CHARGED-UP RESULTS

Contributing Writer Mirakel L. Spellman Have you ever wondered what racism is like firsthand? This is my experience. I went to a high school that was predominantly white. It was stereotyped by other schools for having “rednecks and truckers.” As an African American who attended this school, I had to deal with people of color always asking me why I went there. I never questioned where I was going or how others were going to see me based on my race. It never crossed my mind that I was going to deal with racism in high school because I never experienced it in middle school. During my freshman year, my classmates made racial comments that I had to report to my school. One day I arrived at school with box braids, and two guys approached me during computer class and told me my braids were “ghetto.” What made my braids ghetto compared to the girls who were not African American? Or those who had French or Dutch braids? My school addressed the issue, and when they spoke with me, they said that the parents were upset that their child said something like that and called it unacceptable. There has always been discrimination toward African American hair that’s curly and kinky. During and after slavery, there were beauty standards that targeted Black women's hair. You had “good hair” if it was straight, smooth and silky. “Bad hair” was coiled, curly and kinky with a thicker texture. This created this bias that people with “good hair” were more attractive and socially accepted. However, if you had “bad hair,” it was ugly and unattractive. Women of color were discouraged from embracing their natural hair. There has always been a microaggression toward hair, with comments of “Your hair looks better straightened.” Women of color were influenced to use relaxers and hair straighteners to fit the white beauty standards and to look “professional.” African Americans were discriminated against for looking “unprofessional” when they had afros, braids, dreads or twists. There’s a negative bias toward children and teenagers of color in schools that restricts them from having braids, afros or dreads. One teenage boy in Texas was told he had to cut his dreadlocks to walk at his graduation, in order to meet the school district’s dress code. The dress code was “hair must be clean and well groomed.” What makes dreadlocks not clean? I want to bring awareness to others that there has always been discrimination toward African American hair, from slavery to today’s society. During my freshman year, we had assigned seats in math class, and I had to sit with a guy from a different town. There were times he would call me a monkey and talk about how bad Black people are. I had to write a statement to my school about how they would handle the issue. A counselor and a teacher pulled me into the office after I wrote the statement and said I shouldn’t have to deal with students making racial comments toward me. However, they excused his behavior because his mother had died of cancer. I was the victim of racism, but since his mother died, I just had to accept that it happened and move forward. Racism is formed by various influences throughout life — from parental to peers. As individuals, our views are influenced by the people around us, often when we are younger. A child will absorb their parent's explicit and implicit biases. If they say racist jokes and negative comments about a race in their home, this child will hear these comments and see prejudiced behaviors as acceptable. This behavior will follow them through their lives. These actions will impact them as a person and affect others they harm. These children and teenagers will start making racist jokes and negative comments about other races in school. Schools downplay racism, which is a significant issue that impacts a student’s understanding of racial dynamics. When racism is not confronted, it becomes normalized. Students will grow up thinking that racist attitudes and behaviors are acceptable. This perpetuates a cycle of discrimination into adulthood. Schools’ lack of consequences minimizes the situation. A student of color should feel comfortable reporting racism and know the school will handle the problem correctly. However, schools will call it a “misunderstanding” or a simple “bullying incident” without addressing the racial aspect. When a racist student receives no consequences for making racist comments, this perpetuates harmful stereotypes into their adult life. When these comments are acceptable at home and schools don’t give any consequences for their racist behavior, it doesn’t help the problem we are having in America. I want my story to bring awareness to women of color to speak up about the comments made toward them about their hair. We shouldn’t deal with discrimination toward our hair just because it doesn’t fit the white beauty standards. I want to bring awareness to school administrations downplaying racism when a victim is coming to them about the issue. Schools need to address the racial disparities that occur in the system and take action against prejudiced behavior. No one becomes racist from something that happened in their personal life. Everyone can’t be the victim in the story — it’s about taking accountability for the situation and addressing the concern. Racism isn’t born. It’s learned. Image by 💚🌺💚Nowaja💚🌺💚 from Pixabay

Contributing Writer Djemima Duvernat Is it possible for one person to have lived many lives? I know cats have nine lives, but humans have just one. One life to love, one life to live and one life for pain. Some may say that there is more to life than just these three. Others would argue that life is split into positive and negative. My life has been split into three different lives so far, and I hope I have a few more ahead of me. There comes a time when one wonders, am I the villain? I always wondered if I was a villain in any of my past lives. Sometimes being a villain is not bad; it depends on who is looking at it. Most people would say that the glass is half full, while others would argue that it is half empty. Who is right? Certainly not me. Since I do not know where I stand on the subject, I will let the reader decide at the end of the reading. Do you think I had three lives? Or am I a villain? And if so, do I see the glass half full or half empty? Meet “Ancient Mama.” Mama is my biological parents’ nickname for me. She was raised in Haiti in the kitchen with her mother. She was happy, naive and oblivious. She had friends; she was surrounded by family. Her sister was her best friend. She had good grades and went on trips and outings with friends. She was raised in a troublesome country with shootings, shutdowns and deaths everywhere. But she was happy because her family was there. Her mother would still cook the most delicious meals. Her father would still dance with her and talk to her about all his favorite songs. She and her sister would spend the nights gossiping in their rooms. One of Ancient Mama’s best memories is Christmas. Although there was no tree, no gifts and no Santa, there was love and happiness radiating from the house. Father was playing music, Mother was in the kitchen making something delicious, and the sisters were doing laundry while talking and laughing. Those were the best memories of Ancient Mama. Is she a villain? Meet “Bitter Pig.” Pig is a nickname given to me by the people my parents left me with when I moved to the United States. She was 12 years old, and yes, she was left all alone. She was never happy with the fact that she was sent to live with strangers. She had no friends, and she rarely smiled. She lived in Florida, then she moved to Indianapolis with the same family. She was told to cook and clean. She was called a pig, and no one in the family spoke to her unless they needed something from her. She was mistreated and abused to the point she almost committed suicide. The family proceeded to kick her out the day of her failed suicide attempt. She was sent to live with another friend of the family. New family, new life, right? Maybe a new start? One of Bitter Pig’s best memories is being groomed by the husband of the new family. He overfed her fast food. Their son would physically abuse her. The mother was never present, often working 12-hour shifts. She depended on the husband for everything, something he took advantage of. He made inappropriate comments and touched those private places he should have never been able to. Until that dreadful night, she did not scream; she was told that no one would believe her. Is she a villain? Meet “Mima.” A nickname given to me by my new family. She smiles; she is loved by her foster mom and her sisters. She is on her way to pursuing her biggest dream of becoming a lawyer. She has good and bad days, but on either day, she is reminded that she is loved by the moon and back. She is traumatized, but she has friends now and people who will never let her down. She has a family now that loves and cherishes her. She found love again; she finally had a good night’s sleep. A family dinner, a mother’s hug that compares to nothing on this Earth. She has been smiling and living a life she had given up a long time ago. One of Mima’s best memories is the road trip she went on with her loving family. The countless goodnight kisses and hugs. The family dinners, lunches and movie nights. She is able to finally be a child at the age of 16. She is loved again; she is wanted again, and this time, it is not because she can cook and clean. It is because she was loved for just being herself. She was loved when no one loved her. Is she a villain? Image by Jupi Lu from Pixabay

Contributing Writer Nevaeh Lugo Spoiler alert:  This article contains both major and minor spoilers from the following Marvel movies: “Thor,” “Avengers,” “Thor: The Dark World,” “Thor: Ragnarok” and “Avengers: Infinity War.” “Every villain is a hero in his own mind.” In 2013, Tom Hiddleston, the actor who portrays Loki in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, made this comment in the middle of a press tour for the latest Thor  movie at the time, Thor: The Dark World . But what does that mean? The movie adaptation of the comic book character, loosely based on the mythological Norse god, stole the hearts of fans from his first appearance in the 2011 film Thor . Many would consider him a tragic villain, in the sense that being victimized by a series of distressing events led him on his path of villainy, rather than an inherent sense of corruption. Since the release of the movie, Hiddleston has grown accustomed to facing the recurring question: “Is Loki really evil?” Though his answers would change in wording and length, he was always consistent and unwavering in his response: no. So, what drove Loki to be this way? The tragedy of Loki’s character is multifaceted, as each uncovered detail serves to add another layer of misery. At the risk of taking a therapist’s approach, it all began in his childhood. Though the first of his films begins later in his life, stories from different characters around him allow viewers to piece together how Loki was treated in his younger years. The biggest on-screen reveal about Loki’s childhood comes in a scene from Thor  that many fans found emotionally devastating, in which Odin, Loki’s adoptive father, reveals his true heritage. After a great war between the realms of Asgard and Jotunheim, Odin noticed its king, Laufey, had left his newborn baby behind to die. Odin took this baby in, with the hope that it would serve as a tool to keep peace between the two realms. Odin even raised this baby as his own son: Loki. Upon receiving the news in his adulthood that he was adopted and was actually born among the race he was raised to despise (bear in mind his age had crossed over a millennium at this point), Loki understandably does not take the news well. “You know, it all makes sense now,” Loki said. “Why you favored Thor all these years. Because no matter how much you claim to love me, you could never have a Frost Giant sitting on the throne of Asgard!” Unpacking what he said, it becomes clear that Loki ultimately feels unloved in comparison to his widely adored brother, Thor. On top of that gut punch, he’s still processing the fact that everything he’d ever been told was a lie. He is not Asgardian. His family is not his by blood. He was born a race that the entire kingdom of Asgard hates, and he never actually had a chance to earn a spot on the throne. The actions he takes after this revelation only serve to worsen his situation. And though he is, by storytelling standards, the antagonist of the film, he still never acts out of malice — not once. In Thor , his actions are driven by a desire for paternal validation. In the 2012 film Avengers , he is driven by the influence of the scepter in his hand, as well as the unseen forces who gave it to him. In Thor: The Dark World , a moment of ignorance leads to his indirect hand in his own mother’s death. Every action he takes, though not malicious, still causes some sense of misery for others. Fitting for a tragic character, Loki seems to finally begin to heal in Thor: Ragnarok , knowing the experience of fighting on his brother’s side — the side of “good” — only to meet his untimely demise in Avengers: Infinity War , which takes place immediately afterward. Fans were excited by his return in the miniseries Loki , but since the Loki in that show was plucked from earlier in the timeline and thrown into an alternate life, a return for the fan-favorite Loki, referred to as “sacred timeline Loki,” doesn’t seem to have a plausible means of return. By definition, tragedy always ends in death. But to die amid a moment of respite from a lifetime of suffering is a true form of tragedy.

Resident assistants, or RAs, are described on the University of New Haven website as playing “an integral role in our community by building relationships with residents, supporting students through challenges, and connecting them to campus resources.” But what really goes on behind the scenes? Angelina Paulus, an RA for Bergami Hall, has seen a range of incidents in her three semesters on the job. In her experience, Paulus says weekends are the busiest time of the week. “Weekends are very, very busy. You have to be very aware,” says Paulus. “This is when frat parties throw, this is when people go to the club.” She says that although she is an RA for a strictly freshman building, she cannot be naïve to residents drinking on the weekends — even though the university’s code of conduct explicitly states: “Alcohol is not permitted in first-year residence halls or in rooms, suites or apartments in which all residents are underage students.” According to Paulus, this policy isn’t stopping first-year students. She said her worst experience with drinking in Bergami came during her first semester as an RA. A chair was thrown at her. The incident began normally. During her nightly duty shifts, she walks through the building to make sure everything is operating as it should. “I was walking around and saw trash in the hallway, so I knocked to see if it was theirs and so someone could clean it up,” she said. A guest in the room slammed the door in her face upon realizing it was an RA, which led her to check for substances. “The resident wound up being under the influence and got really mad,” said Paulus. “They started slamming stuff and screaming. I asked to see everyone’s ID, and the person — the main resident in the room — couldn’t find theirs.” Paulus said the resident then took their desk chair and flung it at her. “At that point, I had to determine that environment wasn’t safe for me.” Not every experience is a bad one, though. In her first semester as an RA, she also experienced an incident that taught her the value of being a resource. Paulus describes herself as “relentless” when it comes to trying to connect with even the quietest residents. “There was a resident who was always quiet, and slowly but surely, they started to open up,” Paulus said. “I didn’t think much of it.” The resident continued to walk in quietly but began saying hi to Paulus and even started attending her RA programs. One day, Paulus noticed irregular behavior from the resident and offered a listening ear. “We went to another room to talk, and the person sat me down and told me that there was one particular night where I had asked them how they were — and on that night, they had found out their two best friends had committed suicide, and they were planning to leave and kill themselves,” she said. “Me asking how they were and saying, ‘I’m here for you,’ touched that person that night, and they decided to go get their dinner instead. These are the connections that make it worth it.” Similarly to Paulus, a first-time RA, Leigha Powell, said, “I’ve had people in this building give me moments where they say, ‘I’m glad I’ve had someone to talk to like an RA.’” Powell said she values the community she has built in her first year as an RA — something she said made reapplying worth it. “As a resident, you have a vague idea of what RAs do. You don’t know what the full extent is until you’re in the role,” she said. But despite the workload, Powell continues to believe that it is worth it to become an RA. Image by Vidhyarthi Darpan from Pixabay

= It had been nearly four years since that evening in the kitchen. Time had not dulled the memory—it remained vivid, like heat trapped beneath the skin. My mother still brought up the Ashilyr path at every chance, only now with more urgency and less patience. What was once a gentle prod had become a forceful push, and my dreams—childish, unattainable, as she called them—were no longer seen as charming distractions but dangerous deviations. I’d grown, yes, but so had the weight of expectation. And lately, it felt like that weight had started to crack something deep within me. It was early golden hour when I decided to go down to my favorite spot within the lower ring of Llanka. At the wide arched entrance, I removed my shoes as was the custom, and proceeded through the ocean of grass that lay before me. With each step, the azure blades lightly caress the soles of my feet, welcoming me into the atrium. Here, the sounds of immutable rainfall were ever so quiet. Instead, the effusive hymn radiating off the branches of the phosphelyia took precedence. Its serene tone reminded me of a singer getting ready to perform. A couple of hums both high and low, relaxed pacing and an eerie pause… Before returning to that rhythm once more. Some believed the crystalline inclusions at the base of the phosphelyia housed the voices of heartbroken Melawa. It’d take their sorrows away, protect them and eventually cultivate them into the hymn that bathed its audience in tranquility. I was hoping it would take my sorrows away. Perhaps there was a more scientific explanation but I didn’t want to ruin the magic. Eventually the grass ended and I found myself on a familiar quartz road leading up to my destination. The floor was deceivingly warm despite being next to a large pond. I took a moment to gaze upon the still water only to flinch when I realized it was reflecting the rain hitting the glass dome above. “Meluika- I’m being overdramatic” I mutter to myself before continuing up the path. To my surprise, there was someone here sitting on the bench that overlooked the hush gardens. In front of him, a canvas with but a few specks of wistful color. He raised his arm to add another stroke yet hesitated to move forward with his intention. A sigh escaped from his mouth as he lowered his gloved arm softly to his lap. I was walking slower now so as to not startle him. But as I got closer I couldn’t help but notice how large his horns protruded from the sides. Surely he could not have been one of them? This was the lower ring after all and- “Hm?” The man’s sharp ears perked up in my direction before he slowly turned to face me “Ah, Suarii Khayr young girl, I did not think anyone came here at this hour” I froze for a moment when I saw his face. The sclera of his eyes were almost completely muddled black, a sign of seniority for Melawa. His irises on the other hand, were like a flickering candle at the end of its wick. Though instead of a bright orange, it was a vibrant turquoise that met my gaze. What stuck out to me most was the circular insignia on his forehead. “S-saurii Ker- I mean, khayr” I stutter rapidly trying to show my respect “I am so sorry I didn’t realize someone of your rank would be here this morning! There must’ve been a sign and I passed by it like the dunce I am! If there is anything I can do- wait what am I talking about there’s nothing I could possibly do for you that you can’t do for yourself. Sorry I’m rambling. I’ll just leave now- but only if that’s okay with you!” The man stroked his wispy beard in amusement “You needn’t leave, it is a public space after all. I do not have enough authority believe it or not to reserve a whole atrium for myself. I found myself here to relax but instead I am now mildly amused. Hmm, not an unwelcome progression.” His voice was surprisingly chipper for a man of his age. Before I could vomit out more gibberish, he pushed himself off the bench with his mighty tail. My head was still fixed downwards as he began towards me with a prideful stride. “I am now curious. Kids of your age are usually asleep at this hour are they not? Did you come with your parents?” I was frozen. “Hm? Is something wrong dear?” He cocked his head. “Oh! Uhm, sorry sir! My parents are sleeping right now but I left them a note saying I was going to the Velatari for early prayer!” I shifted awkwardly “I-I actually just used it as an excuse because I wanted to come here.” I was sure I’d be dragged to the Velatari any second after that confession. Everything about this man marked him as a devout Ashilyr. His attire alone spoke volumes—pure white linen adorned with embroidered flames, cascading from neck to knee. His sleeves billowed with even the slightest motion, restrained by golden ribbons tied neatly at the elbows. Loose, puffy trousers completed the ensemble, cuffed precisely at the ankles. He looked every bit the part of someone who should’ve been praying—not sitting here listening to my excuses. Even if I was not the best follower, I knew this attire represented great respect towards Aczl, blessed be his name. “I swear I will repent greatly for this sir.” I say, dropping to my knees, profusely bowing out of fear and respect… Though mainly out of fear. It was silent, or at least that’s what it was like on the outside, on the inside my thoughts were pounding. “Young girl, this is hardly a gracious display. Please pull yourself together, I am not here to castigate an innocent child for wanting to wander such a beautiful place.” I peeked up slightly to see the man holding out his angelic hand “If it quells your excessive praise, I was requested to visit an Velatari nearby but instead chose to come here. There! Now we both have something to repent for” I almost couldn't believe what I was hearing but his genuine and warm smile belied this thought. A man of his rank, choosing to visit here of all places instead of the Velatari? That seems almost sacrilegious. “Eh?” Was the only word that managed to escape from my hundreds of thoughts. Without any clue on what to do I hesitantly grab his hand and pull myself off up from the ground. I probably look like a mess right now, my hair is frizzy and I just collapsed to the floor in a pathetic display. My cheeks were most certainly flushed right now. How embarrassing. “Thank you… Sir.” I clear my throat while awkwardly brushing off my pants. “You are very welcome dear, may I inquire about your name?” He asked. “Oh- of course! My name is Seneca Amari of the Itza” I squeaked out. “A fine name indeed! My name is Ibrahim Nazar.” he said, a flicker of amusement in his turquoise eyes “Though, I am also known officially as an Ignitor of the Ixcali” I almost couldn't believe what I was hearing. An Ignitor? Here of all places? A smirk shone ever so slightly when he saw my reaction “However, I prefer to simply go by Ibra, it can be rather exhausting to hear my whole title.” I had only heard of a few Ignitors in my lifetime, mainly from Mother. However, she mainly talked about Ignitor Lucanis as he was only 21 yet still managed to reach such a rank. I felt guilty that the thought of him annoyed me. Mainly because my Mom always thought I could potentially reach that level… Still, to see an Ignitor in person it felt almost impossible. “Ah, I don’t think it’s appropriate to call you such a casual name Sir.” My eyes darted to the floor “my mother would surely raise a fit.” He let out a disappointed sigh “I suspect she isn’t here? If that is the case, your mother needn’t know. Hmm, is that me inciting a rebellious nature?” He pondered for a moment looking at the glass dome above, for a moment his eyes shone ever brightly. “Ah the golden hour never ceases to amaze me in its brilliance. Wouldn’t you agree?” “Sir?” “Ah, forgive me—I’ve grown rather fond of human art lately,” Ibra said with a soft smile. “Their paints are crude in some ways, but there's something honest about them. I’ve been experimenting… trying to render Llanka as they might see it.” My brows raised in surprise. “You paint human-style landscapes?” “Hmm, not landscapes exactly. Not the way they do them. More... impressions. Fragments. I was inspired by a human artist named Lucian Orzho—perhaps you’ve heard of him?” I shook my head, and he smiled knowingly. “Not many outside the upper rings know his name. He painted not what he saw, but what he felt. Emotions in color, in shadow. They said his skies bled with sorrow and his cities sang in silence.” “That sounds… incredible,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “Is that what you were trying to do just now?” “In a sense. Though I’ve not the soul of a human painter, I try. Would you like to try with me?” he offered, motioning to a small palette beside the bench. “I could make space for you on the canvas. Perhaps it’s better shared.” My heart stuttered. Painting alongside an Ignitor? Mother would have scolded me for wasting time—but in that moment, I didn’t care. “I… I’d love to.” He dipped a brush into a pale green and handed it to me. I took it carefully, my fingers brushing his glove. For a while, we said nothing, only adding strokes—tentative at first, then braver—as color slowly bloomed across the once-empty canvas. In the golden hush of the atrium, we painted Llanka. Not as it was, but as we felt it.

Based on Margaret Atwood’s 1985 novel of the same name, “The Handmaid’s Tale” premiered as a television series on Hulu in April 2017. Created by Bruce Miller, the show quickly gained critical acclaim for its chilling adaptation of Atwood’s dystopian vision. The series is directed by various filmmakers, including Reed Morano, Mike Barker, and Daina Reid. It stars Elisabeth Moss as June Osborne, a woman forced into servitude in the totalitarian regime of Gilead.  The adaptation stays true to the novel’s themes of oppression and resistance, while it expands on its characters and world-building to reflect contemporary issues. One of the most common criticisms of the television adaptation is the lack of diversity in its cast. Some viewers argue that, given the racial realities of our world, a dystopia like Gilead would likely oppress people of color even more brutally. But when I hear this, I can’t help but think beyond that. If women of color, if marginalized communities disappear, who will the powerful turn against next? The answer is simple: women. Any and all women, regardless of race. And in many ways, that is exactly the world we are living in today. The idea that only the most privileged can escape oppression is a dangerous illusion—one that “The Handmaid’s Tale” shatters. Women like Serena Joy believed they were exempt from the horrors of Gilead. She helped craft the very policies that stripped women of their rights, only to become a prisoner of her own making. Serena thought she would remain powerful because she was one of the main architects, one of the favored. But in a system built on controlling women, power is never permanent for any woman. Margaret Atwood, the author, has repeatedly said that nothing in her novel is purely fiction. Every form of oppression in Gilead is inspired by real events from history. The forced surrogacy imposed on handmaids, for instance, echoes the practices of the Argentine dictatorship (1976-1983), where pregnant political prisoners were executed after giving birth, with their babies handed over to military families. The strict dress codes imposed on women in Gilead resemble policies enforced by the Taliban, where women were and continue to be required to wear full-body coverings and are denied basic freedoms. Additionally, the novel’s systematic stripping away of women’s financial independence is reminiscent of the historical reality in the United States before the 1970s, when many women could not open bank accounts or obtain credit cards without a husband's permission. Atwood has drawn from these and other historical and contemporary realities to craft a dystopia that feels uncomfortably familiar. The situation is a chilling reminder that power seeks to silence women—any woman—who dares to speak uncomfortable truths. During a House Oversight Committee hearing, Rep. AyanaPressley (D-Mass.) attempted to bring up the devastating reality of rape, only to be yelled over and denied the right to finish her statement by Rep. James Comer (R-Ky.).  It doesn’t matter where you stand politically—this is not about parties. It is about humanity.  When a woman says the word rape , you listen.  You stop and you listen. And yet, powerful men in government—men who claim to represent democracy and justice—feel entitled to shout over any woman daring to name something so real and harrowing. The world is mirroring Gilead in ways that should terrify us. The erosion of reproductive rights, the silencing of women in political spaces, the normalization of treating women’s voices as interruptions rather than essential contributions—it all leads to the same chilling conclusion: If we do not stop them, we will no longer have a voice at all. Serena Joy believed she could carve out a place for herself in a world that oppressed other women. She thought she could rewrite the rules to benefit herself while subjugating others. She was wrong. Women who think they are immune to this oppression because of privilege—whether by race, wealth or status—should take note. The systems that silence one group of women will, in time, turn against them all. The lesson of “The Handmaid’s Tale” is not just a warning of what could happen. It is a mirror reflecting what is already happening. And for those of us who can still speak, now is the time to be louder than ever. Because if we don’t stop them now, soon we may not be allowed to speak at all. The Handmaid's Tale (2017) Elisabeth Moss in The Handmaid's Tale (2017)

Silver dollar pancakes have nothing on you. Neither does this greasy spoon, In all its glory with that big gumball machine With its swirly track coated in the dust Of cracked candy and The kids’ menu with an extravagant Buccaneer boat to color With four crayons that will yield an abstract masterpiece.  I like the color in your voice better, As infrequently as I heard it. But you would always order  “Coffee, please,”  And I would direct you away from the pink sugar packets.  Make sure to mix it well, And don’t forget to take home those jelly packets. They don’t last forever. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.  You would never forget As you hold my hand, leading me up to the counter To see from my point of view. The other adults don’t look past their knees into that glass case at The array of vibrant treats and sugary sweets inside.  Image by Mari Kanezaki from Pixabay

While discipline is essential in shaping a child’s character, it should never come at the expense of instilling anxiety or fear. Parents need to balance authority with guidance to foster growth rather than apprehension. I never really thought about this until I had some late-night discussions with friends or came across a related article on my Apple News feed. But this question is complex and relevant, I feel, especially now. As a collective, as a world, and even more so as a nation, our emotions are even more developed. Humans are always evolving, but does this always mean progress?  Are there ever consequences? Growing up, my childhood wasn’t bad; it was similar to that of other kids my age. I went to school, played sports, joined a club or two, and lived in a home where my parents sometimes argued—something that’s normal for families and everyday people like you reading this. I picked fights with one parent more than the other because I felt like, sometimes, the things that parents said needed to be challenged. Audacious for a kid to do, I know. I've always been outspoken. I continue to challenge people today because constructive challenges create learning opportunities for both sides. Without them, growth isn’t possible. It’s our parents' first time living and being parents, but when you’re the parent and I’m the kid, it feels like my actions should be judged less harshly. You’ve lived the child’s life already; my mistakes are my first time experiencing them. At times, situations were handled differently than I would have if I were a parent.  This brings me to the question: Where is the line between building character and scaring your children? As children, we can all recall a moment or memory that stuck with us and followed us into adulthood. Did that experience build you up and make you a better person? Or did you silently sit with it and vow you’d never become your parents? And no one talks about the fact that it should be okay to stand up for yourself if you don’t like something. Let us normalize voicing our opinions—even if it’s to a teacher, partner, or boss. We are all human, and we all have stories, but your voice should always be heard. This brings me to the broader discussion of parenting styles and why they’re so important. I think the similarities between constructive parenting (constructive choices) and authoritative parenting are not talked about enough. The baseline is the same, and so are the expected outcomes. One, however, promotes constructive challenge learning. Parenting types: Constructive Parenting : defined as a “child-rearing strategy where parents provide the child with options when making decisions.” In layman’s terms, it allows children to be involved in decision-making in their everyday activities while still maintaining choices that are positive and safe. Authoritative Parenting : defined as “strict rules, high standards, and punishment to regulate the child’s behavior.” Authoritarian parents have high expectations and are not flexible with them. The children might not even know a rule is in place until they’re punished for breaking it. While constructive parenting encourages critical thinking, independence, and emotional intelligence, authoritarian parenting can sometimes lead to fear-driven compliance rather than a positive learning experience. The question now becomes: Which approach better prepares children for adulthood? Do strict rules instill discipline, or do they suppress a child’s ability to navigate challenges on their own without the reinforcement of a parent? Both parenting styles aim for the same result, but as children, we experience something called the “zone of proximal development,” which plays a crucial role in our early years. It is “the difference between what a learner can do without help and what they can do with guidance and encouragement from a skilled partner.” Growing up, the way my parents handled situations shaped how I navigate life. Sometimes, I follow their approach, and other times, I take a different path. I recognize the tendencies I’ve gained, but I take pride in being open and fostering direct communication with others. For some parents, building resilience in their child is the only way to parent. But is this generational trauma, or is it simply evolving parenting methods? I implore you to think about fear-based parenting—if your parents used it on you, remember how it made you feel. That’s exactly how your children feel when they look to you for support. Parenting isn’t about control; it’s about guidance. By fostering open communication rather than fear, we empower children to become strong, independent thinkers. Concluding on my views, I'll tell you this was merely just a shower thought I had recently, but it plagued my mind. I was compelled to dive a little deeper into it. Here we are again, living through yet another 2 AM perspective.

University was a fresh start, a world full of opportunity just waiting for me to dive in. I stepped onto campus bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was going into STEM, positive that I had the map to navigate adulthood and confident that equations, formulas and discoveries would define me. I was eager to live life as a young adult, free of boundaries and ready to leave the safe cocoon of my childhood behind. I couldn’t wait to find my place in the world. But life, as it often does, had other plans. Now, I’m running across the University of New Haven campus, Jazzman’s coffee in hand, rushing to make it to my 12:30 poetry class. My backpack slaps against my back as I weave through students, dodging groups lingering by the lawn. My morning — if noon even counts as morning — started like it always does: caffeine first, then everything else. If someone had told my 18-year-old self that I would be an English student, running late to class, I would have laughed. But my journey to this moment was anything but ordinary. In week one of university, it was just a discomfort in my chest. I thought it was the stress and pressure of being a first-year student. Soon, it became something bigger, something I couldn’t ignore. My body began to betray me. I felt weaker, I could barely eat and I couldn’t keep water down. I would fall asleep at my desk, unable to focus as my body spiraled into a slow collapse. I went from one doctor to another, in and out of hospital rooms, each time hoping some professional would have an answer — only to be sent home with empty diagnoses. I was repeatedly told it was just stress or that I was a mystery case. No one could explain what was happening to me. No one could provide a name for the illness that was stealing my strength. I couldn’t feel my legs. I tripped and I fell, gravity no longer obeying me. I broke a bone in my foot — not from an accident, but from weakness. I couldn’t understand it, and neither could they. I dropped out of university. Everything I had worked for — the dream of becoming someone renowned in the world of science — crumbled. My world was confined to hospital rooms, the sterile white walls closing in on me as my body continued to fail me. I went to more than 20 hospitals, and still, no one had an answer. The darkness came like a heavy fog, the fear of the unknown creeping in every day. I spent sleepless nights lying awake, my mind racing, trying to figure out why my body was doing this to me. I wondered if I would ever walk again, if I would ever feel like myself again. The fear of becoming a shell of the person I had once been overwhelmed me. I sank into depression; I couldn’t trust my body anymore. Each day felt like a battle with my mind, my body and the world around me. There were nights I cried myself to sleep and other nights I simply couldn’t sleep. The pain in my legs felt like a thousand needles persistently piercing my skin. But it wasn’t just the physical pain that hurt — it was the mental anguish that gnawed at me. The isolation, the loneliness, the fear that I would never be able to return to the life I had envisioned for myself. Finally, in the quiet darkness where everything seemed impossible, something unexpected happened. I found solace in words. I went to my pediatrician — the last person I thought would understand. I remember telling her everything: how I had fallen down the stairs, how I couldn’t feel anything from the hips down, how my legs felt like they were made of jelly. I was terrified and angry because no one believed me. They all dismissed my pain and told me it was in my head. But she looked at me with such compassion, and for the first time in months, someone listened. She made a call. A bed was prepared, and I was sent to a hospital for more tests. In that cold, sterile room, I underwent a series of procedures that felt like the slow unwinding of my existence. Spinal taps, blood work, MRIs from my skull to my feet. Days turned to weeks of testing. The doctors pumped me full of medications, but nothing seemed to help. I was paralyzed. I was told I might never walk again. The diagnosis came eventually — Guillain-Barré syndrome — a rare, devastating condition where your immune system attacks your nerves like an enemy inside your body. Your ability to walk, move and feel disappears. The doctors had been telling me I was a medical mystery all this time, but there it was: a name for my suffering, a label for my pain. I was sent to an inpatient rehabilitation facility, where I had to learn how to use a wheelchair and navigate a world that no longer felt like mine. It was terrifying. Every day was a struggle. The pain was constantly sharp and burning, like tiny daggers piercing my skin. Despite this, I fought — not because I was strong, but because there was no other choice. The shame of being weak and needing help clawed at my sense of self. I used to be independent, a person who did things on their own. But now, I had to rely on others for everything. I felt like I had lost my identity, like the girl I used to be was slipping through my fingers. I was lost in a sea of needles, tears and fear. The darkness in my mind was relentless. Reading and writing became my escape. I didn’t have the strength to run away from the hospital room, but I could run through the pages of books. I could lose myself in stories, in poems, in the words I scribbled in my journal. It wasn’t a cure, but it was a lifeline. Through words, I was able to feel human again, like I could reclaim a part of myself that had been stolen. Slowly, the impossible began to happen. I moved my toes, I lifted my ankle, stood and walked with a walker. It wasn’t much at first, but it was enough to remind me that I wasn’t completely broken. I could still rebuild, even if the road was long and filled with pain. I’m back on campus now, weaving through crowds, Jazzman’s coffee warming my hands against the crisp West Haven air. I’m running late to poetry class — again — but I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve regained full motor function, yet the feeling in my legs is still gone. It’s a constant tingling, like the sensation of a limb falling asleep — but persistent. It’s a sharp electric current, always burning. The numbness is my companion, and the neuropathy is my shadow, stabbing me with every step. It isn’t the pain that defines me, nor is it the illness, the hospital visits or the uncertainty of my future. What defines me now is what kept me going when everything else seemed impossible: literature. When I was trapped in that hospital bed and the walls were closing in, I had nothing but my imagination to keep me company. I traveled through the world of novels. I wrote, even when I had no energy to do anything else. I created stories in the margins of my notebooks, filled with characters and places that gave me hope, even when I was alone in that white-walled room. Literature became my lifeline. I began to heal when I started to find my way back to my body. I found my way back to words. That’s why I’m studying English now. I found strength in stories and in poems. Writing saved me, giving me a reason to keep going when all I wanted to do was give up. It gave me a place to heal, a place to belong and a way to feel whole again. I still live with the pain. The numbness is a constant reminder of what I’ve been through. But I’m here. And I have books to thank for that. The worlds I’ve traveled through in literature and the stories I’ve written have given me the courage to continue. They’ve given me the strength to keep going when every step feels like a battle. I’m not the person I was when I entered university, ready to conquer the world of STEM. I’m someone different now — someone stronger. No matter how much pain I endure, I have the power to create, to write and to live.

Written by Managing Editor Haiden Leach. Graphics and photography also by Leach.

Contributing Writer Maria Jensen   Round and round and round I go,.  Where is a spot? Nobody knows!  From the library, to Dunham, to Cel and Gerber,  This endless search is going no further.  How excited I am to waltz in late,  What a start to my day, I’m feeling great!  Silly pedestrians in front of my car,  Maybe I should just -- no  that’s going too far.  5 minutes, 10 minutes, 20, 30 and 40,  But there it is! In all its glory.  The sunlight hits that space just right,  Just as a Prius rolls in with all its might.  A girl sits on her phone with her car on,  And she’ll probably be there until the next dawn.  I follow this guy with pathetic desperation,  And he’s beginning to think it's flirtation.   I begin to give up and think “Oh my God,  We really don’t need another damn quad." sayingimages.com on Pinterest

“Digital sonnets and syntax sentiments” Oh yes, dearest reader, the digital courtship in which a modern-day sonnet is composed in the flickering glow and flare of a screen. No need for whale lard candles to burn as the ink bleeds and the quill frays. What are the textual offerings for courtship in the present? The written word is no longer needed to profess love. Wordle word nerds, this is a siren call to those who find solace in the etymological abscess. It is a battlefield, my dear, proving to be harder and harder to decode and dissect these textual offerings. I shall decode some of what truly lurks beneath the veneer of this linguistic camaraderie. Oh, it is a battlefield — ground zero for the intellectually insecure — but don’t worry, I will be your guide to the other side of the emoticon hieroglyphs. “Intellectually stimulating coffee date” They want an intellectually stimulating coffee date. That is a mere pretense, a thinly veiled arena for semantical jousting. The coffee is merely a lubricant in the form of perfectly heated java beans served and plated to be sold for $30.99 without tax because the origins of said beans are digested and then secreted to make the fanciest hipster brew in town. Then you can be asked about the symbolisms of everyday life, which is just a euphemism for the ceaseless dissection of your very being. The casual utterance becomes subject to merciless scrutiny. They claim their heart beats in tune with iambic pentameter. A declaration of romantic intent and courtship? Nay, it is a threat. Prepare for the impromptu recitations and for your every sentiment to be measured against the rhythmical tyranny of poetic meter by those deemed the “greats.” They claim their soul yearns for perfect cadence, which loosely translates to your conversational style being found wanting, and your linguistic rhythm deemed amateur. “Spirit animal: Purdue Owl” A self-proclamation of grammatical correctness, a harbinger of the written. Just so they can deconstruct film tropes and musicals to exercise their intellectual superiority and assert dominance through the dissection of popular culture. The art of passively, aggressively annotating every document they receive, down to the findings on absurdly long CVS receipts. The deeply ingrained need and compulsion to impose meaning upon the mundane cesuras found in the white spaces. The 35-page artistic yet critical piece on the foundations of every inanimate object in their junk drawer: some desperate attempt to imbue the ordinary with some profound significance. “Difference between affect and effect?” Pass this test and you will be deemed worthy of their intellectual and heartfelt affections. On Wednesdays only. The specificity is so chillingly precise for their schedule of eccentric rituals. Truly a testament to the meticulously organized neurosis of the mind. An obsession, a desperate search for chiasmus in crumbled-up napkins, meaning in the monotony of daily life. Finding metaphors in the fragmented nature of modern existence in Ikea furniture guides. One who knows the existential dread within the epigraph written on my eaten-up dollar in the Maxcy vending machine. An invitation to join in the abyss of their own meticulously created self-doom. “Emoji analysis required” The final sense of engagement in this romantic world is a Word document with a bare minimum of 500 words. A task worthy of a doctoral dissertation? MLA citations? A demand for academic rigor, a power play cloaked in word play. A test of your endurance and a measure of your ability to conform to their intellectual standards without breaking the rules. A tough grader, a literary gauntlet, a test of your taste, your brain, your very soul. They promise to judge and critique you extensively. They promise a declaration of their intent to dissect, drain, categorize, and quantify your worth. In essence, the love and romance of emoticons is a declaration of intellectual warfare. A call to arms for those who dare to enter their labyrinth of linguistic pretension. Proceed with caution, for you are not finding love within pixelated exchanges, but you are sparring in a never-ending battle of wits. My feline familiar, Lord Cigglesworth, has been a silent witness to the endless stream of academia’s linguistics in emoticon form, a furry confidant in the loneliness of intellectual isolation. Wallace Chuck: https://www.pexels.com/es-es/foto/hoja-verde-en-pila-de-libros-3704611/