CHARGED-UP RESULTS

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

Neil Diamond sets out on a journey across the U.S. to look at how Hollywood has portrayed Native Americans in movies. He talks with historians, actors, and indigenous people to understand how these portrayals have shaped public opinion. One key location he visits is Monument Valley, a site famously used in numerous Western films directed by John Ford. Here, Diamond reflects on how the landscape became synonymous with the "Hollywood Indian" stereotype, even though many Native American tribes depicted in these films were not from that region. The vast desert and towering rock formations served as a backdrop for countless cowboy-versus-Indian conflicts, reinforcing inaccurate and monolithic representations of Native people. Diamond also travels to Los Angeles, the heart of the film industry, where he interviews Native actors such as Adam Beach and Wes Studi. He learns more about how this actor struggled to separate from Native Americans, being classified as either savages or warriors. In this conversation, he learns more about Native American representation in Hollywood. One of the most striking moments for me was seeing Sacheen Littlefeather stand and give a speech at the Oscars, hearing both cheers and boos from the audience. It was genuinely astonishing to witness, and I deeply admired, her bravery in taking such a bold stand for Native American rights on such a grand stage. One of the places that called my attention the most was a camp of those "frat-looking boys" who painted their bodies, yelled, and kicked tables. To me, it is unclear what the purpose is for their actions. It was disrespectful. The scene highlighted the still ongoing issue of cultural appropriation and the difference in appreciation between indigenous traditions and how they are misrepresented or misused by non-Native groups. Throughout the documentary, several key takeaways emerge regarding the portrayal of Native American people in movies. The concept of the "noble savage" and the "savage warrior" has dominated Hollywood narratives. Characters like Tonto, played by Jay Silverheels in The Lone Ranger , show the subservient sidekick trope, while other films present Native people as violent obstacles to white settlers. These reductive stereotypes erase the diversity of Native cultures and histories. Many non-Native actors have portrayed Indigenous characters, a practice known as "redface." An example is Burt Lancaster in Apache  (1954), where he played the Apache warrior Massai despite having no Native ancestry. Similarly, white actors like Charles Bronson and Anthony Quinn were frequently cast in Native roles, further marginalizing Indigenous actors. The documentary also highlights how Native Americans were rarely given speaking roles, and when they did speak, their dialogue was often simplified or broken English. Films like Stagecoach  (1939) and The Searchers  (1956) showcased Native characters as either silent or speaking only in grunts and fragmented phrases, reinforcing a dehumanizing portrayal. The documentary also discusses the "renaissance" of Native cinema, which represents a turning point in the industry where Indigenous filmmakers and actors reclaimed their stories. This movement focuses on authentic storytelling from Native perspectives rather than narratives shaped by outsiders. Films such as Smoke Signals  (1998), directed by Chris Eyre and based on Sherman Alexie's work, mark a significant shift in Native representation. The film, featuring Adam Beach and Evan Adams, was the first feature-length film written, directed, and acted entirely by Native Americans, breaking new ground for indigenous storytelling. In the end, Reel Injun  shows how Hollywood has often misrepresented Native Americans but also highlights the changes happening in Native cinema. Through interviews, history, and personal stories, the documentary explores the struggles and progress of Indigenous representation in film. More Native filmmakers and actors are now telling their own stories in a way that feels real and meaningful. Poster from IMDB

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

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

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

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

This week's entry is a little shorter, only because I'm kind of struggling to grapple with reality. It's been hard to think about the fact that I'm leaving the place I've called home for five years. For those of you who don't know, my origin story starts in Indiana, then I moved to Pennsylvania and ended up here in Connecticut. Moving from Pennsylvania to Connecticut for college was one of the biggest risks I've ever taken, but it's been one that's paid off exponentially. So many things are important to me, and I established myself in a way that I never thought possible. I have become one of the most important people in others' lives and my own. I see myself as a hardworking and driven individual who truly wants to flourish in society. I want a good job, a stable income and a way to enrich people's lives. My education has taught me that it is a luxury and made me even more grateful because of that idea. I have it, but I fought extra hard to keep myself here—and so did others. After switching majors four times, I landed in the communications department and I've been here ever since. The last five years at the University of New Haven have taught me so much. It's a journey that has evolved in more ways than one. I'm no stranger to change because I moved so much like a kid. But as I get older, I find it harder to want to change because I find myself connecting even deeper with people as an adult. However, change is good, and change keeps us growing. Aspects of change that I do look forward to are being able to restart myself to a new capacity. Ever since I was a kid, it's felt like I get to live different lives, and they are lives that I enjoy. Moving to a new place also gives me new experiences, which I take with me and incorporate. We as humans can never stop growing; if we do, it means we're closed to learning. Ideas like that make me even more appreciative of the things that I have. Five years is a long time to dedicate yourself to something. It almost feels like the university and I have been in a relationship and are reaching the breakup stage. It's a silly analogy, but it's honestly the only idea that's been letting me process. Leaving my friends feels like I'm leaving a partner. I rely on them for our class projects, to help when I need some advice or just to look for a friendly face when passing in the halls. Growing up is hard, but leaving people when you don't have a choice is difficult. We have FaceTime and modern technology, cars and plans, but it's not the same. There will only be one time in our lives when we were all 20, 21 and 22 sitting in the halls of our classrooms together. It's not just leaving the friends and the memories of the education you've gained. You also leave teachers who become your mentors and almost a second parent. For me, at least in my department, I found solace in knowing that a lot of my professors are parents. I feel like they translate that very well into the way that they present situations with their students. It's made me feel like, in a way, this has become my home away from home. The generosity, kindness and understanding they all present are something I have not found in teachers in the past. The community they foster in their classrooms is exactly what has sparked me to go into grad school to pursue the ability to give this to others. In a way, leaving will also be one of the hardest things because I feel like I'm leaving a piece of myself here. I worked so hard to establish myself here. Now my time is just up? No one talks about the solemn hours that follow when you walk across that stage and leave the state. The routine that you've had for so long now becomes a distant memory. But it gives you a sense of nostalgia to look forward to the rest of your life. Every time I scroll through my phone and see pictures of the things I used to do, a rush of adrenaline crosses over my body. It makes me relive all the wild experiences that have ever happened to me and made me the person that I am. Like I said before, growing does not mean moving on but expanding your horizons.

I tried way too hard in high school. I was raised to believe a person’s high school performance determined everything for the rest of their life. Therefore, I got straight A’s, and I sucked up to nearly every teacher I met. I wore a cardboard box on my head, and I drew whatever face on it that would appeal the most to everyone else. Junior year, I had to watch a TED Talk about answering the “big question”: How do you decide what you are going to do with your life? This was an important question to me, and one I was struggling with. While I was watching this TED Talk, one thing the speaker said stuck with me. She advised the audience to pursue what they are good at, rather than what they necessarily want.  I loved art and theater. I did dance, I performed in musicals, and I studied animation. I wanted to pursue a career in the performing arts. However, I was way too hard on myself to the point where I lacked any confidence to act on such a desire. If I were to go for a degree in animation or acting, I would not make it with the timidity of a squirrel. I was running out of time to apply for college, and I was determined to make a decision. If I were to pursue something other than the arts, what would it be? How does one measure their skill level at such a young age? Grades. I excelled in my mathematics and chemistry courses, so I decided to start there. After talking with some family members and teachers (as well as taking several online quizzes), I determined I wanted to pursue a career in forensic science with a concentration in chemistry. The change from artist to forensic chemist was drastic in many eyes, but I was certain it was what I would be good at, and therefore, enjoy. I was done within the first semester of college. I stopped going to classes, I gave up on my assignments, and I barely took care of myself. If you’ve ever heard of the Freshman 15, I had a Freshman 35. I was not happy, and I was certain it was because of my academic inabilities.  My roommate at the time had to suffer with my lack of class attendance and personal responsibility. She recommended I try to switch majors to something like communication. She had also just switched to communication, and she was thriving.  It was yet another difficult decision for me to make. I knew I would be a year behind if I switched majors, and I did not want to put so much extra work on myself just to graduate on time. It wouldn’t feel worth it to make it to the finish line with a broken leg. In hindsight, switching majors felt as if I was giving up. Whenever I struggled in high school, I always managed to get an A. It was as if I were drowning in a sea of high standards and failing grades. I was actively failing, and I did not know how to walk away rather than address it head-on. What if I was making a mistake? What if I just needed to try harder? What if I made the wrong choice and fell even further behind? The spiral of what ifs cascaded over me and had me terrified of failure.  But I was okay. I was not walking away; I was simply taking a different path at the fork in the road, one I hadn’t thought to explore before. After some deliberation (and my mother’s approval), I contacted my advisor and switched to A Communications Major with a concentration in film and media entrepreneurship.  I am about to graduate, and I have never felt so confident and proud of who I am and the work I have accomplished over the past four years. Changing majors was the best decision I could have made.  There is this huge stigma around changing majors and knowing exactly what one wants to do by the time they are 18 years old. This has been going on far too long, like the leftovers of those in the past who could easily enter the workforce. Job competition has only gotten worse, and there are a lot more educational and occupational opportunities to choose from.  Life is about choices. There is no point in time when a person is unable to make a change or a shift in perspective. While they may be stuck, they are not lost.

The University of New Haven shows pride in its alumni and the legacies they leave on campus, even years after the students have departed to pursue their careers. One of these notable alumni is Amanda Castro, the creator of Charger Bulletin Magazine, now better known as Horseshoe Magazine. Through her vision and entrepreneurial spirit, Castro has left behind a creation that celebrates diverse voices and ideas — an organization that still holds these ideals years after her departure. Before coming to the University of New Haven, Amanda Castro, born in Bayamón, Puerto Rico, moved to the United States to get good medical care for her type 1 diabetes. She attended an arts school to hone her writing skills as a high school senior before attending university. “Up until around 10th grade, I wanted to be a doctor,” said Castro. “Around then, I discovered that I had a passion for writing. I would always be the girl who shot her hand up asking how many words the assigned essays were.” The University of New Haven was Castro’s first choice when choosing a school on the East Coast, where she credits the strong staff and support for someone pursuing a career in journalism. “The programs here were just so strong when I looked into it,” she said. “Also, they had a strong staff, with notable professors such as Susan Campbell really standing out to me. As soon as I got the call from the school saying I’d been accepted, I was like, ‘Yeah, this is it.’” Castro began her first year at UNH in 2018 as a commuter, taking the train from New York to classes, where she would make fond memories with friends. “Being a commuter, I wasn’t always on campus, but the times I was, I had a really good time,” said Castro. “I made two of my closest friends in a class with a tough professor. It was always such a mess.” In Castro’s senior year, she chose what would eventually become Charger Bulletin Magazine for her honors thesis, sparked by an idea from a class. “I was in a class that semester that was on interpretive writing, which was really right up my alley and I knew was exciting to other students as well,” she said. “I also had the experience of creating a website and building it up from ground zero, which was fun and taught me a lot.” Castro credits the creation of Horseshoe Magazine to her knack for overwriting, as well as the lack of essay writing in the Charger Bulletin newspaper. “If you were to give me a word limit, I’d have to keep track to make sure that I stayed within the requirements, which made me feel like I was missing out on vital information that would make the article perfect,” said Castro. “You don’t really get to explore deeper articles in the Charger Bulletin newspaper, which got me thinking that despite students usually not wanting to write more, a magazine would open the doors up to more possibilities of students wanting to learn more and give more inclination to write.” Her biggest struggle during the creation process of the magazine was getting viewers to interact with the website she created . “Interest is hard to garner when you’re a bustling student with other things on your mind,” said Castro. “I was hoping for student traffic to lead people to the magazine, which didn’t go as well as I thought it would, with things picking up only a month before I had to present my thesis.” One of Castro’s biggest regrets throughout her college career was her lack of presence on campus outside of classes. “While being a commuter and having online classes was a lifesaver, I think having more campus experiences would’ve changed my college experience as a whole,” she said. “I basically only saw my friends via Zoom calls and through discussion board posts; it would’ve been nice to hang out with them once or twice a week, though.” Castro said she finds her inspiration and drive through her mother, Cynthia. “She’s been through a lot and has always handled her life with such grace and poise,” she said. “I’ve always looked up to everything she does, and living life the way she did is my biggest aspiration.” Castro’s biggest belief is that it is imperative to never give up on pursuing journalism. “It’s a competitive market right now in the world of journalism,” she said. “You'll hear more noes than yeses, meaning you have to be prepared to be rejected and move on and continue trying. There's a lot of pressure to be ethical in the world of journalism. It’s a matter of how you handle the pressure of criticism that separates the good writers from the great writers.” Photo from University of New Haven

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

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)