Beacon No. 13 — Bench Warmer

BEACON

DANIEL RAMIREZ / ADRIAN X SANDS / ANTHONY AZEKWOH / JESSICA KREBSBACH / ALEJANDRO GUTIERREZ / KYLE UGRON / SLIPPERY DIRT / JUSTIN ANATAWAN / IVAN MCCLELLAN / ISABELLA UBALDI / VEDMID STANISLAV / QUENTIN NORRIS / REID KILLE / JOSEPH GRUENTHAL / RYAN DZELZKALNS LUKAS WAKAMASTSU / ASHLEY WALTERS / SONYA KORSHENBOYM / ROSS DOYLE / JESSY EASTON

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VOL. IV

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Daniel Ramirez — Sports Activities / F / Adrian X Sands — Untitled / Anth / Jessica Krebsbach — Benchwarm Untitled / Kyle Ugron — Untitled / Slipp Anantawan — Ode to Benchwarmers / Iv / Isabella Ubaldi — A Drip in Time / V Justin Anantawan — Prince of Suburb / Reid Kille — Jumpman / Ivan McCl Gruenthal — In Air / Ryan Dzelzk / Lucas Wakamatsu — Untitled / A Korshenboym — Untitled / Ross D From the Meth Lab to the Red Carpet / Savvy S Contents Daniel Ramirez — Sports Activities Adrian X Sands — Untitled Forward — Remembering Kobe Anthony Azekwoh — Homegoing Jessica Krebsbach — Benchwarmer Alejandro Gutierrez — Untitled

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Kyle Ugron — Untitled Slippery Dirt — Baseball Player Justin Anantawan — Ode to Benchwarmers Ivan McClellan — Jaripeo Sin Fronteras Isabella Ubaldi — A Drip in Time Vedmid Stanislav — Untitled

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Forward — Remembering Kobe hony Azekwoh — Homegoing mer / Alejandro Gutierrez — pery Dirt — Baseball Player / Justin van McClellan — Jaripeo Sin Fronteras Vedmid Stanislav — Untitled / bia / Quentin Norris — Paul’s Last Day lellan — Arizona Black Rodeo / Joseph kalns — Godzilla Springtime Debutante Gala Ashley Walters — Untitled / Sonya Doyle — Portfolio / Jessy Easton — Sandy — Exclusive Content

Justin Anantawan — Prince of Suburbia Quentin Norris — Paul’s Last Day Reid Kille — Jumpman Ivan McClellan — Arizona Black Rodeo Joseph Gruenthal — In Air Ryan Dzelzkalns — Godzilla Springtime Debutante Gala

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Lucas Wakamatsu — Untitled 42 Ashley Walters — Untitled 44 Sonya Korshenboyn — Untitled 48 Ross Doyle — Portfolio 50 Jessy Easton — From the Meth Lab to the Red Carpet 52 Savvy Sandy — Exclusive Content 54

I’LL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO WIN GAMES, WHETHER IT’S SITTING ON A BENCH WAVING A TOWEL, HANDING A CUP OF WATER TO A TEAMMATE, OR HITTING THE GAMEWINNING SHOT. 1978

IN MEMORY OF KOBE BRYANT

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ANTHONY AZEKWOH

When you’re learning how to drive in Lagos, they start with the most fundamental rule of driving anywhere in Nigeria, and it’s this: on the road, you’re the only sane one— everybody else is mad. To someone who has never been in Nigeria, this is strange advice, to us however, it’s a valuable thing to keep in mind when you’re on the road with people who think traffic signs are suggestions. And then, there’s traffic. Lagos traffic is, perhaps, the closest thing to hell there is on Earth. You could drop a friend at the airport and they’d get to London before you got back home.

Last year, we were in the car with my mother driving when I saw a man ablaze on the road, tyres wrapped around him, his body a broken frame, his face contorted in fear, and pain. There were people around him, shouting and hurling insults, stones in their hands, a policeman stood at the edge of the mob, a bottle of gin in his hand.

Maybe I should’ve looked away, maybe I should’ve turned, but I couldn’t and the memory of the man stuck in my head. What had he done? The people in the front, how could they live with that image forever, of what they did?

One thing you have to give the Americans is this—they have gusto. With mass shootings, corruption and racism, they still hold the Greatest Country in the World flag high. It’s a kind of self-image that comes with media and books and everything around you reflecting who you are as an individual. To be in the centre of the world stage, and have a kind of security in knowing that not only are you recognised in the world, but you’re also at the top.

For us, it’s a bit different. Our country is awful, and we know it’s awful, so when Trump came with his statements,

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it was a mild outrage. Something like, “Damn you for saying this… but damn, you’re kind of right.”

Lagos is home to Nigerians, a people who would rather allow a ten-year-old girl marry a fifty-year-old man than allow two adults of the same sex get married. It is home to senators and rule makers who can abuse women, on tape, and still be given humanitarian awards, all in the same year.

It is home to rapists, and murderers, to the homophobic and transphobic. It is home to the most religious people, who, it turns out, are also the most hypocritical. Who worship a God of peace in their homes, but would rather burn a man with tyres on the road than arrest him.

But. Lagos is where my mother and my father met, and got married. Lagos is where my sister and I were born. The small street in Surulere is where we grew up, where my father used to sing us to sleep, where my mother would teach me to read, with newspapers on her lap, the sunlight spilling through the window.

Lagos is hell, and heaven. A place that dashes dreams and raises them up. It is a place of hope, and desolation. Of pride, and of joy, and of pain, and of loss. The tale of Lagos is a tale of two cities, one dripped in woe, and the other bathed in celebration.

You see, the question of home is a complicated one, with a simple answer. One that I don’t know. And so, when people ask me about my home, where I grew up, I look at them, and I smile then tell them I come from Lagos, Nigeria, the second greatest country in the world.

HOMEGOING ILÉ SAN MI DÙN JU OYÈ LỌ.

TO BE AT PEACE IN ONE’S HOME IS BETTER THAN POSITIONS OR TITLES. ANTHONY AZEKWOH

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JESSICA KREBSBACH

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KYLE UGRON 10

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KYLE UGRON

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UNTITLED

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KYLE UGRON

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BASEBALL PLAYER

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JUSTIN ANANTAWAN

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ODE TO BENC by: Justin Anantawan

By definition, a “bench warmer” is a sports player who does not get selected to play – a substitute who is left out of the game. When Beacon Quarterly called for submissions for this issue, I had to reflect on what that term meant to me. I do not play sports at all (in fact I am horrible at sports and have some not so fond memories of kicking soccer balls out of bounds or into the bloody noses of

classmates in high school) so I had examine the symbolic rather than the literal meaning.

To me, “bench warmer” represents the people in our society who are marginalized – based on their sexual orientation, religion, race, social class, disability, mental health, gender identity, etc. These are the people who are not given the same basic human rights, media

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ODE TO BENCHWARMER

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CHWARMERS representation, protection and dignity afforded to the majority. As a gay man living with HIV, I have experienced this discrimination.

As a photojournalist, I have bared witness to the struggles experienced by societal “bench warmers”, such as LGBTQ folks, Deaf people and people living with albinism. I believe art and publications such as Beacon Quarterly have the power to share

the stories of these communities, uplift them and mobilize action against the forces of social oppression and fear – in this current world climate of right wing extremism, I believe this is more important than ever.

I believe “bench warmer” can be an empowering term. Bench warmers are left out of society – however, they have the inner heat that is slowly warming the

seats to which they are chained... at any moment they will burst into flames and burn down the prisons of homophobia, transphobia, capitalism, sexism, racism, rape culture, mental health stigma, ableism, religious discrimination, etc. that hold them captive. From the ashes of these structures we can build a new world full of love and beauty

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IVAN MCCLELLAN

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JARIPEO SIN FRONTERAS

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VOL. IV UBALDI ISABELLA

Within the lesser-known Marche region of Italy, bang in the centre of the boot, is the almost-forgotten town of Genga. Sitting at the bottom of the valley, below the soaring cliffs of Vallemontagna, the Sentino River traces through the lives of a population barely stretching to 2,000. Silence occupies the space. A strong espresso and stale cannoli in a faded timber chalet offer a little refuge from the splintering wind. It’s a far cry from the commercial glitz of Northern Italy and rugged sexiness of the South.

In Genga, people are accustomed to staring into the abyss. That is, the Ancona Abyss within the Grotte di Frasassi: Europe’s biggest cave system. Above ground is an eerie picture of faded glory, an Italian take on the film The Shining. Below ground is a quiet labyrinth. A treasure, built on a series of single drips, that’s taken shape over the past 150,000 years.

That’s three times longer than humans have been on earth. With every drip the Grotte continue to form.

Discovered by accident in 1971, the caves are over a mile long and house chambers with domes reaching up to 400 feet. To walk through is to understand the present moment moulded by the landscape’s past. The river above that carries sulphurous waters and calcium bicarbonate from the surrounding limestone mountains. Earthquakes that forged cracks in the rock, making way for water to flow and folds of stalactites that sit like fresh tagliatelle hung out to dry. The stalagmites warped into Baroque columns over 10 feet high, formed by a single drip consistently falling in that very place moment

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after moment, day after day, year after year.

Halls of alabaster are filled with lime castings and crystalline lakes in all shades of cream, mascarpone, custard and eggshell. At 98% humidity, this world is seemingly breathless.

Life is only confirmed by slow echoes of dripping water.

Above ground, our modern world rushes at the frenetic pace of downstream rapids. When the social currency is comparing ourselves to each other, it’s easy to quickly feel stale. Be it from poor performance, illness or judgement from others, we feel like we’ve been benched.

Drifting in a place we can’t escape, with no fresh air and 98% humidity. That dark place harbours self-doubt, it lingers long enough to dig itself into your layers of muscle and tissue, embedding itself in your very flesh.

Such is the inner world when you feel like you’re falling short. Not enough. In this place we often find ourselves staring into the dark abyss, asking…am I doing enough? We want the money, we want the recognition, we want it now.

We should, rather, take our cues from the natural world where all the best things have formed over time. Exchange the sirens and cacophony of all that we’re not doing for the sound of a singular, focussed drip.

One at a time. A single drip is useless, but a series can provide a full cup from which to drink, a restorative bath or build an alabaster wonderland. Consider that dark, inner world of self-doubt part of the quiet, underground treasure that is far more than the sum of its parts. An expression of perfect imperfection.

Consider experience a drip in time.

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A DRIP IN VOL. TIME IV

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A DRIP IN TIME ISABELLA UBALDI

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VEDMID STANISLAV

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UNTITLED

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PRINCE OF SUBURBIA PHOTOGRAPHER: JUSTIN ANANTAWAN MODEL: MAJOK DENG STYLIST: ANDY ALBORGER

MISSISSAUGA ONTARIO, CANADA JUNE 2019

LOOK ONE: A

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PRINCE OF SUBURBIA

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QUENTIN NORRIS

Anna was already having a bad day before the email popped up in her inbox, so the subject just felt like a slap in the face. Since when was Paul leaving, and why was she the last to hear about it? Paul had been the first person at the company to talk to her when she started three years ago. He had only been working there for a few weeks before she was hired but he already seemed like he’d been there for ages.

That was how easily Paul adapted to any situation. He was such a glowing ball of sunshine, and he was pretty as hell too. It was no wonder Anna immediately developed a crush on him. She wasn’t the only one. She’d overheard a few other girls from the design team browsing through his Instagram profile once, practically drooling over his pictures.

She knew she had to say something to him before he left, but for some reason, she found herself resenting the fact

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that he was leaving. It felt like a personal betrayal. What happened to the unspoken bond that she shared with everyone from the customer service team when she first started here?

When she started, there were ten of them. They were a ragtag team of weirdos and misfits. They were the ones that the rest of the company seemed to want to ignore, to pretend like they weren’t there. They weren’t programmers, product design, or social media experts. They just took phone calls from angry people who didn’t understand the terms and services of a subscription service app. It was never said out loud, but Anna had always thought there was an agreement between everyone in the customer service team to never join the ranks of all the normies that took their jobs too seriously, or that they’d stick together and never leave

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while everyone suffered for their art and the day job paid the bills. Everyone in the service team had some grand plan outside of work. Carol was a comedian, Ray was in a band, Paul was an illustrator, and so on. Anna? She didn’t really have anything specific. She liked movies but had only ever written one screenplay that wasn’t very good.

One by one, they all disappeared. They either got better day jobs somewhere else or they moved up in the company ranks.

Each betrayal to the original team stung just a little more than the next. Anna burned those bridges and stopped saying hello to people like Carol when they passed by her in the hallways. The only one she kept saying hello to was Paul after he joined the Design team. His departure hurt the most of all, but she desperately tried to cling to that bridge.

All the same, they never talked as much as they used to anymore. That was just the way Anna’s brain worked. If she didn’t see anyone every day of her life, eventually she just forgot about them.

PAUL’S LAST DAY

Anna was the only one left from the original team.

A new batch of fresh faced kids cycled through every month or so, and Anna felt older and older with each new hire. It was hard not to feel like a loser every day she clocked in at this godforsaken job. She spent most of her workday fantasizing about a better life. She imagined what her own goodbye email would look like.

She had no idea what she would do after she left, but she knew walking out the office doors for the last time would be the greatest feeling she would ever experience.

Anna walked past Paul’s desk on her lunch break. He was working on a header for a newsletter email and didn’t hear her when she walked up at first. She had to tap him on the shoulder. She felt like a stranger approaching a celebrity. His face took a moment to register her but a split second later, his face beamed with a giant smile.

“Hey Anna! How’s it going?” Did he even realize it was his last day? He was acting like he was coming back on Monday.

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“Pretty okay, nothing new. I just wanted to say congrats on your last day.”

“Thanks! Hey, let’s stay in touch, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.” She really hoped that was true.

“And send me that screenplay sometime. I’d love to read it. Maybe I can draw something up for it.

Might make a cool comic as well as a movie.”

“Definitely.” She knew this wasn’t true. “Well, have fun at your new job.”

“Thanks!” He gave her one last beautiful, talented smile that melted her insides before she returned to her desk. She fantasized about maybe running into him at a bar a few months down the road when hopefully neither of them worked in this hell hole anymore. Maybe they’d flirt for a bit before finding a secluded corner and then he’d finally kiss her. Her face got hot and she shook the thought out of her head. She felt embarrassed, even though none of her co-workers knew what she was thinking. She put her headphones on and went back to work.

PAUL’S LAST DAY

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Quentin Norris

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RIED KILLE

JUMPMAN

Reid Kille

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JUMPMAN

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IVAN

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ARIZONA BLACK RODEO

24TH, TOWN

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IVAN MCCLELLAN

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ARIZONA BLACK RODEO

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IVAN MCCLELLAN

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ARIZONA BLACK RODEO

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IN AIR

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RYAN DZELZKALNS

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Society is any room with people in it.

None of the people are Godzilla’s people.

They all know how to curtsy and when, the swish of tulle dizzying.

Clouds move in one direction but it’s hard to tell if that direction is forward.

The problem with having a life is that there are other people in it.

No amount of skin will rid Godzilla of this realization.

He knows this is a beginning, but worries what to tell his Mother— All confessions like stupid flowers stumbling out the earth each spring.

And Godzilla won’t be a garden again, having sex when he doesn’t want sex.

There is nothing to do but pray, let everyone else keep getting married.

Everyone dying to see what he’s learned —etiquette, mercy, relief from futility.

We all destroy the city for ourselves, but he is by far worse.

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RYAN

DZELZKALNS

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LUCAS WAKAMATSU

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UNTITLED

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UNTITLED

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PROMETHIAN TRIUMPH

ROSS DOYLE

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EQUINOX

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JESSY EASTON

he lines of black cars with tinted windows.

The bright lights and press cameras. The red carpet under my feet. Robert Plant and a badge with my name on it: Jessy Easton, Publicist.

The badge hangs from a lanyard around my neck at the Grammys. The dream had made it out of my head.

A girl from a California desert town on the edge of nowhere—a town where dreams die the moment they begin to surface. There is no air. There is no light. A town for settling, for giving up, and for being too scared to dream in the first place. I was scared.

Not of the dreaming, but of the not getting out.

I didn’t know when or how exactly, but I knew my dreams would free me, so I held onto them until my knuckles went white. Dreams of city skylines, of record labels and the Sunset Strip, of opportunities only given to those better than me. Those who came from somewhere worth coming from. Maybe from a family who ate dinner together or a family with a healthy savings account. Or maybe from a family who read heavy books and had plaques of accomplishments on the walls of their home office.

Maybe a family who had an office at all.

Not my family. We didn’t eat dinner together.

Living on a diet of sugar and methamphetamines, my parents couldn’t stomach a home-cooked meal.

We didn’t have an office or any plaques. Dad never finished high school. Mom had college offers, but she could never sit still long enough to care. My brother, Brandon, was studying for his GED and working at the dump because he never dared to dream.

I didn’t care about the dinners or the money (or the lack of it). At least we had each other, which was better than before, back when we were kids and Dad would disappear into the meth lab he’d built in our garage while Mom served out felony charges in prison. That was a dark and quiet time and my infant-like dreams were barely flickering. But even with all that we lacked, there was one thing my family always had.

Music.

Mom and Dad would rock out to Led Zeppelin while I was still in the womb. When we were kids, we’d sing “Black Dog” at the top of our lungs and feel the buzzing in our bones from the 18” woofers Dad had stacked in every corner of the living room. When I was in high school, Mom would turn the volume up full blast in the car and headbang at every stop light on our way to the mall. It was the music that kept the dreaming alive. The music was my way out.

It all happened so fast, the getting out. It started with a tiny moment, one as light as air, that would later hold the weight of everything to come. The sun was high in the sky, white like paper, and the soles of my feet were burning in the sand. The sound of the ocean in my ear, I shifted my weight from one foot to

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the other and waited for the band to arrive. A secret show. No one was supposed to know about it, but I knew because I spent every waking moment on the internet looking for a way out.

The Huntington Beach pier. I forgot sunscreen.

My brother came with me. Maybe a part of him was looking for an escape after all. We’d driven a hundred miles to the sea in my used Oldsmobile, the color of dust-covered cherries. Squinting in the shimmering heat, drenched in salt and sand and anticipation, I waited. I waited for something to happen. And something did.

I noticed two girls, one dark haired and one blonde. They each carried a guitar case. By the way they teetered and sloshed through the sand I could tell the guitars were heavy. The girls looked young. Not as young as I was, but young enough that I wanted to know how they got the job carrying guitars.

Hitting Brandon on the arm, I told him I was going to introduce myself. When he asked why I told him because I wanted to do what they did.

“What do they do?” he asked.

I didn’t know exactly, but I knew it was something.

“I’m Jessy,” I said, extending my hand like I was someone worth knowing.

Wide eyed with bottomless nerve, I told them about my good grades and my acceptance into a university five minutes from the coast, about my dreams of working in the music industry, and how I would have no problem carrying guitars.

“I’m stronger than I look,” I said.

They laughed. “Oh no, we’re not roadies or anything like that. We’re in marketing,” they said, handing me their card.

I held it in my sweating hands and studied it against the glare of the sun. It was thick and black with “Atlantic Records” sprawled across the top in red lettering. “Strategic Marketing and Brand Partnerships.” I had no idea what that meant, but I knew I could do it.

“You should come by and see us,” the dark-haired girl said.

“Yeah, we could use someone like you,” the blonde said.

Someone like me. I’d never had a real job. Besides babysitting and a holiday season slinging retail at the mall, I’d never done a damn thing. Someone like me. I came from nowhere and didn’t have a dime.

Someone like me.

On our way back to the desert we ran out of gas.

Sunburned, dehydrated, and stranded on the side of the road, we sat in the car tossing a beach ball back and forth while we waited for Dad to pick us up. He never came. The day darkened and I pulled the card out of my wallet. Atlantic Records. A real record label. The label that had signed Zeppelin back in 1968. A ticket to freedom.

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by JESSY EASTON

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VOL. IV BLOG SPECIAL

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EXCLUSIVE CONTENT:

SAVVY VOL. SANDY IV

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ADRIAN X SANDS UNTITLED; PG. 36

ALEJANDRO GUTIERREZ

ANTHONY AZEKWOH UNTITLED; PG. 24, 44 – 45, & BACK COVER PHOTOGRAPHER: ASHLEY WALTERS MODEL: AMIRA FAYE @A.WALT

DANIEL RAMIREZ A DRIP IN TIME; PG. 22

@_ISA_VIBE

IVAN MCCLE LLAM BENCHWARMER; PG. 07 @JZKREBSBACH

JESSY EASTON IN AIR; PG. 43 MODEL: JON PIERRE @JGRUENT

UNTITLED; PG. VI, INSIDE BACK COVER, & PG. 52 – 53

HOMEGOING; PG. 06 @ANTHONYAZEKWOH

ASHLEY WALTERS A SERIES OF SHOTS: SPORTS ACTIVITES; COVER

ISABELLA UBALDI JARIPEO SIN FRONTERAS; PG. 02 ARIZONA BLACK RODEO; PG. 10 ARTISTS: PEPE AGUILAR, ANGELA, LEONARDO ANTONIO, AGUILAR, & HIJO

JESSICA Z KREBSBACH FROM THE METH LAB TO THE RED CARPET; PG. 30 @JESSYTAI

JOSEPH GRUENTHAL

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JUSTIN ANANTAWAN SENDIT, ALLYWAYBDAY, POSTLEFTVITAMIND; PG. 32 – 34

CREDITS

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PRINCE OF SUBURBIA; PG. 20 ODE TO BENCHWARMER; PG. 26 MODEL: MAJOK DENG STYLIST: ANDY ALBORGER @JUSTIN_ANANTAWAN

KYLE UGRON

LUCAS WAKAMATSU QUENTIN NORRIS REID KILLE ROSS DOYLE RYAN DZELZKALNS SLIPPERY DIRT SONYA KORSHENBOYM VEDMID STANI SLAV BOLA TENNIS, TENNIS, VACATIONS; PG. 18 LUKASWAKAMATSU.COM

PAUL’S LAST DAY; PG. 08 TWITTER.COM/ZOMBIMONKEY9001

JUMPMAN; PG. 43 REIDKILLE.WEEBLY.COM

ASCENSION EQUINOX; PG. 34

GODZILLA SPRINGTIME DEBUTANTE GALA; PG. 32 @RYANDZRYANDZ

BASEBALL PLAYER; PG. 43 SLIPPERYDIRT.COM/WORK

BEACH, TELEVIVIAN, HOUSE, LIFE; PG. 25 @SONYA_KORSHENBOYM

OLD TENNIS PLAYER; PG. 38 PHOTOGRAPHER: VEDMID STANISLAV PRODUCER: ANTON VERETIN MODEL: ANATOLIY DEMIDOV ASSISTANT: ANTON PAVLINKO LOCATION: PUO STUDIO

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THE TEAM

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NAME

POSITION

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CHACHA SANDS

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF I fouled out of the first high school game within five minutes.

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BRITT MOHR

DIRECTOR OF VISUAL CONTENT I was hit square in the face with a kick ball.

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APHELION CRAMPTON

DIGITAL COMMUNICATIONS In 6th grade I scored one basket and it wasn’t counted.

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KAILLA COOMES

DIRECTOR OF WRITTEN CONTENT I was on a rec basketball team in high school and didn’t score a single point.

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SAVVY SANDY

CREDITS

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EXCLUSIVE CONTENT I was literally a Bench Warmer

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ZACH WESTERMAN

DIRECTOR OF DESIGN I was the worst at soccer and all my teammates hated me.

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SETH DEARMAS

GRAPHIC DESIGN INTERN & DESIGN LEAD: BENCH WARMER I wore goggles the entire JV basketball season.

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MIA PINZELIK

GRAPHIC DESIGN INTERN I was on the swim team for two weeks and then quit because I didn’t want to practice over break.

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JILLIAN HYBURG

GRAPHIC DESIGN INTERN When I was little my rec soccer team would switch me and my twin brother while playing to confuse people.

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FATIMA ELMUSBAHI

WRITTEN CONTENT INTERN I wouldn’t have ever made the cut for the netball team if it wasn’t for my height and ridiculously long arms.

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