CHARGED-UP RESULTS

An open letter to the campus community, by Sheraud Wilder, President of the Gamma Alpha Tau Chapter of Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity, Inc., I, Sheraud Wilder , would like to thank Patch Bowen for allowing me to speak on my thoughts as a student leader on campus. Individuals like Patch fuel my drive to speak out against the injustices faced by students and minority communities. They have these platforms to share the message and our voice for something greater. In my four years as a student leader, I’ve seen many come and go, but the dismissal of individuals, such as Jurea, Kenny, Tim, Barbara, Tahera and Brian Ibarra, has left lasting voids within the multicultural community. The safe haven we worked so hard to cultivate is being stripped away. We’re losing our voice, our confidence, and our sense of belonging. The departure of Jurea, Kenny, and Tim speaks volumes. Jurea tirelessly worked day in and day out to ensure that the FSL community was not only revived but also thriving prosperously. Only to silently exit the university without any acknowledgment of the impact she left. Kenny, an alumnus who returned out of love for the university, embodied the spirit of what the Myatt Center was meant to be. Yet after speaking his mind on sensitive topics during times of distress, he no longer works here. Despite his leadership, activism, and the kind of personality that touches the lives of every individual he came into contact with. Tim, the heart of student engagement. Advocating and supporting not only multicultural student groups but also making sure that members feel at ease to be their true selves.  The gratitude his spirit brought to the university is unparalleled and helped many of us succeed within our own organizations. My heart goes out to everyone who resonates with these words and questions what the future holds.  I speak to shed light on the injustices we face as students of this university, especially as we prepare to enter a world where people who look like me are too often treated as expendable. Never forget why you started, and  always remember the impact of the lives that you can touch  when you continue to live a path of righteousness. Be Different. Surpass Expectations. Challenge the System. Take Risks and Live In Your Purpose. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” — Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

SATIRE Pip Iguana Pinto, local pawfluencer, is making the rounds in headlines. Just as in previous times, she’s not sorry. I had the opportunity to sit down with Pinto to get more insight on the situation and to learn more about how she’s processing her fame. A new men’s litterbox was added to the first floor of the Pinto Tower. Although the litterbox Pinto uses has been on the second floor for years, with her own special door that only Pinto can go through, the star had to try out the men’s litterbox when it was added. “It’s new,” Pinto says. This is nothing out of the ordinary for the feline celebrity. One of her previous antics was peeing on the carpet because she was in a onesie and “didn’t feel like walking to the box.” She also went viral after being caught on video licking cat treats on display at a PetSmart and not paying for them. The star-studded kitten takes a second to collect her thoughts before she continues: “And another thing! The new box is stainless steel. Mine is plastic. It’s tiny. Meanwhile, the men’s box is like the size of a mansion. Why do male cats always get the better option? I think it’s sexist.” Pinto views using the men’s litterbox as an act of rebellion. She wants better conditions for women’s litterboxes. Stainless steel should be for everybody. She’s telling the patriarchy to back off. She doesn’t care about rules or expectations. Pinto will pee wherever she pleases. There’s a sudden disturbance during the interview when the paparazzi start banging on the window. They must have realized Pinto was here when they saw her custom Range Rover with the pawprint headlights. Flashes of light keep shining into the room as Pinto tries to keep her composure. “Pip! We love you! Can we get a picture?” a man with a camera asks, screaming from behind the window. Pinto sticks up her middle paw pad. Her manager walks over to the window and closes the curtains. After that, Pinto gets up and uses the curtains to sharpen her claws. She mentions that she hasn’t gotten her claws done in a while so she’s been forced to take care of them herself. She sits back down to continue the interview. “I hate when that happens,” Pinto says. “ They’re like vultures. They have no consideration for other people.” She pulls out a cigarette and puts it in her mouth, waiting for her manager to come over with the lighter. We start to discuss how she’s been processing her recent surge in popularity. She’s quiet for a moment, but then begins to open up. “I won’t lie. It’s been pretty challenging,” Pinto says while twirling the cigarette around in her paw. She makes a sniffling noise. “If I go anywhere , someone is bound to know who I am. I love the attention, but I also miss the anonymity.”  The cat starts speaking in a softer tone. “Before all this, I was just another brown tabby,” Pinto says. “No one would even give me a second look if I passed by them on the sidewalk. Now, I can’t even go outside. I miss it.” Let it be known that prior to her quick rise to fame, Pinto was raised as a strictly indoor cat. Moving onto the topic of the future, the sky is the limit for Pinto. She explains that she never wants to stay in just one lane.  “That’s for losers who only have one talent,” Pinto says. Her goal is to conquer the entire world. She won’t stop until she is a household name. “I’m talking about movies, shows, record deals, books and of course, a podcast. That’s the ultimate dream,” Pinto says with hope laced in her voice. The last time we had as notorious a feline pop culture multi-hyphenate was the famous Grumpy Cat. That cat was on every talk show known to man. She even had a Christmas movie where Aubrey Plaza played her. I ask if Pinto pulls any of her inspiration from the kitty with a permanent frown. There’s a pause and a look of confusion.  “Who? I’ve never heard of her,” Pinto says. “Then again, I wouldn’t know much from the olden days. I’m pretty young.” Finding no ashtray, Pinto puts the cigarette out on her manager’s arm. Reaching the end of our time together, I ask Pinto if she has any advice for other cats who want to make it into the business. She takes off her sunglasses and stares directly into my eyes.  “No matter what they do, they’ll never be as successful as me. Because no one can ever be me. There’s only one ‘Pip.’ Well, except for that chipmunk from that one Disney movie. That’s who I’m named after,” Pinto says. “Nevertheless, I dare them to try.”

I wandered through a world of noise,  Where silence used to scream.  Each echo told a tale undone,  Each shadow held a painful wound. My heart longs for belonging and safety. The faces I pass blur into one endless crowd. Everyone seemed to know who they were and where they were supposed to be. Here I stood still, unable to move a muscle. Letting the world rush past me, wondering whether I will learn to move like them. In the end, the noise never became familiar. I remained a foreigner, and it stayed foreign to me. Its sharp edges cutting through every moment I try to hold on to.  I learned too soon that dreams are a luxury,  Life does not wait.  The stars forgot to shine,  Even the man on the moon turned away. There was a time when I believed in things. A time when I believed that every star in the sky was shining just for me. I believed in small things: birthday wishes, coins tossed into fountains and dandelion seeds floating away with whispered hopes. This wishful thinking required a kind of innocence that seems to have slipped out of my hands before I even understood what it meant to have it. The starry night became just a sky. Dark, empty and indifferent to my desire to see it shine again. I’d look up hoping to see something, feel something, anything but the stars looked away. And the moon, my old companion and guide for lonely Haitian children, turned his face from me, even it knew I was beyond repair.  I skipped years of scraped-up knees,  Of laughter in the sun.  Played grown-up in a broken world,  Before my time came.  Other children were learning to ride bikes and sharing secrets at sleepovers. I was learning how to survive. While other children were drowning in their parents' love, I was learning a different kind. I learned to read a room. How to make my voice smaller. How to calculate the weight of life. I became fluent in the kind of language that others don’t have to start learning until they are adults. There were no training wheels for the lessons I learned. No gentle introduction, just a sudden, harsh slap into a reality that didn’t care whether I was ready for it.  The kind of love you only hear about, But never see stay. Four walls cold and gray, Nothing in, nothing out. I learned about love from books and movies. It would be a lie if I couldn’t admit the jealous ache I feel watching other families through the same pair of eyes I watched mine fall apart. Love seems like a myth, a fairy tale meant for other people. The love I knew was always temporary and one wrong move away from vanishing. Or maybe it was never there at all, and I was just holding on to emptiness. The walls around my heart grew higher and stronger; they keep everything out. They also keep me trapped inside alone with the echo of my own heartbeat.  I read of catching children, Before they slipped away. But no one stood the rye for me, No hands to hold, no names to call. I search for answers and I search for someone, anyone who would understand me. Holden Caulfield and his dream of saving children from falling off the cliff, of keeping them safe in their innocence. I understood that dream so deeply it hurt. Understanding that dream also meant that I knew I’d already fallen. There was no Catcher at the edge waiting for me. I fell alone, in silence and no one came looking for me. By the time I had landed, I was someone, something different. Someone older, harder, colder and more careful than anyone should have to be.  A swing that never swayed. A childhood I can almost touch, Touched memories with trembling hands, Each one too faint to kiss. There is a playground in my mind; I visit it sometimes in my loneliest moments. It has swings, slides and all the typical pieces of a normal childhood. But when I reach out, nothing moves. The swings hang still, the slides lead nowhere, the sandbox is empty. I stand in the middle of this frozen scene, close enough to touch but never close enough to have. I get to stand there and see what I missed, knowing that it only exists as a shadow in my mind. A ghost of a life I was supposed to live, but never got to do so.

SATIRE I  recently came to the conclusion that my life is a sociological experiment being run by a bored graduate student in heaven. There is no other explanation for the absurdity of my schedule. If my calendar were a person, it would be that exhausted mom in the grocery store, dragging a screaming toddler while clutching a venti iced coffee (extra espresso) and whispering to herself, "Just three more aisles. You can do this." I used to think time management was about balance. Turns out it is more like spinning plates on fire while people keep handing you more plates and those plates are also babies (because I’m also a newborn photographer). Or fires. Or film projects. Probably all three. There is this myth floating around campus that I am "high functioning." I do not know who started that rumor, but I want them prosecuted. Every time someone sees me walking quickly with a backpack, a laptop, a tripod, and a coffee, they say things like, "You are so organized" or "You look so put together." Meanwhile, I have not eaten a vegetable since Easter, and  my backpack is  a black hole. If you dropped a tracking device into it, it would never see the light of day again. People also say, "I do not know how you do it all." I don’t either. The secret is that I do not do it all. I do about 47 percent of things fully, 38 percent halfway, and the rest through a series of strategic nodding and hoping people stop asking questions. I call it “the illusion of competence.” It is performance art. I am basically Banksy, except instead of murals I leave behind unresolved Google Docs and files titled "FINAL FINAL REAL FINAL VERSION." Someone once asked, "How are you so productive?" I stared at them silently like an owl. If I ever write a book on time management, it will just say: Drink coffee, be dramatic, trust fate. Let me walk you through a day in the life of a normal, healthy college student. Just kidding. Let me walk you through mine. 8 a.m. Wake up. Actually, I wake up at 6:45 when my alarm goes off, but I do that thing where I tell myself I will only close my eyes for two more minutes. When I open them again, it is 8 a.m. 8:07 a.m. Arrive at class. Just kidding. I am finding shoes and arguing with myself about whether black-on-black outfits count as effort. I decide it is enough effort. Then, further decide  that sunglasses worn indoors convey power. 9 a.m. Next class. No one has printed the assignment that was due. Including me. We all make eye contact like a silent pact. If no one mentions it, maybe the assignment never existed. Schrodinger’s homework. 10 a.m. Check the group chat. There are 93 messages. They are mostly memes and one person asking if we can meet today at 3 p.m. even though we have established multiple times that 3 p.m. is literally the worst time for everyone. I sip my coffee like a CEO of chaos and type "Yeah, that works," knowing very well it does not. 12 p.m. Work on my film project. Which means stare at footage, question my life choices, and spend at least 12 minutes arguing with B-roll that refuses to sync. Eventually, I give up and whisper to the footage, "Please be reasonable." The footage is not reasonable. 1 p.m. Lunch. Except not really. I eat a granola bar from the bottom of my bag. Technically, this counts as foraging. 2 p.m. A professor emails me. Something about deadlines. Something about professionalism. I add the email to the mental list titled “I will respond later.” Spoiler: I will not respond later. 3 p.m. Meetings. We talk about scheduling. For one hour. We accomplish nothing. Someone suggests using a shared calendar. I am the one who suggested using a shared calendar three weeks ago. Everyone agrees, like it is the first time anyone has ever had this revolutionary thought.  I stare into the void. 5 p.m. Cradle a newborn while telling parents, "Look at your beautiful miracle of life." Meanwhile, I am quietly dehydrated, emotionally unstable and held together by mascara and adrenaline. 8 p.m. I decide tonight is the night I get my life together. I say the words "I am going to exercise" out loud as if I'm giving a historic speech. I put on leggings, tie my sneakers and fill my water bottle with the confidence of a woman who has never abandoned a plan before. I even open a workout app. Then I sit on my bed for one second to "check something" and suddenly it is 8:47, I have watched nine video essays about how to fold fitted sheets, and my sneakers are back off. I whisper to myself, "Health is a journey." Then I eat cereal straight from the box. 11 p.m. Time to post on social media so everyone remembers I exist. I scroll through my camera roll trying to find a photo. Any photo. Instead, I find 286 accidental screenshots and a picture of my elbow. Eventually, I pick something passable and edit it with the precision of a NASA engineer. I write a caption that looks effortless (took 17 drafts). The post goes up. I immediately close the app like I just committed a crime. Five minutes later I reopen it to check who liked it. The cycle continues. 1 a.m. Finally in my bed. Ignore homework. Ignore emails. Ignore responsibilities. Scroll Pinterest for an hour looking at cottagecore photography setups I will never recreate because I live in New Haven, not a meadow with butterflies. 2 a.m. Set alarm for 6:45. Tell myself tomorrow I will have my life together. Repeat forever. I am not actually a person. I am a concept. A myth. A ghost who appears in different buildings carrying a camera, a coffee and a vision. If I vanish, check the newsroom, the studio, or a hospital where I am aggressively selling newborn portraits. I thrive in chaos. I complain about chaos. I am chaos. And honestly, I would not have it any other way.

Welcome to Resilience 101, a quick course that will show you how to continue, to persevere and teach you the importance of not giving up. In this course we will be asking the big question, “What does resilience mean to you?” By definition, resilience means, “the capacity to withstand or recover quickly from difficulties; toughness.” For our first lesson, you will learn that resilience is a choice, not a characteristic. Resilience is not a trait or  talent, nor something you are born with and it's not something you either do or don’t have. Resilience is a behavior and it is a state of mind which can only be shown and reflected through your thoughts and actions toward challenges. More specifically it’s about maintaining yourself in the face of adversity and standing on business. Another thing that often gets mixed up is if resilience is about adaptability or flexibility. While flexibility can be seen as a good thing, I think it’s about conforming your needs to help meet others' needs. It’s almost  about compromising your wants so you can see eye-to-eye with another person. But adaptability is about completely shifting your approach and mindset when something isn’t working, it's your way of survival. In a storm you can either risk the chance of not making it or you can build yourself a shelter in the middle of it. The first step is self-awareness. You must be able to know strengths and weaknesses so that you build your personal traits and know when to take advantage of them. Resilience is all about toughness and the effort you put into it. The efforts in being mentally, emotionally and physically strong are all important as you face a variety of life challenges. Being resilient takes effort. A small setback can often feel like a lot, but in order to get past it, you must look around it and remember that it isn’t permanent. You should also recognize that you are in control of your emotions and how you decide to handle the challenges you face. You contain the most power in a situation, not because it’s in your control, but because you can control your emotions and actions toward it. By knowing how to regulate your emotions, you learn how to calm yourself, overcome your fears and let go of any anger you may be holding. These emotions often prevent you from moving forward. It’s good to know how to recognize your feelings and have a mechanism to regulate those emotions.  Your resilience becomes strengthened as you begin to anticipate your challenges. As the clichéd saying goes, “you have to stay ready, so you don’t have to get ready.” That means mentally, emotionally and or physically. As you prepare yourself to have a positive response toward a challenge, you’re less likely to feel the pressure so you ultimately accept any changes.  Although changes may be foreign for you, fighting what will inevitably happen will only drain you and make you want to give up rather than navigate. Life is constantly moving, whether it’s for you or against you. You have to laugh to remind yourself that your toughest moments shall pass. I know I’m not perfect. And to be completely honest, even right now as I am getting better, I still fail. But I know that I have to push myself. I’m doing this for so many reasons, and if I give up now, I let go of so much that could come. I keep my resilience, even in frustration and even when I cry. Maybe that’s because that is what’s left for me to hang onto. But what I’m continuing to learn is that it’s the smallest amount of effort, the mustard seed-size of resilience you keep, that makes the biggest difference. That tiny “I won't quit” is all you need to begin your journey. Once you’ve found it, hold onto it. Nurture it. Watch how it helps you recover faster, push harder and ultimately discover your true strength.  So, what does resilience mean to you?

SATIRE Photo Credits: Me. These are my crawl space squirrels. Say hi. Sept. 9 at 8 p.m. of this year marked the beginning of the enriching experience that was the three new additions to my life.   I was alone in my apartment—a rare occasion since I shared the space with two friends, so I decided to turn in early and get a head start on my nighttime routine.  Standing in the middle of my bathroom and scrolling through my music playlist, I heard what sounded like drips of water. Even more startling, I looked down and saw that my socks were wet. Water was leaking from the crawl space above my bathroom where the air vent resides.  Exasperated, I reach up to see what could possibly be leaking when the smell hits me.  No, this wasn’t a leak. It was pee. And looking down at me through the gap of my air vent was the beady gaze of a squirrel. Its cute little face pressed into the gap as it urinated all over my recently swept, vacuumed and mopped bathroom floor. Exasperation aside, I didn’t want to be rude, as the furry little friend was clearly trying to introduce itself.  Our first impression must have gone over well because soon after we locked eyes and I screamed in shock, it began growling with joy and clawing at the open gap with such fervor that caulk and plaster sprinkled into my eyes and nose, momentarily blinding me.  Now this could be taken as a mildly traumatizing experience, but I took it as a compliment. It isn’t everyday that someone likes your apartment so much they try to move in.  But like any responsible and kindhearted adult, I worried for the safety of such a delicate creature going so ballistic above my head. I took some precautions so it wouldn’t get through the gap and fall onto such hard tile (I called pest control).   But as the universe saw fit, I learned that pest control doesn’t take calls in the evening... nor do they handle animals inside a home, because why would they ever do that? But this was certainly a blessing in disguise. If pest control had come when I called, I wouldn’t have met the rest of the family upstairs.  When I reentered the bathroom, there wasn’t one pair of paws nor two, but three pairs reaching for me with violent passion, clearly unsatisfied with my crawl space and would much rather be inside my home.    Call me introverted, but meeting three new residents was just too much for me, especially as they all chirped, growled and yowled at me all like a choir.  Sadly, our apartment lease had strict rules on how many occupants can reside in the apartment. At midnight, when all my current roommates came back home, we did have to notify our landlord (you would have thought the presence of three squirrels in a crawl space would be considered an emergency. Turns out it isn’t). While the individual we talked to on the phone was very kind and worried, animal control was not… meaning both the landlord and apartment residents pestered animal control for months to come help the poor squirrels and were met with broken promises and radio silence.  But the past two months of radio silence from animal control bloomed into my roommates and I bonding with our mildly threatening companions in our crawl space.  How could you not get attached when for the past couple months you have had to duck and cover your head under the crawl space to not get peed on? Or the fact that at about 6 p.m. you can hear them scratching, chewing and cracking objects above your head while trying to use the bathroom. Or my favorite—the squirrels chewing on wires that made our light flicker and sitting on the bathroom light making it sag from the ceiling. The constant reminders of their presence became a comfort to us all.  My favorite memory of the furry friends is that their arrival in our crawl space somehow aligned with everyone in the apartment, me included, developing an unknown sickness that plagued us for weeks. Good times.  Another month of no-show animal control turned us into detectives. We were perplexed on how these squirrels seamlessly entered and exited the crawl space, so we sleuthed around outside. Our furry friends were geniuses and used tree branches that laid against our roof as a convenient ladder to hop right into our crawl space. I mean, come on. With that level of ingenuity, who could be mad? But wait, there’s more—they came prepared. The squirrels also realized brick is the perfect wall-scaling material, and wires are easy to grab as rope. Not only do they use the tree branches, but they can also rock climb the building to the roof like a squirrel Spider-Man variant. So really, it was a matter of when and how we all met.  But like all good things, it must come to an end. After three wonderful months of coexisting, they were humanely removed from our crawl space…evicted. Their entrance was closed off by maintenance. I find myself missing the constant state of fear and edge they would put me in when I entered my bathroom.  Before they were evicted, however, they left us a few parting gifts. When the outdoor temperature gets a little too warm, our bathroom smells faintly of barnyard and pee, assuring that we never forget our former pawed residents.  When they resided above us, they made a cute little nest that animal control forgot to remove with the tenants, so if the vent is on, occasionally a dusting of leaves and bark will sprinkle atop your head. It helps me feel especially refreshed and ready for the day when I get out of the shower and nest confetti sticks to my freshly washed head.  Occasionally they pay us a visit, climbing to my bedroom window sill and yowling outside from dawn to dusk. They scratch at the window pane and wave hello to me while I try to get work done in peace. It’s like they know when I need a break.  They haunt the narrative, if you will, reminding me of the bond we shared these past few months and the memories we created together.  I wish the best for my new friends and the next phase of their lives. I appreciate all that they gifted us—the lasting remnants they left behind, that we have the pleasure to deal with to this day.

It’s 2:19 a.m. The house is quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but that heavy  silence that makes you aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The click of the heater. The clock seems louder than usual. Everyone else is asleep. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, and I am the only one  awake. I should be asleep too. But I’m sitting here in the glow of my screen, thinking about something that keeps circling in my head. The person you are when no one’s watching. That version of yourself. The one that shows up when the world goes still and there’s no one to impress or perform for. The one that doesn’t care what your face looks like or what anyone thinks. During the day, it feels like I switch through many  different versions of myself. There’s the one that smiles at teachers, the one that tries to sound normal with friends, the one that pretends not to care too much about anything. Sometimes I catch myself laughing a certain way or saying things that don’t even feel like me. It’s like I’m building a character that people will like better than the real thing. But then the day ends. The lights go off. The noise fades. And I’m left with only me That’s when it feels strange. Because when all the people and the expectations are gone, I’m not totally sure who I am. When no one’s watching, I talk to myself out loud sometimes. I snicker to myself. I scroll through old memories. I think about things I never say out loud. I let my brain wander to all the stuff I hide behind jokes and small talk. I’m not funny then. I’m not confident. I’m  a person trying to figure things out. It’s weird how different we can be when we’re alone. Not better or worse, just… real. When no one’s there to tell you how you should act, you stop pretending. You stop holding your stomach in or picking the right words. You just exist. It’s not always comfortable. Sometimes being alone with yourself feels like standing in front of a mirror for too long. You start to notice every little flaw, every thought you’ve tried to ignore. You see the person you actually are instead of the person you want to be. And that can be hard. Because what if you don’t always like that person? What if the quiet version of you feels a little lost, lonely or tired? I think that’s the version that matters most. The person you are when no one’s watching is the one who feels the truth first. The one who knows what you actually care about. The one who remembers who you wanted to be before you started caring what everyone else thought. When no one’s watching, the mask drops. You can cry without feeling dramatic or judged. You can dream without feeling stupid. You can say what you think without worrying if it sounds weird or will draw eyes. That person might not be the one the world sees, but they’re real. Maybe the most real. Sometimes I think about how strange it is that so much of who we are is never seen. No one knows about the conversations we have in our heads or the moments we talk ourselves through something painful. No one sees the way we sit in the dark and try to make sense of it all. Those parts of us are invisible. But they’re the reason we keep going. I guess being alone isn’t just about silence. It’s about meeting yourself again. Without the noise. Without the pretending. And maybe that’s something we all need more of. The truth is, we’ll spend most of our lives switching between different versions of ourselves. Over time, I’ve learned you shouldn’t put on a character. You should embrace who you are. And if the people around you think of you a different way… they aren’t people you should be around. Maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to bring a little more of that real self into the daylight. Being brave enough to let the world see the person you are at 2 a.m., even if it’s messy, even if it’s not perfect. So here I am. It’s 2:19 a.m. The glow of my screen is fading, and the silence feels heavier now. But in this moment, I feel honest. I feel like myself. Not the version everyone else gets, just me — tired, overthinking, wondering, existing. The person I am when no one’s watching. And for now, that feels like enough.

SATIRE No one ever in the wildest dreams ever expects to be viewed as THAT person. The person who ends up experiencing such a tragic event that they are forever known by it. They are marked by the thing that happened to them, the thing that is so unspeakable, so… traumatic.  This is my story.  My daily walks are part of my special routine and it is something that I pride myself in; they're my way to decompress after a hard day crossing the road. My path is always the same from the roads, past the school and right through the woods. I’ve done it everyday since I could remember. That all changed on Clucktober 29. As I was coming to the clearing where I would typically enter the woods, I suddenly felt something hit my head.  It was a feeling I had never quite experienced before. It was a small but  mighty plop, leaving a small sting that lingered on my head. I reached up to grab it and found it was a small and round little thing that almost looked like it was wearing a hat. I immediately knew what it was… a piece of the sky. My stomach dropped as I realized more and more what this meant. “THE SKY IS FALLING!” I yelled in a panic as I began to run the other way.  I knew I needed to tell everyone and spread the news. They all needed to know what was happening. I mean who wouldn’t want to know that it’s their last day on Earth? Because I was in such a heightened state of worry, I zoomed through the street screaming “THE SKY IS FALLING, THE SKY IS FALLING.”  On my way through town, I could see the panic being incited by everyone–mothers trying to shield their babies from the panic. Citizens speeding through the streets in an attempt to reach their loved ones. I felt terrible for the destruction caused by my message but it did not matter. I couldn’t stop until everyone knew what was happening. It was my duty to let them know. I sped and sped as fast as any chicken could go until I made it to the town square, where I could share my news at the podium. As I confidently walked up to the podium, I was prepared to make my statement. I tapped on the microphone and was greeted with some quick minor feedback and the attention of all the citizens of Cluck Haven staring back at me. Through fear and nervousness I stood up and stated, “Citizens of Cluck Haven, as I am sure you heard today, during my regular 2:30 p.m. walk, a piece of the sky fell on my head.” Citizens began to shift from a state of panic to a blend of fear and intrigue as I spoke. “I am here to present you all with the piece that hit me.”  The crowd's intrigue grew as I pulled out the round little brown thing with a hat once again. “May I present you all with a piece of the sky.” I had succeeded in letting the citizens know the horrific news and I could now present my findings. I pulled out the sky and held it proud for the world to see. But something changed. Suddenly the face that was once a look of intrigue turned into confusion and exasperation. I just couldn’t fathom why.  “THAT’S AN ACORN YOU MORON!” I heard someone yell from the crowd. Strings of screams and profanities were aimed at me as I tried to fight back, “IT’S THE SKY! I SWEAR IT IS! JUST LOOK! NO ACORN LOOKS LIKE THIS.” But that was it. The people made their choice. The sky wasn’t falling, and me… I was just viewed as “crazy Chicken Little.” Life would never be the same after that. The next few days were extremely hard to get through. I was shunned by all of my friends and the town decided it would be best if I went to a center for troubled chickens. Tysons Home for Future Dino Nuggets, they called it. When I was admitted, I brought the piece of the sky with me. Everyone here believes me but that's not enough. My own town disregarded my warning and shamed me. So now I’m here at Tysons, wondering how I can ever get Cluck Haven to understand that the sky is falling and it fell on me. Thank you all for listening.

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

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

Whether it is misremembering or a sickening form of nostalgia, something sinister hangs over memories of movies from our youth.  Never in my life has any current movie given me the same sense of primal fear as some childhood movies have given me. The heart racing and stomach sinking feeling that films like “Where the Wild Things Are” and “James and the Giant Peach” have given me have not been matched by any modern horror movie I have watched recently.  Yes, “Where the Wild Things Are” and “James and the Giant Peach”. The two titles are not a mistake. I am convinced these two movies have forever altered how I feel about fear. “James and the Giant Peach” directed by Henry Selick: Credited to: Henry Selick. 1996. James and the Giant Peach [Film].   Walt Disney Pictures. Childhood movies are obsessed with surrealism. The fantastical imagination and whimsical storyline is captivating for a younger audience, yet at the same time terrifying for my child self. Live action and stop motion claymation was fuel for nightmares to come.  The mindbending transition of James changing from a real boy to a doll-like figure while also being aware of his own change was horrifying to me. The hyperawareness of James's ability to process his physiological change gave me goosebumps and made the younger me think it was a real-life situation.  The color shift was jarring as well. The live action scenes are washed in a gloomy blue haze. James is pale and his aunts look sickly and villainish under such a dull light. Their colorful clothes are washed out and dimmed, making once vibrant clothes look old and weathered with time.  The claymation causes a brutal shift to vibrance. Colorful light dances across the screen and every color seems pitched to the brightest potential. It was as overwhelming as a funhouse and my eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough.  To add disorientation, “James and the Giant Peach” introduces a cast of wacky talking bugs that act as his guardians, yet they are equally as antagonistic at times to James on their journey to help him find a better life.  The film also plays on common childhood fears. As James and his unsettling companions travel through their quest, sailing on a giant peach in the ocean, you witness their near death when they are almost eaten by sharks, nearly drowned, and their peach boat is nearly sunk in the middle of the ocean, leaving them stranded.  As a result, I gained a new fear of oceans that day and have yet to step foot into one at 20 years old.  What scared me the most was witnessing a story of an abused child cope through escapism. This story at the end of the day is about James escaping the abuse and neglect of his aunts. This fantastical world is the imagination of a boy finding solace in a surreal world where he escapes and starts his life over again.  The ending can be interpreted in different ways, but when I was younger I always thought of it as a childish interpretation of a daydream. A daydream in which James dreams of the promise that life will get better once he’s older. This unsettled me to my core as a child, and made me process some of the dark realities of life that are usually avoided or considered taboo to introduce to kids.  I couldn’t recommend a better movie this Halloween. Even though this movie haunted me as a child, it is an interesting watch to dive into as an adult. I found myself appreciating the way they tackled such a topic.  “Where the Wild Things Are” directed by Spike Jonze Credited to: Spike Jonze. 2009. Where the Wild Things Are [Film]. Warner Bros.  My parents set me up for failure with this movie. While I was safely at home watching “James and the Giant Peach”, they threw me to the wolves when we sat in a movie theater to watch “Where the Wild Things Are”.  I was met with a child in instant peril as gigantic, humanoid, animalistic, growling, sharp-toothed  and clawed monsters chase the main character, Max, through the woods trying to eat and or maim him. On the big screen, I witnessed Max running for his life while I was stuck in a dark movie theater between my parents who couldn’t care less for the peril this kid was in.  If you strain your ears through the pounding of paws on the ground and the snarls of the Things, you can hear Max screaming and crying through the woods. The sheer volume of this scene made me burst into tears in the theater.  This is an intense scene for a kids movie, and it scared a few years off of my life at that very moment.  Easing my heart, a friendly Thing saved Max, and everything was settled within the Things and Max’s presence on the island. He even becomes the King of the Wild Things and rules over them by problem solving and handling the Things’ outbursts—which are equally as terrifying to witness.  Carol is one of the Things that has the biggest conflicts with Max. They are a representation of anger and aggression. Their outbursts are violent and rage induced, and on multiple occasions almost hurts Max and other Things during an episode. It is distressing to witness a child in genuine danger, especially when you are a child yourself.  The theater really expands that fear, with a screen so wide there is no way to truly distance yourself from what you are seeing and hearing. I remember feeling the rumble of the fights and the yelling in my chest.  Guilt and self-accountability is another theme within this movie that struck a different type of fear into me, when I was younger… reflection over my actions.  The whole premise of “Where the Wild Things Are” is about how Max, as a young boy, is learning to cope with big feelings as he grows up. In this story of self-discovery, he acts out towards his parents and gets into fights with them that leaves both them and Max hurt by each other.  In the end, of course, it concludes with Max understanding and processing his emotions and his actions, while being forgiven by both himself and his parents for the past.  Well, younger me didn’t understand the memo and began overthinking everything I have ever done and said within the short amount of time I was alive. This movie gave me a taste of a midlife crisis at the ripe age of five years old.  The experience of “Where the Wild Things Are” left such an impacting fear in me, I refused to rewatch the movie in preparation for this article. I also refused to look through scene clips because to this day I still feel such a powerful sense of dread. From these two movies, my opinion on horror will forever be set to a high standard. Horror doesn’t have to be a slasher or supernatural. Sometimes horror is created accidentally through the unsupervised mind of a child, which leaves a lasting mark in their mind.

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