Poetry
| Caroline Davis
Tansies in the City
Driving in the city, only trash and smog in the sky
Men yelling, cars honking, nothing but Chatter… Chatter… Chatter… Beneath my foot the car rumbles, I feel the age-old steering wheel
Breathing dirty air in my nose, almost burning with pollution
A deep breath is almost painful, taste of grease on my tongue
Craving freedom only nature holds, water on my feet; wind in my hair.
Freesias by the River
A stream fills my eyes, frogs jumping; mushrooms growing Gurgles and burbles; birds chirping, grass swaying
Crisp cold water over feet, clay and pebbles between toes
Cleanest air in my lungs, earth and flowers fight for dominance
Smiling wide sweet on my tongue, almost tasting the bee’s honey In the wild nothing compares Earth-connected; Freedom at it’s Finest.
1
| Meredith Davis
The Curse of Middle Age
She cuts a small figure With twilight under her eyes. Struggling to carry a duty that we all must face. The burden of being alone.
| Sarah Goins
Unnamed
Hello, can you hear me?
It’s getting dark and cold here Will someone invite me in?
No one comes to the door though I knock again and again Should I try once more in vain?
They do eventually come, but with a look of disdain
“Why should I let you in?”
“What will you give to us?”
I gave them my voice, but that wasn’t enough
I gave them my time, but it wasn’t worth much.
I gave them my image, which they soon tore up I gave them my youth They swallowed it down
When I had nothing left, they tossed me to the cold
2
3
Crept into my bones
Wind stole my breath
I curled up and died nothing to my name
Not even last words to say They marked my stone with: Here lies unnamed.
| Kenzie King
Healing
Hey you—yeah, you—you won’t stay where you are You will move forward—go far
The pain will end You won’t have to pretend.
You’ll find who you’re supposed to be Just please stay with me
I know you want to run, feels like it’s all coming undone, but these trials are temporary One day–you’ll see–necessary.
Bad days don’t mean you’ve regressed, Because healing is a process
Trust me one day you’ll be okay, just promise me today, you’ll stay.
4
5
| Makailee George
Letter to my son
Liam...
My son
I prayed for you and your future before I even knew who you were going to be
When you were no larger than my little bean With everything going on in the world... With all the war the hate and uncertainty
the Lord blessed us with you
As nerve-wracking as it is to bring a baby into this fallen world,
I held one fact to be true... you were made for a time like this You were designed and crafted by God for a time like this Liam, my son
Do not let this world dull your smile or change your laughter
Don’t let people’s ignorance and misunderstandings change who you are and how you view yourself
You were made for a time like this
I pray that as you face adversity- which you will... that mom and dad have equipped you with enough tools in your toolbox to overcome
When you face discrimination- which you will... That you are prepared to look it in the face and say, “My worth and value doesn’t come from what you think about me.” My son
I pray you stay strong-willed and determined to grab life by the horns and show it who’s boss to stay humble but never cower
Remember–you were made for a time like this My son...
I pray that you don’t let your heart harden by the circumstances
and uncertainties of the world but keep your heart open and sensitive to Jesus
I pray that you love with all your heart and without condition Love doesn’t make you weak, but makes you strong I pray that you don’t let your heart harden by the circumstances
and uncertainties of the world but keep your heart open and sensitive to Jesus
I pray that you love with all your heart and without condition
Love doesn’t make you weak, but makes you strong
Do not let the world conform you and try to take you off the path of who you are destined to be
You were born to do great things
Stand tallwhen things feel like they are crumbling Dream bigwhen at times, it’s difficult to see the big picture Stay wild and free-
6
7
when others try to put you in a box
You were made for a time like this, son so strive for greatness
Lastly, my son,
Don’t listen to all the voices and noise that will surround you but lean into His whisper
Lean in when He says“SEEK ME”
Lean in when He says “COME TO ME”
Lean in when he says “YOU’RE MINE”
Lean into that whisper and remember that you were made for a time like this and YOU MY SON ARE HIS.
| Athur Mendaz
Is the air crisper?
Are the birds louder?
For the first time in a while, Oklahoma weather is feeling like a set season. I couldn’t be prouder. The empty tree limbs, dancing in the wind, waiting for the right moment to start blooming, I’m happy the hotter, longer days are amongst us.
The asphalt sizzling and steaming, streets and neighborhoods over run with youth, music from ice cream trucks heard blocks away. Husbands mowing the lawn, to satisfy their relaxing wives
The warmer the weather gets, the more peaceful the neighbors.
Will we have a random cold day in the middle of spring?
One can only bet. It’s time for new season’s greetings.
8
9
| Bailee Samle
Highway 152
When people are too much, with their anger and opinions, or when my fears are too many, ricocheting off the walls, I drive west until no manmade thing can block my view of You. The earth unfurls around me endlessly—
The blue above reaches down embracing me— and every small thing: the rustling blades and cicada’s cry, the delicate notes of each bird, and the fragile spark of every bloom, feels precious and acts seen. Surely they are worshiping. I often feel too small, too soft, too weak, sinking but when I join these other miniscule and momentary things beneath Your ancient and infinite sky, my smallness is swallowed up and I know you have not let us go.
“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Matthew 5:5
10
11 ~
| Kaelyn Smith
See corresponding image on p. 11.
Move
Picking up the pieces that feel shattered, haphazard
Glued together, a complex maze of cracks and fractures
It is time to go, and I do, one step forward
Even if it is tentative
Even if it is small and shy
The time is now
One step…
One more,
It is time to see the values
The goals I want in life
See what is important
See what is beauty
See what is true
The time is now
Unless…
No, I was depressed
I was alone
But it turns out I don’t have to be
These feelings that have crippled my Insides
12 |
13
Kaelyn Smith Move
I can’t let anxiety’s grasp take too much of a hold
A cobra squeezing slowly, slowier still.
I can get help
I can learn to rise out of the pit that I call despair
There are people who want to help me
Counselors, doctors, therapists
My family
My friends
It is time
To move out of this dark hole
I never liked it there anyways And finally Even if it takes time
I am willing to do it It’s to move Into
14
LIGHT
Fiction
| Meredith Davis
Hollow
“Poor little guy, I’ll have to do something about him.” Hades was looking out the window at Cerberus. The spirit that was in charge of playing with him got scared and ran off after seeing Cerberus bounding up with his ball. Now, Cerberus was just looking down at his ball and whining. No animals were allowed in the underworld other than the monsters, but they never stayed here for long. The spirits Hades put in charge of entertaining Cerberus never lasted long either, and Hades couldn’t blame them. His favorite pet was unsettling at best and terrifying at worst. Hades was at his wit’s end. He didn’t know what to do about Cerberus, and it hurt Hades to see him so lonely. Things got better for a while after Hades put him in charge of making sure the dead stay in the underworld, but the spirits know now not to leave, and only the occasional restless spirit tries to escape. “What am I going to do with you, buddy?”
“Eww, what’s that?” said the little boy
“It’s a possum,” said the little girl, “I think it’s dead.”
“What should we do?”
“Do you have any coins?” She asked
“Why?”
“Well, I heard that you’re supposed to put coins in the mouth of a dead person. That way, they can go to the afterlife.”
“Ok, sure! I got a coin!”
I thought I was just sleeping; that’s how it felt anyway. I woke up next to a river and a bunch of people. AHH, people! Play dead! I lay there, but no one looked or even noticed me. I stayed there for a long time before someone finally talked to me.
I never saw it coming; then again, that is one of the powers Death has, surprise. I never felt a thing. One minute I was walking, sniffing out a mouse, then BAM—nothing.
Charon was having a really long day at work, but then again, every day is long when you never stop working. They say the only constants in this world are taxes and death, and when you work for the latter, you never stop being a constant. I was used to the work, though still, some days were more challenging than others, and this was one of those days.
First, I had a mother crying for her son. They’re always the worst. Do those mothers think that if they turn on the waterworks and make a huge fuss, I’ll let them go back?
15
16
No, don’t mortals remember that they die? If they have unfinished business, do it before Thanatos comes for them. Don’t cry to me about it. Like I have any power. Then, to escape from her wailing, I fell into the wellground groove of trying to remember my past life. Why I still try to remember, I will never understand. But there are two things: a smile and that it used to be one coin.
That smile was warm and inviting, in stark contrast to what I look at every day: fields of swirling mist, wandering souls, and endless gray. In the distance, mountains reached their dark peaks into the sky, and beyond those mountains lay the true criminals. The mortals that did genuine evil and needed to be eternally punished for their wrongdoings. Ever since I can remember, I’ve paddled this ferry across the same river, never stopping, not knowing anything else than the wailing spirits and gray mist. Being the carrier of souls has won me no friends, and for the longest time, I didn’t need any.
That is, until I saw her. No one else was ever happy to see me. There was something special about that smile. Obviously, I don’t remember what, but she was the first to smile at me; I know that for certain. The hollow she filled in me is one I can never forget. Before I met her, Iwas happy to do whatever Hades wanted, servitude never chaffed, and I was content to do my work. Yet, when I saw that smile, I knew what I was missing. Hades knows more about what happened next, but my scratched memory can recall that I now get paid the other coin. Why I agreed, I’ll never understand. No one is allowed to leave once you arrive.
I snap back from my thoughts when I see something on the ground. I walked closer, I saw that none of the other spirits took any notice of it. I think… is that… a possum. Yep, it’s a Possum.
“Well, how did you get here, little guy?”
I started. I jumped up and started to hiss at whoever was near me. But I couldn’t make any noise. There was something in my throat. I hacked up… two coins?
“Well, ok then. Get on the boat, but my boss is not going to like this.”
As I pull up to the shore, I see Hades waiting for me, as I knew we would, but no one is allowed to leave.
“Hi, uh…um, hello, sir.”
“What is that, Charon? Why would you bring this, this thing here!” Hades shouted at me.
I cringed. “Well, he had coins.”
“So, you thought it was best that he come HERE?!”
I had had enough. “What else was I supposed to do? He paid! You know the rules; I’m bound to them just the same as you.” I knew that would end the conversation.
“Alright, fine, he can stay, but you have to find somewhere to put him.”
Hades vanished in a billow of smoke. I had no idea what I was going to do with a possum.
17
18
I guess I could keep him on the ferry with me, but he’s so small all the dangers flashed before my eyes. The little guy getting pulled under, kicked off, or lost amid the wandering spirits. Of course, that is just on the boat; no telling what could happen if he left my sight. I may be immortal, but I can’t be in two places at once.
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me, little guy. What do you want to do?
Why I am asking the possum, I will never understand. Uh oh, Cerberus found us. He came bounding up. Then the possum started hissing. This is not going to end well. I’m pretty sure possums are the ones that play dead, which is precisely what Cerberus doesn’t need. All the horrible things I envisioned before came flooding back. For some reason, I cared about this little guy. Right when I was trying to decide what to do, the possum started jumping around and running up, still hissing, to Cerberus. Will wonders never cease! The possum was playing with Cerberus.
“Well, it looks like you figured out what you’re going to do for the rest of eternity.”
As I watched the two of them play, I remembered the hollow in my soul. No one needs to feel like that, not even the dead.
“That’s good; he needed a friend down here.”
| Kenzie King
Premeditate
“Genesis, get in here,” Olive, my roommate and best friend of eight years, hollers at me from the comfort of the forest-green couch in the living room. “We need to get this episode started soon. I have to go to work early tomorrow to get everything ready to meet with the new penetration tester.”
“Remind me again what that means. Sounds sexy,” I reply while pouring the freshly popped popcorn into a bowl and heading into the living room.
Olive scoffs sarcastically at me but answers the question anyway. “The penetration tester works for the company, and it’s their job to attempt to hack into the servers. It helps us know where security is lax so we can improve it,” she explains.
Olive is a Cybersecurity specialist for a large company in Albany, New York, where we live, and I don’t understand anything work-related she talks about. As a wedding photographer, my mind understands pictures a lot more than all the computer science stuff she works with.
“Gotcha. Well, we better get this show started before I fall asleep out of boredom,” I respond while leaning over her to grab the remote off the end table. I see her roll her eyes, and I stick my tongue out.
I press play, and I’m taken back to Mystic Falls— where I first developed my love for all things vampire.
19
20
We decided last week to rewatch The Vampire Diaries because it has always been our favorite guilty pleasure show. We know it’s not great quality and is meant for pre-teen girls, but we were pre-teen girls when it aired. We loved it then, and we love it now—okay, maybe not as much now, but it’s still fun.
Tonight we are on episode eleven. It starts with Elena going for a drive after discovering heartbreaking news about Stephan. I close my eyes; I can’t watch it. I know the car crashes, and she gets trapped inside. I can’t relive the scene—I can’t relive the crash.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. I can still hear it; the rev of the engine, the gasp, the squeal of the brakes in the attempt to stop before it’s too late. The agonizing sound of metal crunching and glass shattering. Olive pauses the show, but I’m stuck remembering everything that happened. My hand shoots to my neck as I feel the seatbelt cutting into it, keeping me from flying out the windshield. I feel my leg snap in two, and my breath catches as I remember my rib stabbing into my lung. I remember the pain of my shoulder slamming into the door and my collarbone fracturing with the impact. My heart pounds as I jump out of my seat and run down the hall to our shared bathroom. I have to get out of here.
“Gen. Hey, open up. Are you okay? I’m sorry about the show. I totally forgot that happened in this episode; we don’t have to keep watching if you don’t want to. Please open the door,” I hear Olive say from outside as I splash water on my face.
Grabbing the towel to pat my face dry, I go to unlock the door. “No, it’s okay. I’m okay. Let’s keep watching.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Wait, do you still have my heated blanket in your room? I’m kind of chilly.”
“Yeah, I do. You can grab it; it’s on the bed. I’m gonna grab a soda while you’re at it.”
“Okay, cool. Be right back,” I say and turn towards her room.
I walk into her room and stop at the foot of the bed. Like always, it feels bare. Olive’s taste in decor has always been so different from mine; she prefers minimalism (aside from her extensive computer and gaming setup), and I do not. I don’t understand how anyone could live with so little decor. I don’t think if someone were to walk into our rooms, they would ever guess that we get along, let alone that we’re best friends.
I grab the blanket and turn to leave, but I knock a book off the bed. I bend over to pick it up and put it back on the bed, but it must have opened when it fell, and I see that it’s a notebook full of Liv’s handwriting. I don’t recognize the cover, and if Liv kept a diary, I would be the first to know. (So I can make fun of her, of course). Why have I never seen this before?
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I start flipping through it. This is odd. It’s a notebook full of information about Asher, my ex-boyfriend, his family, and his new girlfriend, too. Why does Olive have all of this?
21
22
I hear footsteps followed by Olive saying, “What’s taking so long?”
I throw the book back on the bed and leave the room. “Oh, sorry, I got an email from prospective clients and wanted to get back to them,” I respond as I walk back into the living room.
“Oh, yeah? A big money maker, huh?”
Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. “Yes. The biggest I’ve had in a long time—if not ever. They’re friends of my dad’s family in Greece. Greek weddings are always extravagant, but the bride is a real estate agent, and the groom is a software engineer, so they’re going over the top with everything. They’re willing to fly me over there if we can make it work. I really need this to work, Liv. I could really use the money this one would bring in.”
“Then what’s the issue?“
“Their original photographer canceled at the last minute. The wedding is on Saturday, so I would have to fly over there on the next flight—which is tomorrow evening—to get a feel for the venue and what they want.”
“Ah. Well, I say go for it. I can drive you to the airport, so you don’t have to leave your car there.”
“That would be perfect. Thank you; I am getting kind of tired, though, and need to let them know that I’m accepting. Can we postpone Vampire Diaries?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. Goodnight. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I say as I stand to leave. I hug her before walking to my room and composing the email.
By the time I get into bed, I’m exhausted, but I
can’t stop thinking about that notebook. I keep tossing and turning, trying to fall asleep, but I can’t; my mind won’t shut down. Why does she have all of that information? How did she get the data? What could she possibly need it for? All of these questions plague my mind until I fall into a restless sleep.
At around 7:30 the following day—30 minutes after Olive left for work—I go into her room to get the notebook, but it’s no longer on the bed. It takes me a couple minutes to find it tucked under some paperwork in her desk drawer in the far corner of the room. She probably moved it, so it wasn’t on the bed while she slept. I take it and a cup of coffee with me to the living room, plop down on the couch and begin reading.
Asher Williams
Physical Description: basically the average “attractive” white guy—totally not my type.
- 24 years old
- Caucasian
- Brown hair
- Blue eyes
- Sharp jawline
- Slender build.
- 6’ 1”
Personality:
- Egotistical
- Reckless
- Narcissist who broke my best friend’s heart and almost killed her because he’s an idiot.
23
24
Medical:
- O negative blood type (but he’s never given blood)
- Allergic to peanuts, lavender, and Ibuprofen
- Broke his wrist when he was 12 playing lacrosse
- Received a concussion and a few scratches in a car crash on 12/18/21, while Genesis sustained a broken rib, a broken leg, many severe gashes all over her body, and a fractured collarbone because of his reckless driving.
Known Residences:
- Family home in Cairo, New York. He lived here for 18 years before college (1999-2017).
- Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute campus through out college (2017-2021)
- Downtown Albany, New York (2021-present)
Family:
-
Mother: Martha Williams - deceased
- Father: Anthony Williams - 50 years old, presides in family home.
- Older sibling: Nicholas Williams - 26, Buffalo, NY
- Younger sibling: Eliza Williams 16, lives at home
Close Relationships (Past & Present):
- Genesis Ariti: Ex-girlfriend (4/27/201812/18/2021)
- Olive Wolfe: Classmate and friend (2017-2021)
- Maxwell Henderson: Childhood best friend (2006-present)
- Katherine Barnes: Girlfriend (6/12/2022-present)
- From Albany, NY
- Has a degree in interior design
- Works from home as an interior design blogger
- Little known about her family
- Currently lives with Asher
The entire notebook continues with this kind of information as well as Asher’s daily schedule, the route he takes to and from work, his usual pit stops, and the same sort of information about Katherine. If I didn’t know better, I would think this was the notebook of a stalker or someone plotting to harm Asher. That can’t be the case, though, because Olive would never do that. Right?
Her friendship with Asher did not end well. She decided to end all contact with him after I broke up with him because she was upset that he put my life in danger by going 60mph on the sharpest curve in Greene County despite my telling him to slow down multiple times. This wasn’t the first time something like this happened; he’s an adrenaline junkie, and we always wound up in dangerous situations because of it. She thought he was reckless and didn’t want to have anything to do with him after it caused real harm. Plus, what kind of best friend would stay connected with their best friend’s ex-boyfriend anyway?
She couldn’t still be upset over something that happened over a year ago, could she? She hasn’t said anything about it. Besides, it happened to me, and I’m okay for the most part. I’ve forgiven him; heck, I’ve considered texting him to see if he wanted to get coffee sometime to tell him that myself. Why would she be so
25
26
angry about something that didn’t even happen to her?
While I’m trying to figure out what all this means, I get a notification; it’s from the airport. Crap. My flight has been pushed up. We take off at 1:00 pm instead of 7:00 pm. I check the time, and it reads 8:45 am. I have to call Olive to see if she can still take me.
The phone rings four times before she picks it up. “Hey.” She sounds out of breath, and there’s a lot of noise—like she’s outside in the downtown area.
“Hey. Are you outside? It’s really loud,” I respond.
“Oh, yeah. I was, umm … going for a walk to … wake up a little bit before meeting with the new guy.”
“Oh, okay. Anyway, I was notified that my flight got moved up to 1:00 pm. I’ll need to get there by 11:00 to get through security and get to the gate in time. Can you swing it, or should I drive myself?”
“Yeah, I can still take you; let me just let everyone know the training will have to be pushed until tomorrow. I can be home in an hour.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll see you soon. Love you. Bye,” I say and go to end the call.
I hear her reply, “Love you too. Bye,” before the line goes dead.
Olive arrives at the apartment exactly one hour later, calling to let me know she’s in the parking lot as she pulls in. When I get outside, she tells me to put my luggage in the back seat because the trunk is full, which is weird—what could she possibly have back there? I brush it off, though.
We spend the drive jamming out to some of our favorite early 2000s music without much talking—how we typically spend drives together.
When we pull into the drop-off line, I tell her, “I should be back early Monday morning, but I’ll send you the exact information Sunday if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, of course, no worries,” she responds and puts the car in park so I can grab my luggage from the back seat. She also hops out to help me unload everything.
I begin heading towards the sliding doors into the security and luggage checkpoints. “What? No hug before you go,” I hear Olive pout at me from behind.
“How could I ever forget,” I tease while turning around to embrace her.
Once her arms are wrapped around me, I hear a faint groan and a muffled noise that sounds like my name coming from the trunk. Olive stiffens, and I know she heard it too. “Don’t worry. Everything will be taken care of before you get back,” she says into my ear before pushing me through the security doors.
27
28
| Emmanuel Diaz
Memoir
Dr. Patrick P. Lo was the head of the Corn Family Medical Center. Somehow, I could never escape a sore throat or a cough, and in the same way, I became familiar with a cold; I became familiar with that clinic. Every single trip to that clinic was more or less the same, yet I can always remember the particulars.
My Ama said that she liked going to that clinic because of Dr. Lo, which she referred to him as “El Chino.” I never actually knew if he was Chinese to be honest, and although she referred to all Asians as “Chinos” (despite never knowing if they were Chinese or not), I was just as guilty and followed suit. Dr. Lo was a tall, handsome man of around 40 years, give or take. He had a strong accent when speaking either English or the little Spanish he had become familiar with throughout the years. He had a strong grip and very, very cold hands. I remember every examination when he would press on my belly or lift up my shirt to place the stethoscope and how freezing his hands were, even more so than the metal stethoscope. It was also routine for him to ask me what school I went to, despite me being a regular. “Columbus Elementary,” I would respond, to which we would reciprocate and say, “No way, mijo, me too!” After each visit, he would hand out peanut butter crackers and little Tampico citrus juice bottles to all his patients, which was my favorite part.
29
Arriving at the clinic early was of the essence. So many Señoras would line up to see Dr. Lo on the weekdays. Despite missing school, I would still have to be up early to go to that clinic. The sky was always scattered with clouds, wispy and light, showered in the early morning sunlight. These mornings were usually chilly, so my Ama would line up to spare me from the weather. Finally, after what seemed like hours, we would be granted entry into the clinic.
The waiting room was compact and cozy. A television would be tuned in to the local news (and a few game shows in between). Below it stood a bookshelf with a lot of outdated magazines on display. Eventually, a couple of people seated next to it would poke their heads into one out of sheer boredom. Right next to the reception window was a 4-foot-long fish tank with the most beautiful Koi fish I had ever seen. A couple of smaller goldfish accompanied said fish. Every single visit, I would sit in front of that tank and marvel at those fish, feeling as trapped as they did; their tank was like a little waiting room.
Believe it or not, 20-year-old me still hadn’t achieved perfect health. How about that? Waking up early in the morning still felt like hell. Now I was driving to the clinic, my mother absent while I’m adulting. Staying in the car waiting for the clinic to open wasn’t an option anymore. I now joined those Señoras who had been waiting for the cue to come in through those doors.
Seeing the clinic for the first time in years felt all but normal. This bizarre realization that my person had
been here at an earlier point in time and space began to hit me. The T.V. still remained tuned in to the local news station. Those magazines remained outdated, in poor state and riddled with tears and discoloration.
The fish tank seemed emptier. Two pitiful fish occupied the tank. I couldn’t help but stare at that tank. The years had passed, and I figured that tank would remain the same as if it were stuck in time. Certainly, the waiting period had remained the same. A couple of hours would have to pass in order to be seen. I listened to what the ladies there were talking about: the usual talk of the town.
Dr. Lo seemed worn out. I overheard the receptionist mention how he works too much to take care of himself. His age began to pile up on his back, creating a hunch.
“Hey mijo, how you doing?”
He sounded just like he did all those years ago. His hands were just as cold. Yet, despite his aging, his grip was just as strong as he shook my hand.
“Good,” I responded.
The infographic posters on the wall detailing the human anatomy and pathogens had remained unchanged. Surprisingly, no additional wear or tear had fallen upon those diagrams, seemingly untouched.
“Where are you going to school, mijo?”
“Oh, you know, so and so college.”
“No way, mijo, me too. I did my undergrad there
30
31
before I went to doctor school.” Hearing those words brought me so much comfort; they were a lasting connection to that anthology of memories from my past.
“Okay, mijo, I want you to take this for a couple of weeks, and I want to see you again in a month.”
As I left the clinic with my prescription, crackers, and juice in hand, I felt those warm rays of sun that bathed me as a kid. The rejuvenation felt just the same. I felt relief to know that this establishment remained more or less the same. However, I pondered at the idea of how long it would remain that way.
| Bailee Sample
The Miracle of Ordinary Happiness
I often wonder how anyone could ever believe in a lasting happiness that’s compatible with this world. Even during the moments or seasons when I feel happiest, there’s an unsettling discomfort below the surface, a constant knowing that there’s someone suffering just next door, on the other end of town, across the border, or on a distant continent. How could I ever attempt to build my own small happily-ever-after when there’s so much distress everywhere I turn?
Or, after knowing pain on such an intimate level myself, and seeing the way it’s preyed on those I love most, how could I ever stop bracing myself for its return? I don’t have enough confidence in my own 5 or 10-year plans to believe I could plan a future safe from pain. There’s so much I can’t control. Almost everything, actually. The entire earth and all of human history is a warzone with pockets of momentary peace, and inside those pockets, we try to build our lives. Many days the idea seems absolutely delusional to me.
I don’t know when I started thinking this way. It didn’t happen overnight. The breaking news stories, the frantic phone calls, the heaving tears, the unexpected failures... over time they build up, I suppose.
I was sad to see the sun go this evening. I wished I could stand up and chant Encore! until he returned for a ew more precious minutes. It’s been one of those rare
32
33
warm days in February that trick my heart into believing spring is here, when my common sense knows the cold will return, and knows there are many weeks to go before winter truly exits the stage.
As I drove home in the dark, it crossed my mind that the sun was rising for someone else on the other side of the world at that same moment, and that while it’s cold and icy and windy here, millions of others are basking in their summers. Isn’t that miraculous? The sun doesn’t stop shining just because our half of the world has turned away from it.
Tonight, I thought about the moment when Adam and Eve decided they would rather attempt to be as powerful as God than trust Him. He could have instantly closed up the heavens and left us alone in our own darkness forever... but He didn’t. Somehow, it’s still never dark or cold or rainy everywhere at once. Somehow, we are never all at war or sick or poor or weary at the same time. When I’ve been weak, I’ve always found that there are others to lean on, and when I’ve felt strong, I’ve tried to be a shelter for someone else.
Despite all the forces of darkness around us, it’s somehow never too much to overwhelm all of us combined. People often ask where God is in all of this evil, but tonight I realize just how completely it would have swallowed the world whole long before tonight, dear reader, if He had ever left us to begin with. The miracle is that there’s somehow still so much light, always beckoning us back to Him.
It’s love to weep when others weep, but it’s also love to celebrate the victory when the war isn’t over, to trust so deeply in the deathless love of our Savior that we believe He’s coming back for us as certainly as we believe the sun will return tomorrow morning. It’s love to believe that He’ll water what we plant and bring to life what we thought was lost. It’s love to believe what we can’t see and worship what we can’t touch.
It’s so oddly comforting to realize that on my worst days and darkest nights, there were people all over the world laughing and thriving and living what are now some of their most cherished memories. Everywhere I turn, I see reminders that ugliness and death are temporary, that light and resurrection will win. * * *
“We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed. Through suffering, our bodies continue to share in the death of Jesus so that the life of Jesus may also be seen in our bodies… That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever! So we don’t look at the
34
35
troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.”
2 Corinthians 4:8-10; 16-18
“When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. Our mouths were filled with laughter then, and our tongues with shouts of joy. Then they said among the nations, “The Lord has done great things for them.” The Lord had done great things for us; we were joyful. Restore our fortunes, Lord, like watercourses in the Negev. Those who sow in tears will reap with shouts of joy. Though one goes along weeping, carrying the bag of seed, he will surely come back with shouts of joy, carrying his sheaves.”
Psalms 126
| Belle Sanon
Social Dilemma
“Being pretty isn’t what it seems; people will only love you for your body” my sister says as countless messages on all social platforms flood her phone. I look at my phone and nothing. I contemplate, I imagine, what it’s like being pretty for a whole week. One day would never be enough. Never mind, don’t daydream, because daydreaming is stupid. Live in the moment, post another picture. No, not that angle, the other angle, smile? No, don’t smile. Your double chin is showing. Ugh. Throw another wig on, no not that wig, the other one. That’s better now, cover your cheeks with your hair that’s better.
*Click. Post. 80 likes, 3 comments, no messages. Cries. *Delete Instagram. I must lose weight, it’s the only way. Okay yes, let’s lose weight. Go to the gym, work out every day, no don’t eat. Remember you’re fat and no one likes a fat girl, and your picture will look better. Yes, my pictures, they must look better. Don’t eat today, eat tomorrow instead. Remember your pictures. Finally, I’m down 30 pounds. I am not happy, still post the picture. Download Instagram again. *Click. Post 115 likes, 10 comments, 1 message.
36
37
Cries. Deep breath. Delete Instagram. Gain weight. I am not happy, but people like fat girls now. Smile, show a little skin. No, if you don’t show more skin people will think you hate yourself, *shows more skin. Now fix your hair, that’s better. *Click. Post 30 likes, 1 comment, no messages. Start to Cry. Don’t cry, Fat girls don’t cry. Deep Breath. Look at messages, not one guy. Scroll, swipe, compare, likes, stares at a model, zooms in at the women’s waist. Start to cry. *Delete Instagram.
| Steve Sloan Jess
Jess was born out of wedlock in Huntsville, Alabama, in 1895. His maternal grandfather, angry about the situation, killed Jess’s father, who was not married to his mother. Jess was raised by relatives until he was orphaned at age 11. From age 11 to 13, he traveled the western United States, often hopping a ride on a freight train and camping with transients or “hobos.” During the trip, he jumped off a train, only to realize he was jumping from a railroad bridge. He had a scar on his face from the jump.
Jess arrived in Los Angeles, California, when he was 13 years old after traveling and riding the rails. Hewent to Los Angeles with the hope that relatives there would allow him to live with them. Unfortunately, when he arrived, the relatives were unavailable. Somehow, a medical doctor took Jess in and allowed him to live in the doctor’s servant quarters until he was old enough to join the Navy at age 17.
Jess sailed around the world between 1912-16, shoveling coal on a US Navy ship. Not long after he was released from the Navy, he was drafted into the United States Army to serve as a cook in the fields of France during World War I from 1917-18. Jess lost his red hair to
38
39
mustard gas during the war. As a result, he would be bald for the rest of his life. He would break into tears when he described the day a French teenage girl ran through the field exclaiming that the war was over.
After World War I, Jess worked as a cook in a mining camp in Utah until he went to visit a relative in Roff, Oklahoma. Jess, who was 25 at the time, met 19-year-old Vera. They were married in Pontotoc County, Oklahoma, in 1920. There was a man in Pontotoc County who had two daughters he could not care for. So Jess and Vera adopted the girls and raised them. They had six more children: four girls and two boys.
Jess got a job with the Frisco Railroad and spent the next 43 years installing and repairing tracks between Ada, Oklahoma and Denison, Texas. He worked many of those years as a foreman. When he was a foreman, a disgruntled employee started a fight and put him in a headlock. He was able to elbow the person in the ribs in self-defense. Unfortunately, one of the attacker’s ribs broke and punctured one of his lungs. Jess was detained by the local Sheriff in case the attacker died from the injuries. Fortunately, the attacker survived, and Jess was not charged with any crimes since the injury was inflicted in self-defense.
Hickory, Oklahoma, across the highway from the Turner Ranch, which was owned by Oklahoma Governor Roy Turner. Oklahoma, at the time, had numerous locations around the state that housed German Prisoners of War. The Turner Ranch was one of those locations. One evening, Jess and Vera’s young son was missing from supper. After contacting the Sheriff’s office and searching frantically for him, he was found at the Turner Ranch. He was having a good time eating dinner with the German POWs. This group of POWs were not considered to be dangerous and were even allowed to hunt with shotguns on the Turner Ranch and Jess’s property.
Jess and Vera were married for 70 years until Jess died at age 95 in 1990. He lived from the horse and buggy era to the space age. He was a living history book of the time period. Although he only had a third-grade education, Jess enjoyed reading and kept up with current events and history. He also became extremely familiar with the Bible during his adult life. Vera lived another six years and died at the age of 95 in 1996.
Who was Jess? He was my grandfather: Jesse Prince Sloan. Vera was my grandmother, the former Vera Whelchel. The boy who ate dinner with the German POWs was my father, Dr. Bobby Ray Sloan, Ph.D. Jess and Vera may not seem like extraordinary people to most, but they were extraordinary to me.
During World War II, Jess and his family lived in
40
41
Criticism
| Caleb Masters
What’s the Real Question at the Heart of HBO’s The Last of Us?
Note: This essay will spoil the season 1 finale of The Last of Us. The full series can be watched on HBO Max. View discretion is advised.
“‘I am the bad guy because I did a bad guy thing. But you get it though. You might not be her father, but you were someone’s.”’Henry (The Last of Us)”
HBO’s latest Game of Thrones-sized hit, The Last of Us, recently concluded its first season with significant philosophical questions with few easy answers. Does a father’s love justify violence if it is in the name of protection? At what point does the agency of a child overrule the convictions of her parent? Furthermore, as a challenge to Spock’s philosophy in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, do the needs of the many genuinely outweigh the needs of the few? It is easy to get sucked into the endless ethical debates posed by these questions on the internet, amongst friends, and in the classroom. However, those conversations often miss what is at the heart of the bittersweet and uneasy ending.
Love, selfishness, and preservation. Which of these is Joel’s true motivator, and what consequences will his decisions yield on the people and world around him? If
42
the series has taught us anything, it is that decisions, even the ones made from a place of love or compassion, come with consequences.
Set from the perspective of Joel (Pedro Pascal), a father who loses his daughter, Sarah, on the eve of the fungal outbreak twenty years prior, the HBO TV series based on the hit video game follows his journey escorting the teenage Ellie(Bella Ramsey), a girl who appears immune from infection, across the remains of the United States. Though the series goes out of its way on several occasions to hint at Joel’s dark and violent past, his reluctant love for Ellie creates a natural human connection for audiences to empathize. Who can fault a father for an extended mourning period for his daughter in such a bleak world?
By the first season’s conclusion, Joel and Ellie have grown as close as a parent and child can, with Joel all but confessing that his connection with Ellie is what helped him overcome the grief haunting him for over two decades. At that very moment, she is ripped away from him by the group of self-proclaimed freedom fighters they have been searching for, the fireflies. Their leader Marlene (Merle Dandridge), suggests Ellie must be dissected and studied if there is any hope of discovering a cure. Joel snaps and lashes out in unrelenting violence, eliminating anyone between him and his “baby girl.” After springing her from surgery, Joel lies to Ellie about what happened to the Fireflies with a story she clearly
does not buy. The final shot in the season of the two of them looking out over Jackson, Wyoming, leaves viewers pondering if Joel did the right thing, and if he is convinced he was right, why is he lying about it?
Though it is natural and tempting to think about his decision through the lens of philosophical questions, there is a more immediate dilemma for Joel and Ellie. Was it love motivating Joel to kill for and lie to Ellie, or was it his selfish desire for companionship and fatherhood he never had? More importantly, what will the consequences of this lie leave on their relationship, and what will come of his violent actions?
As Matthew 26:52-54 demonstrates when Jesus says, “Put your sword back into its place. For all who take the sword will perish by the sword. Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels? But how then should the Scriptures be fulfilled, that it must be so,” Joel’s decision to act violently and remove Ellie’s choice can only lead to one end.
The core questions will remain unanswered unless you are prepared to play through the 25+ hour The Last of Us Part II on PlayStation. Until then, only one thing is for sure. In this post-apocalyptic world, no sin is forgotten or goes unpunished.
43
44
| Ashleigh West
Rectifying the Non-Native Abuse on Reservation Lands
For centuries the United States of America has struggled to provide fair and just opportunities for ALL of its people. Even in the 21st century, issues like racism, bigotry, and a lack of representation in the court systems still exist. Native Americans have been at the center of this battle, along with numerous other minorities, struggling to form a relationship with the U.S. government that allows each party to co-exist while also honoring both cultures (Vile, 2009). Despite improvements made, many people have found ways to abuse the rules and regulations that the two governments have put in place, in order to satisfy their own agenda. Louis Erdrich’s novel, The Round House, addresses an aspect of these issues by exploring the effects of jurisdiction laws, regulations put on Tribal government leaders, and the rising number of criminal cases, specifically sexual assault, that go unrecognized due to these restrictions.
In Erdrich’s novel, Geraldine, a Chippewa woman and our narrator’s mother, is brutally raped (Erdrich, 2012). Geraldine’s husband, Bazil, is a tribal judge for the Chippewa reservation that they live on with their son, Joe. Joe expresses the issues revolving around his mother’s case, as well as the frustration they feel when justice through the court system cannot be obtained.
Throughout the novel, Bazil is attempting to persecute his wife’s attacker but is stopped by simple issues like location. Even after they identify Geraldine’s attacker, Linden Lark, they cannot persecute him because of the unclear location of the attack. Geraldine is aware that the attack happened near the tribal land of the Round House, but that land has been divided up in the past, and depending on which exact location it took place, determines who can do the prosecuting. Geraldine cannot give an exact location due to Lark placing a bag over her head before leading her off to a different location and committing the crime. Ultimately, this simple dispute of location, and the fact that Lark is not a tribal member, leads to the case being dismissed and Lark being set free. The sad reality of this fictitious story is that for many reservations dealing with criminal lawsuits, it is a reality.
Erdrich’s fiction novel is based in 1988. 10 years prior to when the novel is based on a Supreme Court case, Oliphant vs. Suquamish, which inhibited all tribes’ ability to arrest or persecute non-Native Americans who commit crimes on all reservations or Native American lands (Crane-Murdoch, 2013). Furthermore, the case established that a person’s Native American status can determine who can arrest the individual, as well as who can persecute. For example, if neither party is Native American, even if the crime is on Native American soil, tribal governments are unable to arrest anyone. Court cases like Oliphant vs. Suquamish are why people like Linden Lark, from Erdrich’s novel, are able to escape the
45
46
consequences of the law for their actions (Erdrich, 2012). Along with that, many criminal individuals are aware of these “loopholes” and abuse their power.
In 2013 Sierra Crane-Murdoch, a writer for The Atlantic, interviewed Nathan Sanchez, a tribal officer for the Fort Berthold Indian Reservation in North Dakota (Crane-Murdoch, 2013). Sanchez told Crane-Murdoch about an incident when he discovered a young girl who had been raped on reservation lands. The girl, terrified, was not a member of the tribe and Sanchez had to verify if her attacker was a member or not as well. At first, the girl said he was, but eventually, her story changed and it was believed that the attack was not a tribal member. Once this was clarified, Sanchez could no longer investigate the case, leaving the girl’s case in the hands of the state. To further complicate the matter, Sanchez reported that there are very few deputies in the area to even make the arrest, and those that are around, are overworked with issues outside of the reservation.
These regulations, allow Native American governments to work with their people, honoring their laws and traditions, but in places like Fort Berthold, many people living on reservation lands are non-Native American people (Crane-Murdoch, 2013). In recent years, there has been an oil boom leading to the population doubling with an increase in non-Native American oil workers, with whom tribal officials have no legal control. One of the people Crane-Murdoch interviewed said, “Basically you can do anything short of killing somebody.” People are
aware of the lack of enforcement that applies to non-Native American people on reservation lands. For Fort Berthold, when the population increased, so did the criminal activity. People would commit crimes on tribal land, knowing that the worst thing a tribal officer could do to them was issue a speeding ticket. The tribal officers’ “lack of jurisdiction had encouraged a culture of lawlessness,” and the tribal lands are not well supported by state officials. Multiple counties overlap Fort Berthold, and for each county, only one or two deputies might be stationed there. At least 4,000 non-Native Americans live on that reservation. Calling for a deputy to respond to an issue could take hours, and even then, some deputies simply escort the person home because of how far away county jails are. Between distance and lack of resources, many people living on the reservation choose to not report incidents because they do not feel their cases will be processed fairly, if at all.
Lack of jurisdiction and non-Native Americans’ abuse of power on reservation lands are addressed by Erdrich in her novel. Linden Lark is a non-Native American (Erdrich, 2012). He committed his crime of sexual abuse in an area that would have to be disputed due to official reservation territory lines. One could assume that Lark’s assault against Geraldine was well thought out. He covered her head and did not uncover it until she was back to the place where the attack began. Although Erdrich does not say it outright, clues given throughout the book imply that Lark’s assault was possibly pre-meditated. In reality,
47
48
too many cases happen similar to that of Geraldine and Linden Lark in The Round House.
The National Resource Center on Domestic Violence published research on their website VAWnet on the statistics revolving around sexual assault cases to Native American women in the United States. They report that Native women have been experiencing sexual assault for centuries because of its use as a tool of war and colonization (Sexual Assault, n.d.). From the beginning of colonization, rape has been used as a way to conquer the people. Even today, Native American women are sexually assaulted on reservation lands. Within the past two decades, 61 percent of Native American women or Alaska Native women have been assaulted in their lifetime (Center, 2013). Along with that, Native American women are 2.5 times more likely to experience a sexual assault crime than any other race (Sexual Assault, n.d.). 34 percent of these women have been raped in their lifetime (Center, 2013). Much like Geraldine in The Round House, “an average of 67 percent [of Native American women] describe the offender as non-Native.” The overwhelming average may be related to the lack of jurisdiction tribal officials have on non-Native American people inhabiting tribal lands. Lisa Brunner, a rape survivor and advocate, said, “I call it hunting- non-natives come here hunting. They know they can come onto our lands and rape us with impunity because they know we can’t touch them.” Even with statistics like this, who knows how many more countless cases of sexual assault go
undocumented or reported due to the women involved having no desire to experience the pain and embarrassment that is accompanied by an investigation that could easily be dismissed in court.
In recent years, certain acts have been put in place to assist tribal officials in rectifying the issue of sexual assault being tolerated on tribal land due to the lack of control. The Violence Against Women Act was first passed in 1994 (Crane-Murdoch, 2013). 19 years later, in 2013, the act was reauthorized allowing Native Nations to “choose to exercise ‘Special Domestic Violence Criminal Jurisdiction (SDVCJ) and exert their inherent ability to prosecute non-Indians who commit the following offenses: domestic violence, sexual assault, dating violence, and violation of protection orders.’” (General Guide to Criminal Jurisdiction in Indian Country, n.d.)
There is not much relevant data since 2013 to show if the passing of this act has assisted in the decrease of the sexual assault statistics against Native American women, but since the time Erdrich’s novel was based in 1988, the act does allow tribal officials the ability to properly address these issues in areas that were once considered “lawless.” One would hope that through this, a change will be seen on reservation lands. With that change, hopefully, Native American women can feel more confident in reporting these crimes committed against them, than Geraldine felt in Erdrich’s novel. As well as, all American citizens, no matter their ethnic background, novel. As well as, all American citizens, no
49
50
matter their ethnic background, can feel confident that their case will be fully investigated by law enforcement so they, too, can receive the justice they desire and deserve.
Works Cited
Center, N. P. (2013, February). Policy Insight Brief: Statistics on Violence Against Native Wom en. Retrieved from National Congress of Ameican Indians: https://www.ncai.org/attachments/Poli cyPaper_tWAjznFslemhAffZgNGzHUqIWMRP kCDjpFtxeKEUVKjubxfpGYK_Policy%20In sights%20Brief_VAWA_020613.pdf
Crane-Murdoch, S. (2013, February 22). On Indian Land, Ciminals Can Get Away With Almost Anything. Retrieved from The Atlantic: https://www.theatlan tic.com/national/archive/2013/02/on-indian-landcriminals-can-get-away-with-almost-any thing/273391/
Erdrich, L. (2012). The Round House. Harper Collins. Frequently Asked Questions. (n.d.). Retrieved from U.S. Department of the Interior Indian Affairs: https://www.bia.gov/frequently-asked-ques tions#:~:text=On%20federal%20Indian%20reser vations%2C%20however,a%20federal%20of fense%20on%20reservations
General Guide to Criminal Jurisdiction in Indian Country. (n.d.). Retrieved from Tribal Court Clearinghouse: a project of the Tribal Law and Policy Intitute: https://www.tribal-institute.org/lists/jurisdiction. htm#top
Sexual Assault. (n.d.). Retrieved from VAWnet: A project of the National Resource Center on Domestic Vio lence: https://vawnet.org/sc/gender-based-violence-and-in tersecting-challenges-impacting-native-american-alas kan-village-1#:~:text=American%20Indians%20are%20 2.5%20times,are%20raped%20in%20their%20lifetimes
Vile, J. R. (2009). Native Americans. Retrieved from The First Amendment Encyclopedia: https://www.mtsu.edu/firstamendment/article/1369/native-americans
51
52
