to rain down as the wind was silent. War has now engulfed the people of Ukraine and Gaza. Both are sitting in different parts of the world but sharing the same terrible fate. Bombs rain down and drive people out of their homes, a journey no one wants. The world is suffering through the ages.    This semester, in the course “Displaced Lives”, we have read and watched many stories that show how challenging displacement is. Displacement doesn’t always mean a movement or a physical place from which one is separated. Displacement has different ways of showing itself; some displacement is internal, meaning psychological, and some is external, that is, physical.     The film, “Everything is Illuminated,” directed by Liev Schreiber, highlights the issues of internal displacement and how we are affected by it. Jonathan, played by Elijah Wood, embodies the feeling of internal displacement through religion and nationality. Throughout the film, his character feels disconnected from his family and (where they come from – “their origins”) because of the Holocaust.     When traveling to Ukraine, Jonathan is looking for anyone to point him in the direction of his family's legacy. He is searching for a man who spared and saved his grandfather, to thank him. His family's past is buried, and he now rolls in the feeling of not knowing where he comes from, like so many others of displacement. In the film, the third wall breaks for the audience to form opinions that the characters have not yet discovered. The grandfather, presented with his past, finds himself internally displaced in his everyday routines. Displacement is usually thought of as being physically removed; it can also mean being mentally removed, like how Jonathan and the grandfather of the film feel.      The people of Ukraine, for example, have been displaced because Russia seeks to take their land. Explosions rang in Ukraine on Feb. 24, 2022, hitting the city of Kyiv. Missiles would push through walls to begin the full-scale war between the two nations. With growing concern of military powers from Russia, Ukraine grows closer to the idea that they are in for the long haul. “There are currently more than 6.7 million refugees from Ukraine who have sought international protection – most of them in Europe, in addition to over 3.7 million people who remain forcibly displaced inside the country,” said the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR).    Sisters Nadiia Gryshyna and Svitlana Kartashova faced these tragedies. The pair was forced to flee as a safety threat grew imminent. Explosives intensified near their village of Velyka Rybytsia on the Psel River in northeastern Ukraine, just 5 kilometers from the Russian border. A daunting reality was in front of them, they would now be displaced from their only home.  Nadiia said, “Our village is too close to the front line: every day, we were bombed. The evacuation was very hard for us.” Many around Ukraine have suffered the same fate; there are an estimated 10.6 million Ukrainians who have been forced from their homes over the last three years, all facing the same fate as Nadia and her family. Up to thousands of Ukrainian soldiers have died, and as many as 800,000 Russian militants have perished. There has been destruction on both sides. Missiles not only kill soldiers but also civilians and destroy habitable land. Houses that were once homes are now shells of where families used to gather. Yet, despite so much suffering, the spirit of the Ukrainian people remains unchanged.     With so much sadness and destruction, the people of Ukraine remain hopeful they will return to the places they call home. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) said, “Overall, 61 percent of Ukrainian refugees and 73 percent of internally displaced people surveyed still plan and hope to return home one day.”     Mariia Brusova  is one of the hopefuls... this is her second time being displaced from Ukraine. The first was in 2014, in another conflict with Russia. She’s hopeful, nonetheless, that she will return home a second time to Ukraine. People who don’t return must make a new normal. Nadiia, Svitlana, and their children are some of the people who have chosen to take this disaster and turn it into something beautiful.    “As a family, we have a chance to start over, after going through so much,” said Nadiia. The group relocated to a home made by UNCHR, which now houses all eight of them.   Svitlana said, “We love our new home- we can’t return [to our village] because our homes are destroyed, but now we have a place where we can rebuild our lives.” With a safe housing option becoming available for other displaced families, five families have also joined the area. A small village of families is forming in the rubble of despair. These excerpts only begin to highlight the cries of these displacement victims.     In the text, Snow and Sand , author Vicka Markov Surovtsov picks this idea apart even more. In this memoir, Vika takes us through snow and sand  to show us her journey of internal/ external displacement while being alive. Through displacement events, she writes about displacement and what it means to her, in three points of view. Her mother, father, and she all illuminated different perspectives of how tragedies affected them. Vikas ' mother suffered displacement throughout her entire life. By default, and as a product of her environment, it trickled down to Vika, too.    Starting in Russia and being physically displaced from her home, their family travels to Egypt for a new lease on life.     “For many years, the Turks were determined to cut out all the Armenians, and they had partially succeeded. At war, the Armenians systematically paid them back by killing the remaining few Turks. These were mostly women, children, and old people, too weak to leave town, but avenging Armenians would suffer too long at the hands of their tormentors. Had no pity,” said Surovtsov.    While undergoing the effects of physical displacement, internal displacement would become their new norm. Russian culture is very different from the practices and daily life in Egypt. New languages had to be adopted to survive in a land unfamiliar to them. Most now assume a new identity in a foreign culture or language. They must assume adaptation to their surroundings and ideals that lie ahead.    During displacement, many look to writing to keep them going; the most powerful works often come out in devastating events. Some of the best books come from displacement. Vika writes about her journey in three parts - from her mother’s point of view, her father’s, and herself when she returned to Russia after the occupation. Literature has a way of invoking feelings that images sometimes may not. We see this not only in Vikas’ book but in a poem, Requiem, by Anna Akhmatova.     Excerpt :   For seventeen months, I have been screaming,   Calling you home.   I've thrown myself at the feet of butchers   For you, my son, and my horror.   Everything has become muddled forever -   I can no longer distinguish   Who is an animal, who a person, and how long   The wait can be for an execution.   Akhmatova, p.2.     While some find comfort in words, others find it in hope. One thing that all displaced people share is the ability to hope. Most hope for a better future, or hope that history will stop repeating itself, or that we can be better than we once were. People of displacement have an immeasurable sense of character. They also embody what it means to love your country. Even though damage and destruction ravage their homes, their love for where they hold their memories triumphs overall.     A parallel text that influences thoughts about displacement is Man’s Search for Meaning  by Viktor Frankl, a memoir detailing   and exposing the realities of displacement through Frankl’s memories of the Holocaust.     Frankl writes, “I would like to mention a few similar surprises on how much we could endure: we were unable to clean our teeth, and yet, despite that and a severe vitamin deficiency, we had healthier gums than ever before. We had to wear the same shirts for half a year, until they had lost all appearance of being shirts. For days, we were unable to wash, even partially, because of frozen water-pipes, and yet the sores and abrasions on hands which were dirty from work in the soil did not suppurate (that is, unless there was frostbite),” stated Frankl. It draws eerie similarities to a time when Jewish prisoners were the victims of genocide during imprisonment camps and forced labor camps.   The holocaust defined a new way of how to be displaced on a wide scale that many had not seen. Viktor Frankl’s memoir, Man’s Search for Meaning, dives into the horrific truths of displacement. Not by the way of travelling to a different country, but travel to a different country to die based on your specific beliefs. People were ripped from their homes to be killed or worked to death. Displacement seems to always root itself in history, seemingly because it keeps happening.     History tends to repeat itself. While there is a war in Ukraine, there is a war in Gaza. A war doesn’t define the situations happening, but genocide does. Another key element of displacement is intended to end a specific movement from claiming their territory. In Gaza, a genocide of the Palestinian people is happening, but society is unchanged by the carnage.    Genocide is defined as “The deliberate killing of a large number of people from a particular nation or ethnic group with the aim of destroying that nation or group, per Merriam Webster.     Oxfam reports write, “The recent escalation in efforts by Israel to bombard, deprive and displace the Palestinian population of Gaza has resulted in Oxfam and partner organizations being severely restricted and struggling to provide support to civilians, who are facing starvation and relentless violence.”     While the world lies its head down at night, displacement in the most gruesome scenes is happening. Slaughters of children, women, and families rain down on the Palestinian people. While the people in Gaza fight for their lives, so do those in Ukraine. They are exiled from their homes and all they’ve ever known. Displacement internally and externally is all around us and continues to grow exponentially with the threats of nuclear weaponry.     These are the voices of the victims of displacement. From text, to film, or print, these stories are real, raw, and all around us. We cannot neglect the fact that these are their truths. What they have witnessed in history has changed the world. Displacement will never end, so neither can these stories.

Skulls of the victims. PC: Britannica Contributing Writer Azam Hostetler  Hate is a powerfully destructive tool. Covering up the nightmarish past is another. April 17, 1975. Tanks emerge on the streets of the capital city, Phnom Penh. Cambodia is about to come to the end of a brutal five-year civil war amid decades of political turmoil. The United States-backed Khmer Republic government had been defeated, and the U.S. Embassy and other officials had been evacuated just five days earlier. Yet about five decades ago, among the mass refugees and cheering crowds, their hopeful allure of peace was struck down. In just four years, at least 1.25 million — though it’s possible as many as 3 million — Cambodians perished from disease, starvation and mass murder. Civil and property rights were abolished, along with the expression or practice of religion. Society was to be remade in accordance with communist beliefs to create a “new Angkorian” empire. All evidence of Western and pre-revolutionary influence was eradicated. According to Britannica, anyone speaking different languages, holding jobs considered “intellectual,” or belonging to minority ethnic or religious groups was especially targeted. At the helm of the Khmer Rouge was leader and Prime Minister Pol Pot, who renamed the country Democratic Kampuchea and instituted the concept of Year Zero. All of Cambodia’s rich history was to be erased. The identities of the population were reset, and a form of Maoist communism aimed at building a classless society was implemented. According to the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust, the ideology cast educated city dwellers and Western capitalist ideals as corrupt, promoting a regime ruled by and for the poorest peasants. The world’s attention was drawn to the humanitarian crisis by the 1984 film The Killing Fields.  Haing S. Ngor portrays a survivor, based on real-life journalist Dith Pran, who is forced to march out of deserted cities and work in forced labor on hopeless agricultural projects. Starving and severely beaten, his character treks through mud-filled trenches scattered with rotting skulls and skeletons, eats lizards to survive, and witnesses daily executions of those who disobey. These are only fragments of the horrors millions endured. The film also depicts the fall of the American Embassy through the eyes of a U.S. journalist, the devastation caused by American bombings during the civil war, and the growing political tensions that led to the 1975 takeover. Many Americans might not know where Cambodia is on a map or might conflate this tragedy with the Vietnam War. But the Cambodian genocide was a distinct catastrophe that warrants recognition — because it should have never happened. Radios, music, currency, hospitals and factories were banned or rendered obsolete. All children age 8 and older were separated from their parents, and formal education was abolished. The Khmer Rouge indoctrinated children to view the state as their true parent. According to the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust, children were seen as pliable and easily brainwashed. They were taught to obey and to believe that anyone who violated Pol Pot’s ideology — even for eating without permission — deserved execution. The Khmer Rouge was overthrown in 1979 by a Vietnamese invasion, which installed a puppet government. In the decades since the genocide, Cambodia has largely been ruled by the Cambodian People’s Party, which has justified its grip on power by invoking the trauma of the past. As reported by The Conversation, most of the population was born after 1979, and education on the genocide remains limited, resulting in a national knowledge gap. History has been manipulated, trauma repressed, and authoritarianism reframed as stability. Justice was delayed for decades, and many perpetrators of the genocide still walk free — some even hold government positions or live near survivors. Cambodia’s economy, heavily reliant on tourism and exports, has grown, but its intellectual class remains stunted due to the systemic destruction of human capital during the genocide. As The Conversation reports, intergenerational trauma persists, and discussions of the past are often neglected rather than embraced. The legacy of the genocide lingers in the institutions and in the system. So why does this matter now? It’s been 50 years. But historical amnesia — the failure to understand how the past informs the present and future — is dangerous. Those who forget history may be doomed to repeat it. Political extremism in any form is dangerous, especially when it leads to bloodshed. The hatred instilled in children, in Khmer Rouge soldiers, in Pol Pot, and in all who participated in the genocide, shows how powerful and destructive that four-letter word — hate — can be. Violence is never the answer, nor is silence about the past. The people of Cambodia deserve honest reflection, not suppression, forgetfulness or educational neglect. Many young people may not know their country’s history, yet they carry inherited trauma within their families. The killing fields — where victims were slaughtered with pickaxes because bullets were too costly, where children were trained to hate, where famine and disease ran rampant — must not be forgotten. We have a duty to remember these atrocities to prevent the next genocide. Across the globe, people have suffered and continue to suffer under extremism and oppression. And while many think, “It can’t happen here,” it can. Dith Pran, the real-life journalist portrayed by Ngor in The Killing Fields,  once said, “I don't consider myself a politician or a hero. I'm a messenger. If Cambodia is to survive, it needs many voices.” Many ears. Many eyes. Many voices. Looking back, 50 years later, at those tanks rolling into the cheering streets of Phnom Penh — tanks that brought not peace but devastation — we are left with a collective memory, and a collective responsibility, to never forget. Azam will be joining Horseshoe Magazine as editor for Photojournalism during the Fall 2025

PHOTOS TAKEN AND EDITED BY AZAM HOSTETLER Instagram: photography_from_azam The neck of a yellow excavator foots the bottom of a scene located in the Meat-Packing district of a bustling Manhattan, the smells of Chelsea Market wafting over. Shadows consume the urban landscape, lining every automobile and defining every storefront. Bright, vibrant colors contrast the darkness, fighting for their time with the viewer’s eye. For once, the horizon of moving people is quiet and still, and we can’t quite see everything in focus. It would be more satisfactory to observe this scene with further clarity, yet the denying of this luxury gives birth to a photograph akin to an oil painting, a renaissance of spring beauty that isn’t just yet ripe. We’re almost there, but not quite there yet.  Broad brush strokes make up the tapestry that is woven into this first image, itself just a tiny frame in Manhattan, the five boroughs themselves accumulating to over eight million people. Just a tiny fraction of people, the Earth itself heavy under the weight of so many individuals. This image, heavy under the weight of so much scrutiny. Why aren’t we in focus? The real question is, do we need all the details to see what’s important? Let’s look upwards. Maybe the answer lies in the sky above, yet all we are confronted with are the tangled canopy of manufactured steel bridges, columns, and support piping. Moving from the yellow temperatures of the oil painting, we are now able to see in clarity, tainted by a blue hue that infiltrates every windowpane and every inch of concrete. We struggle to see the answer as the cerulean ceiling is plastered with wire and glass. Towering above our possible reach, these iron overpasses threaten to blot out the sunlight. Nature did not intend for its forests to be made of fortified skyscrapers, interconnected beams and cold metal hearts. Maybe the answer lies in the sheer elevation of such concrete creatures, are we meant to ascend til the sun scorches our wings? The cool colors are broken by a singular beam of light, breaking through the shaded walkway. How high are we meant to climb? Is the sky really the limit?  Moving back to bright yellow temperatures, we finally see some glimpse of plant life. Air conditioners feed into flat brick windows, shrublike branches stretch and struggle to grow. No buds of spring just yet, sunlight bleeds into ornate window sills, a nonexistent courtyard. A secluded stone corner, whispering to someone who won’t answer.  Is there an answer in between the lines between where Mother Nature and the city meet? The warm hues bring life to the otherwise isolated dead end. There is nowhere to go from here, no realism in the abstract shadowed city landscape, no escape upwards through the suffocating clouds and eye-widening skyscrapers. It’s just a corner, this trapped energy forced to recycle itself, reinvent and evolve. All things have a beginning and an end. It’s what is in between that matters, it’s how we make the most of it. So far we’ve taken a glimpse into the city, into skyscrapers, and into corners. What’s the most unlikely thing to see in the middle of Manhattan? A tree! We’re miles from Central Park and rather far downtown, on this elevated walkway we see many trees, shrubs, and grass, still dead and waiting for the electricity of spring to zap them into a world of green. This tree bears no fruit, no leaves, and is as stark in its color as it is in its feeling and emotion. A million different branches break off into a million different directions, Mother Nature's guiding gaze illuminating the path forwards towards germination into new trees. An unfamiliar stranger in Manhattan, this tree does not know the subway systems, the rude manners of the street, nor the responsibility of finances. Its wisdom is untouched, unmatched, and unspoken. In many ways, as I absorbed the lack of clarity of the first image needed to see what was really important, as I pondered the ability to reach the heights of my own life in the second image, and as I felt trapped and bewildered in the third, a new feeling emerged in the fourth. Deep into the soil roots grow. In a lot of ways we are all as out of place as a tree in a world of skyscrapers, but it’s our uniqueness that makes us all special. Our flaws. Our differences. What makes us individuals? Should this have been just a walk on an elevated walkway for me? Or was it some sort of spiritual rebirth? I don’t pretend to know all the answers. But I do know it’s not so much the roots in the land that resonate, but the roots in the person. Be yourself.

Contributing Writer Djemima Duvernat I am here to point a finger at social media, our mothers, and our education system because, yes, there is a culprit for the sexualization of black women's bodies. It began back during slavery and colonization, so what is the excuse now? Everything that was done by ignorance during slavery is still done today, but with a full understanding of the issue. The question is not why black women are being disrespected, the question is why are we still allowing it?   Women have not been able to escape the constant criticism and abuse over their existence. Male discomfort should be the issue in question, but everyone is more focused on what a little girl is wearing around their uncles, cousins, or family friends. Black women have an invisible guidebook to live their lives by. Some of them don’t even know it until it slaps them in the face. Imagine being told to change or sit properly on the couch because your uncle is coming over; that’s the life of a little black girl. It feels like a betrayal by your own race on top of everyone else. These little girls have no idea what it means to be sexualized or what sexuality even is. The Jezebel Stereotype The Jezebel stereotype is not to be confused with the biblical Jezebel. There is a similarity as they both portray women as wicked and immoral, but the Jezebel stereotype is quite different from the biblical picture. The Jezebel stereotype started with slavery and colonialism, when African women were sexually exploited by colonizers. They justified their actions by labeling black women as sexually deviant and unsatisfied with their race. Although we are now in modern times, the damage is still there and growing stronger. People do not view black women as fully human, but rather as mere objects for sexual gratification. This image of the hypersexual black woman persisted well beyond slavery. It influences how black women are portrayed in literature, art, and popular culture throughout the 19th and 20th centuries. The stereotype not only stripped black women of their humanity but also served as an excuse for racism and sexism, and now argued that people of color needed white people to teach them civilization and rationalization. While slavery has long been abolished, the Jezebel stereotype continues to affect black women around the globe.  Media Representation The media is very powerful, and Hollywood works overtime to dehumanize people of color. When you look online, black women are always “the baby mama," “the stripper,” and whatever else they have made us out to be. What you see becomes what you think, and just like that, we are manipulated by the media. Is that fair to people of color, specifically black women? We have the power to change the world again through the new generations. We can reshape perspectives and make sure that mistakes are not repeated. Social media is very dangerous because people are quite gullible, and children are more prone to being groomed. A child is like a pile of clay, and what they see and hear shapes them into adulthood. Women in general deserve to be treated with respect, but black women deserve to be treated like people, not just with respect. Their bodies need to be seen for what they are and not as objects that can be used to satisfy some sexual fantasy. In the past, it was said that black women needed to be civilized; what is the excuse now? What should a little black girl today be told when she sees someone who could be a role model being treated like a sex toy? What is the excuse for those harmful movies and videos on social media? How do you convince a little girl that she is not a toy to be played with? Education Research has shown that the oversexualization of women can have profound effects on the self-perception and identity of black women. In a study by Seanna Leath et al. , it was found that black women are acutely aware of the Jezebel stereotype and its influence on how others perceive them. This awareness shapes their gendered racial identity and forms their sexual beliefs and behaviors. Black women in this study reported feeling pressured to conform to or reject the stereotype, with some embracing hypersexuality as a form of empowerment, but others actively distanced themselves from such representations to avoid judgment. Awareness The issue is how black women are treated in our society. We are being depicted as less than humans because, God forbid, we were born a woman and black. Two things that no one has control over. No one can guess what gender or race they will be born into. I am not saying that we need to stop putting people in those categories, but what I am asking is to stop ignoring the issue and stop rubbing salt into the wound. Educate our children and teach them the dos and don’ts. They are the next generation, and they have it in their power to change the outcome of the next decades. Image by cottonbro studio on Pexels

Contributing Writer  Michael Crowley It’s 1:47 AM. The world is quiet again—too quiet, really. The kind of stillness that pulls strange thoughts from the back of your mind. Tonight I’m not thinking about stars or space or galaxies far, far away. Tonight, I’m thinking about the ocean. Not the soft, summer-time postcard-perfect version. Not the sunlit waves brushing the shore or the soundtrack to a beach vacation. I’m thinking about what’s underneath. What we haven’t seen. What we haven’t even tried to understand. It’s easy to forget, but we’ve only explored about 5% of our oceans. Five. Percent. That means 95%—the overwhelming majority—is still a complete mystery. There are valleys deeper than the Grand Canyon, mountain ranges taller than the Rockies, and ecosystems that have existed for millions of years without our knowledge. Yet we know more about the surface of the moon than the depths of our own planet. That should be shocking. That should be headline news.But somehow, it’s not. For some reason, we’ve accepted it—this gap in our understanding of the very world we live on. We talk about colonizing Mars, sending billionaires into orbit, and mining asteroids. But most of Earth remains untouched, uncharted, and honestly… forgotten.And it makes me wonder: why? Why have we turned our eyes completely to the sky while ignoring what lies beneath us? Maybe it's because the stars are romantic, they feel aspirational. The ocean, by contrast, is dark. Cold. Pressure-filled. You don’t float through the deep sea—you sink, and maybe that’s part of it. Space represents escape, promise, and the future. The ocean demands we face the weight of what’s already here. We should still care more. In the 95% of the unexplored ocean, there could be entire ecosystems that rewrite what we know about life. There could be cures to diseases, ancient wrecks with untold histories, or creatures so strange they feel like they’re from outer space. We don’t know and that’s the point. We are living on a planet that holds secrets it hasn’t given up yet—and we’ve stopped asking the right questions. Some of the most fascinating discoveries of the last decade didn’t come from distant exoplanets. They came from submersibles diving into the Mariana Trench. From scientists finding fish that glow in the dark, and jellyfish that change shape like liquid ghosts,  to microorganisms that survive in boiling vents and freezing cold, teaching us that life is tougher and more adaptable than we ever imagined. We’re so used to thinking of Earth as "known territory" that we forget how little we truly understand. Honestly, that scares me a little. It’s not just a matter of geography—it’s symbolic of something deeper. It reflects how we treat the familiar. We overlook it. We assume we’ve seen all there is to see. But beneath the surface of the ocean, of other people, of ourselves, there’s so much more. The ocean is like a metaphor we keep ignoring. It’s vast. It’s full. It’s powerful. And it’s humbling. It reminds us that knowledge isn’t something we’ve mastered—it’s something we’re always on the verge of discovering. We just have to be willing to dive for it. And yeah, I get it—there are practical reasons too. Exploring the deep sea is expensive, dangerous, and technologically complex. But if we can send robots to Saturn, surely we can figure out how to better explore our oceans. The problem isn’t ability—it’s lack of attention. Some nights I lie awake and wonder what we’ve missed. Not just species and structures, but opportunities. To learn. To connect. To marvel. I think about the stories we’ll never know because we didn’t look. The age of discovery isn’t over, it never really was. We just stopped believing there were still places worth discovering. But there are. The ocean doesn’t just feed us or regulate our climate. It holds memories. It holds history. It holds life that continues whether we’re watching or not. And maybe—if we listened, if we paid closer attention—it would teach us something about ourselves. About what it means to coexist. About how to survive.  So here I am. 1:47 AM. Thinking about the miles of mystery below the surface. And it’s comforting in a way to know that wonder still exists. That mystery still survives. That even now, in a world that feels so mapped and known and scrolled through… There are still places left untouched. Maybe that’s where the magic still lives. Not above us—but below. Michael Crowley will be joining Horseshoe Magazine as a columnist for the Fall 2025

Contributing Writer Gabriella Pinto I’m not a religious person. For context, the only times I’ve recently been in a church were for family members’ baptisms or funerals. I’ve never felt drawn to religion, except for the concept of heaven. That idea always calmed me down as a kid because I have always had a serious fear of death borne of saying goodbye to my elderly aunts. My grandfather had calmed my fears by telling me he’d had near-death experiences that allowed him to reunite with his deceased family members. That worked, for a while. Now that I’m older, I don’t know if I believe that heaven exists because my logical side shuts down the thought of it. I can’t cope with the idea that it will all be over one day. That’s why I still try to have hope. While I’m not religious, my hope allows me to feel the presence of my deceased loved ones when, oddly enough, I see a cardinal. This is not a new idea. Whether it’s a person saying “Hi mom” when one flies by or the song “Cardinal” by Kacey Musgraves, there are so many instances where cardinals are seen as a symbol for loved ones who have passed away. We have a figure of a cardinal that sits on the top shelf of the china cabinet in my family’s dining room. When my grandfather died and I started seeing a cardinal perched on the railing of our deck out back, I made the connection. My grandfather died at the bottom of the steps of that deck in 2018. I was 13 when it happened. He was leaving to go to the Veterans Affairs hospital with my grandmother, but he didn’t make it. He fell into my grandmother's arms and said, “I’m sorry.” Those were his last words. He was there when I woke up that morning, but was gone by the time my mom picked me up from school. How was I supposed to believe that I’d never see him again? I couldn’t. That’s why I have the cardinals. Those birds probably aren’t him, but at least they remind me of him. While I have hundreds of pictures and videos of my grandfather in my phone, those are from the past. The cardinals provide me with something the pictures and videos can’t, a new interaction with my grandfather. I had similar encounters with cardinals when my great aunt passed away in 2023. Her doctor told her that given her age, she didn’t need to have mammograms anymore, which allowed cancer to ravage her body. For her final days, my great aunt had at-home hospice care. That year, on the first of April, my mother and I went to visit her early. I held my mother as she sobbed in my arms. My once-lively great aunt who spoiled me rotten and ended every phone call with “take it easy” was now unresponsive in a hospital bed. She wasn’t hooked up to anything and didn’t respond to what we said to her, so she might have been gone already. When we got home, we sat on the couch in silence. At one point, my mother got up to talk to my grandmother, my great aunt’s sister, in another room. This was when I began to hear a repetitive chirping noise coming from outside. I searched every window in the house to find the sound. Then I turned and looked at the back deck. And there sat a cardinal, perched on the railing, chirping at me. I called for my mom without breaking eye contact with the bird, and once she saw it too, the cardinal finally flew away. Five minutes later, we got the call that my great aunt had died. Both my grandfather and great aunt died in the spring, when the cardinals would come out. Logic tells me to think one way about these birds, but hope and faith urge me to look deeper. This may be the only thing I choose to believe in. Whether it’s my loved ones’ actual spirits, “messengers” from heaven, or just a plain old bird, I’m reminded of people who changed my life whenever I see a cardinal. I hope that it’s somehow all connected, and for now, that’s enough for me. Gabriella Pinto will be joining Horseshoe Magazine as the Managing Editor for the Fall 2025

Contributing Writer Gabriella Pinto Gabriella Pinto will be working as the Managing Editor for the Fall 2025 The definition of the word “family” is “the basic unit in society traditionally consisting of two parents rearing their children,” according to Merriam-Webster.   But families are complicated. What about half-siblings? And can you still call someone a member of your family even if you’re estranged? My half-brother taught me how to swim. He’d appear frequently in old photo albums, sitting beside me as I blew out the candles on my birthday cake. My half-sister and I had a tenser relationship. I once kicked her in the face while we were in the pool together. We had our issues, but I still had some great memories with her. Looking back, I could see pictures of us holding my cat Cookie when he was just a kitten. According to Ancestry.com , half-siblings only share 25% of their DNA. This is because 50% of their DNA comes from the shared parent. I didn’t care about the science. I always called them my brother and sister and never thought of them otherwise. But I haven’t seen either of them since I was 8 years old. Before I turned 8, they lived with their mother but still visited our father. After my eighth birthday, the visits became less frequent. Two years later, my mom and I moved in with her parents. She filed a restraining order against my father because of domestic violence. Contact with my half-siblings had fizzled out by then. My parents divorced and my mother got sole custody of me. Sometimes, I felt alone. While my mother was my best friend, I envied friends who had siblings with whom they could go to the movies or the store. Once, I remember watching my cousins fight. That was normal for them, but I got upset watching. One of my cousins looked at me and said, “Gabriella, you just don’t get it because you don’t have a sister.” I ran away and cried. I did  have a sister. Didn’t I? Did she even think of me as a sister anymore? And what about my brother? As I got older, I always kept the two of them in the back of my mind. This was partly because I felt lonely, but another part was that I wanted someone else to talk to about the trauma my father caused. In Psychology Today  , Ellen Hendriksen said, “Whether it’s validation, understanding, being seen, or empathy, talking with someone (or many someones) who gets it rids survivors of feelings of isolation.” I went to therapy during the divorce process, but I felt like I could have benefited more from talking to people who had similar experiences with people like my father. But I don’t even know if they would view their childhoods the same way. My half-siblings were only two years apart, and I was nine years younger than my half-brother and seven years younger than my half-sister. There are times where each sibling will have a different narrative and overall assessment  of their childhood. This is because they can have vastly different experiences and perspectives. This may be because of differences in treatment or having a big age difference. Maybe one of my half-siblings would acknowledge the abuse and the other might think it wasn’t as bad as I saw it. This is one reason I haven’t tried to contact them. I followed my half-brother on Instagram, which took courage, considering he blocked my mother. Once I saw that he didn’t block me, I thought I could try to talk to him. I sent him a message telling him how proud I was of him. He did end up responding, but it was a simple “thank you,” so I left it alone. I missed my chance of seeing them when my Nonna, our father’s mother, died. They held the funeral in state, but I was afraid to see them after more than a decade of no contact. I have no idea how they would have responded to me, or my mother. We decided to send flowers instead. I don’t think I could be close with someone who wants nothing to do with my mother. I look at her as the person who saved me, while I think my father’s side of the family blames her for the situation. I know I can’t say that for certain since I haven’t spoken to them, but that’s what it feels like. There’s a part of me that wonders how often my half-siblings think about me. Does my name ever come up in their conversations? Have they tried to look me up as I’ve done with them? I recently saw on my LinkedIn that someone with a name similar to my half-brother’s had viewed my profile. It even had the location of a town he used to work in. It was probably fake, but it still makes me wonder if I ever cross his mind. Even though I have these unresolved questions, it’s easier for me to just imagine what it would be like to have them in my life because then there’s no chance of being sabotaged by my own expectations. And I don’t want to ruin the perception I had of them when I was younger. Business Insider  says that people tend to think of siblings as “ready-made playmates and lifelong friends,” but that isn’t always the case. Just because “blood is thicker than water,” it doesn’t mean you have to force a relationship. They are adults now. I might scroll through my half-brother’s Instagram to feel somewhat closer to him, but I don’t know him anymore. I might hear my half-sister’s voice in the background of one of his videos, but it is no longer familiar to me. They are strangers now, and the only mention of my existence might be in old photographs, or in the lines of their obituaries when they pass away. Families are complicated. Maybe that’s just the way it has to be. Image by Wonita on Pixabay