The Subway Ride is an all-inclusive publication that recognizes the humanity of the artistic and literary process, prioritizes celebration over criticism, and provides a common space in which individuals with different backgrounds and identities can contribute to a welcoming artistic space. When we ride the subway, it’s hard not to notice the other people around us. We form an unknowing community, comprised of individuals who might never have met outside of the subway car. Everybody has a different reason for being on it, and different directions when they leave. But on board, we stand, sit, and lean against each other, sharing the same space and air in a brief moment of unity. This magazine is an attempt to recreate that community through print, giving all individuals, regardless of prior experience with publishing or art, an equal opportunity to get on the subway with us. This edition of The Subway Ride, with the theme “Mirror,” is comprised of contributions from Wesleyan students, staff members, Wesleyan Center for Prison Education prison scholars, Middletown residents, and more. The age of our contributors ranges from 18 to 91 years old. This issue includes the work of poets, bakers, and artists from Connecticut to Germany and Korea, and features several non-English language pieces to expand our notions of inclusion in our publishing process. As a team, we would like to thank all of our contributors for having the courage to share their works of intensely personal expression with us. We, and our community, are better because of it. Please enjoy. The Subway Ride Editorial Team
Cover photograph by Haenah Kwon
Table of Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7-8 9 10
Colin McKernon Meekyung Kim Paul Aumoeualogo Brandon Ho Phoebe Chen Vasoula Vassiliki Bertsos Frank Marsilli Ali Jamali Nick Yeager
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Torello Andre “Dre” Pierce Owen Christoph Colin McKernon Haenah Kwon and Shoko Yamada Guy Sundara Giap Do Shin Wakabayashi Samuel Stern Brandon Ho Clyde Meikle Sheldon Higgins Mario See Justin Liew Sheldon Higgins Ann Sbalcio Bryant Justina Yam Anonymous Roberto Alvarado James Davis James Davis Meekyung Kim Chong Gu Brandon Ho Joseph Natter Steven Gary James Jeter Don Cashman Anna Sheehan Cheryl Anne Hale Adrie Lofters Toys Koomplee Al Gary Clarke Seannie Lydia Brewster Dat Vu Shawn Grabbert
15-16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27-28 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39
Poems Illustrations Moving On Photographs Photograph Song Photograph Mirror Once I Opened Myself Up On A Friend and Her Mother Drawing Mirrors Illustration Drop in the Bucket On Bubbles and Holes Photographs Essay Sculpture Photograph Photograph Attending to Surfaces My Purpose Pamilya (Family) Untitled Prophecy Painting Mirror Photograph Untitled Poems The Poignant Paradox Questions Illustration Computer drawings Photographs by Brandon Ho Dance A Plauged Life Found and Untitled MacDonough Place Me and My Buddy “I’m Not an Artist Like You” Smores Bars Recipe Bake It Easy Writer’s Block Exercise Mental Battle of Self Evolution Poem Time As Perception Photograph Backwards
Poems by Colin McKernon
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Illustration by Meekyung Kim (Lynn Ma ‘16’s Mother) THE SUBWAY RIDE
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Moving On Paul Aumoeualogo
Here I am, having once known everything just to find out that I kind of know nothing. Working two jobs to finance some bon voyage, I plan to travel well beyond my homestead, sooner or later. Fortune has it that I wasn’t born completely stupid, for I know well enough that things don’t always work out as I plan em’. Time presses as hard as ever – I’ve become sick and tired. The work of last month has me fatigued and I’m not sure if I’ve the energy for the next three. All in all, I can only imagine what waits for me, but luckily, if there’s one thing that is certain, it’s that I’ll have to die – mortality after all. And I love that – nothin’ to lose. I mean sure, like any good man, I wish for the best of friends, a real woman so help me God, and perhaps some young ones who are willing to do great things… but not to worry, there is a time and place for everything, where all things must come to pass. Like a cup of tea is made to steep, but the tea is made to drink. And as time ticks away, I await for just that moment: withhold by the hour, to the minute and to the second but my judgment day is inevitable and for the sake of living I deny that not. For to be frozen in time, and given that time stands still for no one, is to suffer a lonesome heart that no riches can fulfill and an addiction that no vice can satisfy – can you imagine waiting forever? And this isn’t about worldly things – college, or the military or the ‘9-5’, these may very well be in my future but to that, so too I exist on a plane that is not bound to this stuff. For now it’s enough to know that even though I’m cuttin’ bread bowls for clam chowder or bussin’ tables, working double shifts from dawn till dusk, it’s through these activities that I humbly forge my character. Naturally I have to consider that I’m right where I’m supposed to be… that I have purpose. And if that’s so, then the only thing I can ever truly wish for is the best seats in the house. And before you know it, you’ll catch yourself saying: Here I am, having once known everything just to find out that I kind of know nothing. Kind of funny when you think about it…
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Photos by Brandon Ho THE SUBWAY RIDE
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Photo by Phoebe Chen
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by Vasoula Vassiliki Bertsos Written in Greek
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This image appeared in the snow in my backyard the day after my Uncle Stino passed away. I see a heart in the snow. You may see a dove. My Uncle Stino was the last surviving sibling of my Dad, who passed away three months before my uncle. I am not a religious person, but I am spiritual. I believe the form in the snow (it was the only bare spot on the entire lawn) was a message from my Dad and my uncle that we are never truly apart. Frank Marsilli
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Essay in Persian and English by Ali Jamali
Mirror
It was nearly noon and I was still in my bed daydreaming. I don’t exactly remember when, but I finally decided to stand up and at least start doing one of the many tasks that I had promised myself to do. I sat behind my desk and opened my laptop. It was out of battery, but the screen was not empty of images. I could see a face that was staring at me with its two eyes. I don’t know why or how, but I sat there and stared at my laptop screen. I started thinking what if I could always see my face? I imagined myself walking on the street with a mirror hanging in front me. How long until I get tired of seeing my face? Is it possible to never get tired seeing my face? What could possibly be in my notso-perfect face that could attract me to it for hours? Slowly, I move my hand towards my face to find out what the face that I was seeing on my 13-inch laptop screen looked like! The moment my hand touched my face, I was shocked! I immediately closed my laptop, returned to my bed and continued daydreaming. Since then, I’ve promised myself never let my laptop to run out of battery.
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Once I Opened Myself Up
Writings by Nick Yeager
For this piece, I used metaphors of tools to dig into myself with to find simple, buried truths that live within my subconscious. ex. chainsaw & blobs - American mass produced movies ex. bull’s horn & blind men - the fragility of masculinity ex. actor’s script & eyeballs - being constantly watched as a performer ex. oak & missile/Twix - varying symbols of America ex. razorblade & marble sculpture - the tragedy of self harm and the shame that a broken child feels for their parents
Once I opened myself up with a pine needle and inside I found a rotting lemon tree that died in my backyard when I was 11. Once I opened myself up with a chainsaw and inside I found thousands of movie theaters full of blobs choking from their full mouths and laughs. Once I opened myself up with my sister’s house key and inside I found 8000 screws rolling around. Once I opened myself up with a bull’s horn and inside I found 400 blind men with shields but no flesh to cover. Once I opened myself up with a letter opener and inside I found the skeleton of my ex-lover instead of my own. Once I opened myself up with an arrowhead and inside I found a brass compass pointing back at my head. Once I opened myself up with a shard of a fluorescent light bulb and inside I found my father’s gold tooth. Once I opened myself up with an antique pin and inside I found a spinning jewelry box that I had heard singing in my eardrums for six months. Once I opened myself up with a tree branch but inside I did not find the root of my sorrows. Once I opened myself up with an actor’s script and inside I found 1,900 glass eyeballs packed into place under my bulging skin. Once I opened myself up with a kitchen knife and inside I found the sickly carcass of a river salmon. Once I opened myself up with a 100-year-old oak and inside I found a piece of shrapnel from an American missile and a Twix bar. Once I opened myself up with a kerosene torch and inside I found the entire ocean, formed from my soft blaze. Once I opened myself up with my teeth and I accidentally bit the moon inside. Once I opened myself up by lifting up the skin of my stomach like a red, wooden lid, and inside I found bullies and a map of sexual confusion from summer camp. Once I opened myself up with a sword and inside I found a seven-year-old girl dressed in shining armor. Once I opened myself up with a wrench and inside I found my father’s hand clenched in a fist, but when I pried it apart I saw that it had held a letter, now in ashes. Once I opened myself up with a refugee’s tombstone and inside I found a desert, a deathly throbbing rabbit’s foot, and a window. Once I opened myself up with a broken tequila bottle and fire leaked out of me onto the bed, and the whole room glittered in the flames. Once I opened myself up with a plastic whistle and a freight train came barreling out with eight earth-dirty kids hitching rides on top. Once I opened myself up with a razorblade and inside I found a marble sculpture of my mother in tears.
On a Friend and Her Mother August 4, 2015, When I Saw Z. For the First Time After She Got Back From Rehab.
A butterfly wandered into enclosure By gleeful ignorance in a sunbeamed clearing Its mother warned it to be careful of rocks and monsters But curiosity tempts with smiles and flying sparks And baby Tiger flew in, to be trapped by shifting stones In darkness she lingered for days Still entranced by some wonder within her cave Some visible thrill in her room of dreams
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The sun’s glint on a shard of glass, perhaps Or the magnetic scent of sweet sugary fruit But when Mother went looking and came upon the grave fortress Her darling turned to see the dimming light through a crack A look of pure terror and hardness in her eyes
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Mirrors Dre Pierce
Andre “Dre� Pierce is an Ebony poet, social activist, and prison scholar. He is one of approximately three dozen prisoners enrolled in Center for Prison Education (CPE) program at Cheshire Correctional Institution. CPE is dedicated to creating an opportunity for Connecticut prisoners to receive a Wesleyan University liberal arts education. some of the lives ive touched are now marred with terror i would cast my eyes when i passed a mirror i was bound to open a hidden buried grave had the mirror forced me to meet my haunted gaze i looked blind not back afraid to see the errors when i entered a home i would crack the mirrors i became awash in imperfection i was a fugitive to my reflection i ran from not away my soulful illness i then glimpsed my beauty in moments of stillness long silence seemed to make my beauty shine clearer it gave me the courage to look in the mirror indeed i saw streaks of vile bile and death shadows of guilt and shame but beauty nonetheless the more i gazed i glimpsed a gifted side to me that has much to offer to society sadly i have left some with wounds still open so i pray to help heal those mirrors still broken i hope to cross their paths and as we get nearer beauty would project reflect from their mirror
Drawing by Torello THE SUBWAY RIDE
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동그란 구멍
Hole (indirect translation)
누군가에게 혹은 어떤것에게 상처를 받거 나 실망을 할땐, 마음속에 동그란 구멍이 생긴다.
When I encounter someone or something special, I form a sacred bubble inside me wholly devoted to that person or thing. The bubble is pretty, until it bursts. When it bursts, it hurts. The bubble bursts, and I am left with a hole.
플라톤이 말했던 아주 완벽한 동그라미 형 Funnily, the hole is round–perfectly round like the one Plato had in his mind. Perfectly 태를 지닌 구멍 말이다. 아주 얄밉게도 동 round, that I could never draw it and show it to someone else. I can only see it in my head, feel it in my heart. 그란 구멍이다. Wind comes in through the hole, and my heart gets cold. I shiver. I guess the world 그럴땐 동그란 구멍속으로 찬 바람이 들어 is far too cold for my heart to bear. As the wind rushes in, something warm inside me 와 가슴이 너무 시리다. 내 안에 배제되어 escapes, out to the world. What escapes? My heat, my energy. My sighs. 있는 힘도 그 구멍으로 삐질삐질 빠져 나 가 날 주눅 들게 만든다. 구멍때문인지, 한 It’s hard to focus when you have a big round hole. ... Oh, what to do? 숨도 자꾸 빠져 나온다. 구멍생각에 다른 I try squeezing myself with a pillow to cover the hole, but the hole does not close. I 일에 잘 집중이 되질 않는다. try cramming myself with some hot soup, but the hole does not get filled. I try letting 아무리 구멍위를 움켜 잡아도 구멍은 닫혀 지지 않는다. 밥을 많이 먹어도 구멍이 채 워지질 않는다. 친구들의 따듯한 위로로 잠시 구멍속을 데워보았지만, 구멍속은 눈 깜짝할 사이에 다시 차가워진다. 허한 마 음을 달고 그저 살아갈 수 밖에 없다.
others console me, and an instant warmth enters me, but soon leaves. Why did it leave? Perhaps because the warmth could not completely fit in the hole, because it had a different shape from the hole–the hole oh-so-perfectly round. I’m cold again. I guess I just have to be friends with the hole. Maybe I can never get rid of holes completely. But I know that, thankfully, holes tend to shrink. Day by day, I sense the hole getting slightly smaller than its size yesterday. One day, it will become a pore.
어쩌면 구멍은 영원히 없앨수 없다. 그러 Because I’ve been through other holes–in fact, much bigger ones, I assure myself that 나 다행이도, 왠만한 구멍은 매일 조금씩 조금씩 작아져 언젠가는 눈에 보이지 않는 “this hole too will become a pore.” Thanks to the past, I accept the hole and walk on with hope. 하나의 모공이 되어 버린다. I come back to my room after a long day, shut the door, and cover myself in thick 이미 여러가지 구멍, 이것보다 큰 구멍을 blankets. I hug a soft pillow, and pray to myself before I sleep. I wake up, I see a smaller 겪어보았기 때문에 ‘이 구멍도 곧 모공이 hole, and I feel a bit better. 되겠지’라는 믿음과 함께 무겁지만 힘있 는 걸음을 멈추지 않는다. 방문을 닫고 푹 Days go by, and I feel a bit better. Days go by, and the hole becomes a pore, one of many round pores breathing within me. I feel much better. 신한 침대위에 올라가 이불을 꼭 껴안고 내 자신에게 기도를 해본다. 마음이 조금 The round pores breathe the same question at me: Are you ready for a bigger bubble? 나아진다.
Illustration by Owen Christoph 13
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Poem by Colin McKernon THE SUBWAY RIDE
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Photos by Guy Sundara THE SUBWAY RIDE
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Writing by Giap Do 17
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Sculpture by Shin Wakabayashi THE SUBWAY RIDE
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Photo by Samuel Stern
Photo by Brandon Ho 19
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Attending to Surfaces CLYDE Meek Sincere MEIKLE The construction of a protagonist. Here is an unfolding of a man from a point in space on to a park bench. The sunny sky appears. The sun move across the sky as his eye opens. A pond unravels before him. The sun strikes his face, then the surface of the ponds water. The breeze awakens him from the depths of symmetrical movement: shivering pond attending to the breeze, goose bumps giggle from the surface of his skin. The sun’s reflection shivers as his mind attends to being. The protagonist is laying on his right side. He looks out across the surface and captures what it means to unfold amidst nature. For surfaces and nature contain a life.I observe these surface from a distance. A bird chirps. The leaves correspond to the breeze a rustle. Protagonist smiles as if he recognizes the breath of life in the stirring beneath this surface. The breeze accept his presence as he inhales to exhale. Stretching his hands to the sky, rusty fingers spread, palms extend; mouth opens wide, as his feet scathe the brown clay dirt, making parallel grooves towards the water reflecting the sky as surface. He reaches into the outer pocket of green rain jacket, pulls out a sandwich bag filled with cigarette buds, and picks out three. A gust of wind draws his attention to wind striking the surface of leaves. A rattling sound unveils from space a cart full of tin cans. He pays no attention to this attendance, and precedes to unravel the tobacco from the cigarette buds on to a sheet of brown papers. He lights it, then he inhales, his body relaxes and the smoke spirals into the breeze… The sun’s reflection in the water portends possibilities. The reflection of trees in its leaves, the blue sky in its clouds, wrinkles as the breeze kisses the surface of the water. The smoke from the make-shift cigarette resembles the make-shift presence of this being. I call him MAN. There is a peculiar happening unfolding. He shivers. Then he looks up to see if the sky attends to the shiver. A shivering surface attending to life. His eyebrows furrow. He seems perplexed by the properties of the wave that seem to attend to his shiver. Stillness above and the movement below isolates his nothingness, here. The reflection on the surface of his eyes capture a truth. The world is incongruent. THE SUBWAY RIDE
There are a few pigeons pecking the land. A beetle presents itself to a leaf beyond the protagonist’s view. A ladybug perches on his pant leg. A tear in the material reveals a covered surface. As if to direct our attention to his rusty knee. The greatness of being might be present here, free of sanction or sanctity. Beyond the surface of things does there lie thought? I am attending to surfaces merely. Expanding space to include ignorance - ignorance, what a liberating concept - abstractly closer to death than promise: are not we all promised this simplicity? I cannot gain access to his being. I am denied! His ignorance from this emerging, slumber, awakens consciousness. Beyond, just above, but further beneath, something is nestled in the folds of these unfolding surfaces. There is a promise that corresponds to everything in which movement on surfaces increase extremes, [Note: if only I can take two steps beyond these walls, I would breathe to expand, so that I can extend to ride, perpetually, prepositions to convey silence and maybe you would listen if only I could touch nothingness.] The protagonist is unusual because he is beyond my reach. Like I, a creation of God, am beyond his reach. Here before him and around him a world is unfolding. Language is a vehicle used to convey what is a concealing, occurring, as always. A it was in the beginning: in the beginning was the world and the word was with… As observers, we interface at the surfaces of consciousness, like reflections on the protagonist’s eyes. Unfolding in our mind, thinking and feeling cannot be; colliding, grazing, opening to announce lacunae, signifying what shall never be. [Note: My tangents are legendary. “But the web touch at all points.” Feeling from a distance disturbs the surface of things indeed.] This story is not without dialogue. Mysteries unravel from within only to tease conscience. Maybe the protagonist s a reincarnation of the snake in the garden. Where Adam and Eve were not but became someone spoke {See a world without speech is preferable!} or wrote. 20
My Purpose Sheldon Higgins My name is purpose That’s what I was born for Don’t be nervous This what I’ved lived for… I got migraine Doctors said I think too much But it’s genetic My DNA done seen too much… The hunger, the starvation The anger and frustration How the fuck my generation gone rule this nation When opposition is in every direction… We got steered to the streets by circumstance hustle hard just to get one chance To live life in the constellations……. The call me thug ‘cause I’m born in sin They call me gangsta ‘cause I’m shaped by iniquity Nigga was the name that they gave me Throughout my life I been treated with impunity Neglected and rejected by society…
Pamilya(Family) Mario See Language: Tagalog
From the invasion we’ve been trampled on Yet they still acting blind to reality I’m still here ‘cause I’m guarded by my dignity…
Minsan, napapaisip ako—paano kaya kung lumaki ako na may karaniwan na kabataan? Bakit kinakailangan ng tatay ko magka-tatlong asawa kung mag-aaway rin naman lahat sila? Hindi ako sigurado kung dapat magpasalamat na lumaki ako’y mayroong magulang o maawa ako sa sarili ko na mababaw ang aming relasyon.
No more shackles and chains nor whips and pain So they killing us with emptiness and vanity…
Pero saan ako makakarating kung wala sila’y sa buhay ko?
Unfounded statements to try my patience False concepts without no substance Then wonder why the ghetto so full of violence My name’s purpose This is my prophecy…
Sometimes, I think about how it would be different if I had a normal childhood. Why did my father choose to have three families when it would just foster conflict and jealousy? I’m never sure if I should be thankful that I grew up with parents or pity myself for never having developed a significant relationship with them. But where would I be right now without them in my life?
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Untitled
Prophecy
Justin Liew
Sheldon Higgins
Language: Malay
It is impossible For Rastafari to die! I am the self-existent Who art thou Oh self-existent man…
Cermin yang jernih menunjukkan refleksi wajahku namun tidak pernah memahami serpihanserpihan identiti yang membentuk ku. Mampukah mu?
I am he that liveth and was dead Behold I am alive forevermore…
The clear mirror shows my reflection yet has never understood the fragments of identity that shape me. Can you?
I am the innate character The true identity… I am the foundation upon which All things rest Which is no foundation… By me man harness nature And utilize her resources… By me man reach his highest desire I am power… He that knows me Knows the unspeakable reality… Be still and feel my vivacity Liveliness of concept and perception… I speak to and for the conscience of man The one mind of all creation… I speak to the heart and soul of man This is a spiritual vibration… I am spirit I animate and inspire…
Painting by Ann Sbalcio
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I speak from within To all that liveth and moveth upon creation… In thine own mind lies solution…
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Mirror by Bryant
Photo by Justina Yam
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Untitled Anonymous
「一緒に〇〇に行こうよ」 というお誘いがある。〇〇では 「たくさん人が集まって、 わいわいやってて楽しい」 ら しい。 僕は理解に苦しむ。 人が集まることの何処が楽しいのかわからない。 むしろ集団というのは往々にして不気味で居心地が悪い。 なんといっても怖い。 わいわいがやがやという擬音はつまりは呪いの様なもので、 頭のなかで永遠に轟々と鳴 り響く。 どっちを向いても後ろから迫ってくるその影は目に見えないから恐ろしい。 時に、人の群れはマネキンの集合に見える。 その中に立っていると、気持ち悪くて、頭がおかしくなってしまい そうである。時には 「沢山人が集まるとわいわいして楽しい」 と自分に信じこませることもできる。 そういうときは 「楽しむ」 こともできる。 でも、 その幻想が壊れてしまった瞬間、僕はマネキンの森に囲まれる。言葉を失った 非個人的な肉体が踊り散らかしている。 こういった状況に身を置くと、僕は魂が抜けてしまう。 目の焦点が合 わなくなり、立っていられなくなる。吐いたり、悪寒がしてきたり。 こうなってしまうと途中退席する以外の選択 肢はない。 無論こういうことを言うのは 「誘ってくれる人の好意を踏みにじる」 ことである。 それが「良くないこと」 だという ことも十分わかる。 だが、 そういう説明とは少し違う話をしているのだということをわかってほしい。少し例を持 ちだしてみたい。 貴方はとてもお腹が空いている。 そこに、優しそうなおばあさんがやってくる。貴方が食べ物がほしそうなのを 悟ったおばあさんは、持っていたかごから一つりんごを取り出して渡してくれる。貴方のことが心配で、 りんご をくれたのだ。 ところが、貴方は理由は分からないが、 そのりんごが毒りんごだという確信がある。一口でも食 べたらその瞬間に死んでしまうのがわかっているのだ。一方、 おばあさんはりんごに毒があるとは微塵も思っ ていない。 この状況では、 おばあさんは確実に貴方を気にかけてくれているし、好意からりんごを渡してくれた。 しかし、 貴方はそのりんごをどうしても受け取れない。 それに、受け取れない理由がはっきりとは説明できない。 「毒が 入ってるから」 という理由は言い訳に聞こえるし説得力がない。 おばあさんからしてみれば拒否される理由は わからない。説明されてもアタマでも理解できないし腹落ちもしない。 僕にとって、稀に 「一緒に〇〇に行こうよ」 は毒りんごなのである。 どれだけ好意にあふれたものであっても、 食べられない。
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Poems by Roberto Alvarado 25
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The Poignant Paradox James Davis I dare not to look too close, nor stretch my gaze too far. For fear of being blinded by light refracted through the prism of life. Life refracted through the prism of time, the haze of marijuana smoke, and the clouds of the sober mind. Disturbingly vivid moments frozen in crime. Survivalist crimes for surviving marginalized lives. Selling dreams in vials, baggies with plastic ties. Binding man with schemes to get rich. Spilt blood as often as blood was spilt. Milk never to be put back in the bottle. Outside the means of production. Within range of the means of destruction. The transmission of addiction fed the belly so addiction was fed a steady diet. Hope once ran riot but was starved and kept quiet. Life in search of itself. Many men left dead, many left in wealth. Promise filling the gulf. Hope’s estranged cousin, promise has gone south. Not South Beach but a south so deep it can no longer be seen. It can no longer be gleaned from what it used to mean. Technology transmits a new kind of poverty. Aids in the building of walls taller than Everest and Olympus. So I must be superman and stand amongst the clouds. Or otherwise fall down to the depths of what waits right under your nose and glows with the light of a thousand volcanoes whose heat is no match for my fire. I aspire to live a life I am still searching for.
A life I have found behind the lids of my eyes. Dark-brown eyes the color of my skin. My skin the prescription for a disease called living And I’m Sick With It. Rather than run I creep. Even when I am asleep. I move with rhythm even when I’m still. Still awake, still imprisoned by reality. So I escape to the other side where I choose to reside. Chosen so long ago I cease to remember if I ever made a choice. Have I ever raised my voice to remark on the beauty I so often overlook. The beauty alive in my past. The beauty of love and conversation. The beauty of loving conversation. Reflections of a soul on the surface of time. I look deeper because I am seeking truth. At the heart of a conundrum. Incarcerated minds swimming in thoughts of a future. Drowning in thoughts of the past. Can’t get past a past that is ever present, and forever relevant. So as I skid across the sky I am steadfastly grounded. The slave of an idea. Lacerated by the soothing caresses of what I hold most dear: FREEDOM. So when I look that’s what I see: FREEDOM. What lies beneath the lies of the truthspeakers. Unraveling the rope around my throat. Emotions like bicycle spokes. Revolving around what used to be me. My image absenting itself from the mirror. The mirror which is me.
James Davis is a member of ISKRA, a blog which provides a place for the community and prisoners across the country to interact, understand, and learn about one another. It is a resource for all prisoners to use to have a voice and to be heard. Visit his blog at https://iskraisspark.wordpress.com. THE SUBWAY RIDE
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Questions by James Davis
Illustration by Meekyung Kim THE SUBWAY RIDE
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Computer Drawings by Chong Gu 29
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Photographs by Brandon Ho THE SUBWAY RIDE
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CAPO’JOE (Joseph Natter) doing Capoeira
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THE SUBWAY RIDE
Essay by Steven Gary
A Plagued Life
`Looking at my heart, my soul, I can tell I’m destined to be something so great God won’t have it no less/ I’m blessed I stared in the eyes of death/ soon as I entered this place called the world out of my mother womb/ she didn’t even get a chance to hold me/ rushed to an incubator. Through God’s grace a miracle baby/ but death kept coming at me threatening my existence. Plagued with sicknesses and diseases/ not breathing/ tools at through me/ doctors saying this time we don’t think he going to make it/ Grandma screaming the devil is a lie/ Down on her knees/ praying to God/ Her grandbaby made it again. Pre-teen no more physical pain but mental pain that satan bring/ placed in the wilderness where his destruction is evident/ sicknesses, illnesses and diseases didn’t work so I was plagued with ignorance, drugs and violence. A teen, 13/ with no dream/ no direction/ Guided from dark clouds above/ mothing on my mind but destruction/ illusions of false perceptions placed on my mind by satan/ Had me gravitating quick to my own demise. 17/ Once again/ staring in the eyes of death/ Bullets no meant for me chalked around me/ God shielded me/ to stop the plagues from coming down on me/ God knew it was time to intervene in my life/ At a cost/ R. Kelley “I Wish”/ My boy in heaven I miss/ Only if you knew what at times I wish. At sea <lost>/ trapped in the mouth of a whale <belly of the beast> surrounded, isolated by the dark/ can’t escape so I’m forced to meditate/ on thoughts of life or death/ I chose life/ that’s when I started to see some light/ the more I saw/ the more peaceful I became/ God started to show me some things/ that made my insight change/ my values but my principles remain the same/ satan still threatening my existence/ No more plagues/ so he send fools with no jewels <wisdom> for tools/ to try and make me lose and confused <keep in darkness> My divineness is understanding/ so now I’m standing/ with my eyes open/ I’m not clear if I’m prophesying or hoping/ but I do believe my kingdom will truly come/ so I’m constantly striving for my will to be done/ Keep faith in yourself and God and it shall be done. Peace!
Writings by James Jeter
Found
Untitled
I found that you can’t get blood out of a rock But a rock upside ya’ head will draw blood. Found that most violent people weren’t born that way, They just found no way to deal with their anger. I once was found, But by the wrong people so I got lost again, I once was lost, But now I’m found: Dumbfounded by others ignorance, Amazed by my own. Unfounded claims of scientific truths mislead 5.25 billion people; A newfound religion - “Theory” I found Jimmy Hoffa, Him and Ben Ladin were having brunch with both Georges’ and Jeb. They found me to be a problem, They found me a cell.
I’m lost, Will I be found remains to be seen. I breathe, my heart beats, my mind wanders aimlessly in incoherent imaginations: Paintings of lives lost, Possibilities rendered useless in the steel machinery of cold hard reality. Will Yahweh spite me for what I have become? A shell of the man he intended me to be.
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Responsibility leads a manhunt in search of me, Yet I, Move through shadows, lurk in alleys on the seedy part of a town called rejection. Slothfulness and resentment drink in bars inviting me into their presence to partake in mockery; their past time day and night. My heart cries for change, my mouth waters for the refreshing taste of years gone by, lost to me, foreign to me, removed from me at their birth, and giving to others to love, and appreciate.
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Poems from One MacDonough Place Art Show
One MacDonough Place is an assisted living community for elderly citizens run by Middlesex Hospital.
MacDonough Place Me and My Buddy Don Cashman
Anna Sheehan
Don Cashman is One MacDonough Place’s resident piano player, often entertaining his friends while they wait for dinner or bingo. He has recently begun writing poetry that he hopes will one day be set to music.
Anna Sheehan came to One MacDonough Place in 2012, and she is active in the baking group, bingo, poetry and art. Her work has been featured in our previous calendars and one of her lovely paste is on this year’s Art Show invitation.
MacDonough is the place to be MacDonough is the place for me. There’re always lots of things to do Come see if it’s the place for you! Enjoy MacDonough’s gourmet meals Come on down, see how it feels. Tend the gardens. Walk the hall. Grow some plants, we have it all We have art and music too, Games to play and great friends too! Write a poem or ride the bus Drive through the countryside with us. Whether we’re here for work or play We’re happy to be here every day.
I take my Buddy wherever I go I can’t do without him, Until I have time to grow But unfortunately, that can’t ever be I take my Buddy wherever I go I can’t do without him, Until I have time to grow So we walk hand in hand To help each other To walk our long, wide mile. And when that long mile is over we look for a different kind of repose that will give us our soul and give us a good rest That’s when he will sit on our walker to get a good night’s restful sleep, In their proper resting place. That lucky Pillow of mine.
A Poem To Honor Our Artists:
“I’m Not an Artist Like You” Cheryl Anne Hale
Cheryl Anne Hale is the Art Show coordinator. Also assists and facilitates the art and poetry programs, photographs the residents and their artwork for the calendar, newsletters, etc., compiles and edits the anthology and generally acts as cheerleader for the residents.
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She wields pastels of green and blue, Flowers bloom beneath her hand, A rocky shore, a beachy strand. But her voice grows shaky with dismay, “It doesn’t look like yours”, she’d say… “I’m not an artist like you”
At eighty, ninety or a hundred and two, She plays with colors; textures; words. She paints a garden with purple birds She writes of shooting stars and snow Doubting their worth, as pen and paint flow… “I’m not an artist like you”
She’s afraid her stanzas are too few A struggle, she thinks to find a rhyme But thinks her friend’s poem’s sublime. She can’t just scribble about for fun, “Can’t write like Emily Dickinson… “I’m not a poet like you”
It surprises me that she has no clue That the person sitting next to her Who never thought she’d find the key And had uttered those same words to me… Had also started out unsure, “I’m not an artist like you.”
Trying her hand at the arts is new, In her youth she’d had no time to try, Children to raise, groceries to buy. Now she’d write like Donne and paint like Monet But fears her efforts seem like child’s play… “I’m not an artist like you”
She’s now adept at art, verse too, Each work as unique as snowflakes, Following paths eyes, hearts and hands take. She takes up now our glad refrain Art’s unique, no one else, it’s plain… Could be an artist like YOU!
THE SUBWAY RIDE
Smores bars Recipe by Adrie Lofters The great thing about s’mores bars is that they’re not just a campfire food, but an anytime snack: they’re perfect for an after dinner treat, a midday snack, a late night post-party binge....I would recommend you eat them while warm, but even cold these bars will fulfill you.
Bake It Easy
Ingredients • 2 sticks (16 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted • 1/3 cup brown sugar • 1 cup white sugar • 2 large eggs • 2 tsp vanilla • 16 full-sized graham crackers • 2.5 cups flour • 2 tsp baking powder • ½ tsp salt • 4 king sized milk chocolate bars • 5 cups marshmallow fluff
Hi there! I am delighted to have this wonderful opportunity to share with you guys some of the baking recipes in my repertoire. My name is Toys, like things you play with. I am currently a junior here at Wesleyan pursuing Psychology and German Study double majors. I started baking when I was an exchange student from Thailand to Michigan around 6 years ago. Now baking has become my main stress reliever. Whenever I feel stressed, I bake and share those baked goods to my friends. Many people ask, “How did you make that?” Most of the time, I just follow recipes, although I did adjust almost every single one of them to my liking. So today I would like to present to you my version of Key Lime Pie. It’s a very easy simple recipe that everyone should give it a try:
Directions 1. Grease a 13 x 9 baking pan. 2. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. 3. Whisk together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Set aside. 4. In a large pan or sheet, crush graham crackers into fine crumsb (see picture). Spoons and other kitchen utensils can be used, but I prefer a potato masher. 5. In a second bowl, mix graham cracker crumbs, flour, baking powder, and salt. 6. Slowly add flour mixture to butter mixture. Try to be sure that the mixtures are well combined – sometimes flour can sit at the bottom of the bowl. 7. Wash your hands (hopefully for the second time…). You’re about to press dough with your fingers. 8. Divide dough in half. Press half of the dough into an even of a layer as you can into the bottom of the baking pan. Don’t be too worried if it seems a little thin, but try not to have holes in the middle of the pan. 9. Place chocolate bars evenly on top of dough in pan. 10. Spread fluff evenly over dough/chocolate bar mixture. 11. Press remaining dough over the fluff. You can flatten it piece by piece and smush it into place. Try and spread over as much of the pan as you can, but it’s okay if there are a few small uncovered spaces. 12. Bake until lightly browned, around 25-30 minutes. 13. Let cool, slice into squares, and gorge yourself.
THE SUBWAY RIDE
Episode 1
Toys Koomplee
Toys’ Key Lime Pie Ingredients 1 can (14 oz.) of Sweetened Condensed Milk 1/3 – ½ cup of Key Lime Juice (you can also use regular Lime Juice for this.) 2 egg yolks 1 egg white 1 pre-made pie crust Whipped Cream (Optional) Instruction 1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit 2. Bake the pie crust for 10 minutes (You don’t have to if you prefer the fresh crust to the baked one). Allow it to cool. 3. Mix the condensed milk and lime juice until well combined. The filling should get slightly thicker. Add the yolks. Mix until homogenous. 4. Using an electric mixer on high speed (or your hand if you want some extra workout), whisk the egg white until the soft peak is formed. This means that when you lift the whisk up, the egg white should go up and then curve down. This should take no longer than 5 minutes. 5. Fold the egg white into the pie filling until they are well combined. Pour the filling into the crust. 6. Bake the pie for 17-20 minutes or until the filling is no longer jiggling. Allow the pie to cool before topping with whipped cream.
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Mental Battle of Self Evolution Gary Clarke Sitting still, But very active. Time flies by swiftly. Body is restricted Spirit is very conflicted The mind tries to break free. Although the current circumstances attempts to prevent me, Strength exudes from me passionately. Others’ intentions distract and provoke me. Growth and maturity, Beautiful, Appealing, I know she wants me. Out of fear for rejection, Actions appear arrogant, cocky, she’s not worthy. Are we soulmates? Will she wait for me? Negative images begin to console me. Pull it together, Breathe… That was the old me. Careless, Immature, Coldblooded. Reminiscing on how she use to hold me. She’s bad, I’m good, Confrontation… Fight like malicious Pit Bulls would. Blink, Reset, Breathe… Elevate; Separate myself if I could. Epiphany! Hope my soulmate is waiting for me. She’s the one I need, I know now that she’s the one for me. Chasing her fragrance, I know she’s close, I pray that she slows up for me. Am I too late? Can’t be, it’s destiny, we’re soulmates. Damn, what’s happening to me? Who has control of me? Peace, Bliss, Tranquility… I see my beauty in front of me. Demons, Shackles, Drugs, I plead to you that you’re not the one for me! I let you go, now perish, A better man is what I want for me. Day 2,920 I’m still not where I want to be. Fight, or Flight? Difficult battle is not what it should be.
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Poem by Seannie
Time As Perception Lydia Brewster
“If I have time,” I say dismissively, as I, once again, put off my colleague who wants me to stop by for a drink. “If I have time.” I do.
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THE SUBWAY RIDE
Photograph by Dat Vu THE SUBWAY RIDE
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EDIR YAWBUS EHT
The Subway Ride Editorial Team Phoebe Hanzhi Chen Adeline Hafemeister Haenah Kwon Alison Lam Siri McGuire
Tai Taliaoa Justina Yam Shoko Yamada Caren Wenqing Ye You, Who Should Join Our Team
Shoutout to... Adrie for baking for Usdan event staffs every week (look at page 34) Vasoula for singing the Greek song during her shift in Usdan (look at page 6) Professor Fishbane and his Spring 2014 FYS class “The Examined Life” for inspiring this magazine (We miss you!) Victor Zhao for driving international students during breaks Trang Tran for making dinner for Vietnamese/Vietnamese-American students in Sweet Harmony Bakery & Cafe (see our blog for photos) Chong for making the layout for the first issue all by himself (!) and for keeping in touch with us after transferring Professor Samyn for sharing about Sloterdijk’s theory on bubbles and intimacy The contributors for this issue for sharing their voice ALL of you for reading this magazine Check out our blog at thesubwayride.weebly.com Send all your questions, shoutouts, and future submissions to thesubwayride@gmail.com THE SUBWAY RIDE
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