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black swan volume 17 fall 2017

V O LU M E 1 7 FA L L 2 0 1 7

table of

4. EDITOR’S LETTER: an introduction by daysia tolentino 6. 4,182 MILES: poetry by owen elphick 7. TRANSIT-ION: art by victoria d’angelo 8. PINK ELEPHANTS: prose by fiona luddy 10. MOUNTAINS: art by bram lowenstein 12. BLUR: prose by kamryn leoncavallo 14. CASTLE FACES: art by charlie welling 16. REFLECTIONS OF AN ASIAN-AMERICAN IN EUROPE: prose by daysia tolentino 19. FOLLOW THE PRETTY: art by shafaq patel 22. (IT’S ABOUT AUSCHWITZ): prose by kamryn leoncavallo 26. DEVIL OF HEIDELBERG: art by gregorio leon 27. CAGES: art by zoe ziyue chen 28. LIKE A SLAP IN THE FACE: prose by emilie krone 30. EUROPEAN ZINE QUEENS: art by daysia tolentino 31. A LETTER TO MY FUTURE DAUGHTER: prose by gabrielle martin 34. PLATFORM: poetry by owen elphick 36. WELL: art by will nichols

38. ITALIA: art by katrina chaput 40. SHORT POEMS by al spruill 41. C’EST TOI: art by madeline weinstein-avery 44. WHITE BOX: prose by david fadul 46. GRAFFITI: art by emilie krone, daysia tolentino, and madeline weinstein-avery 47. IN THE HEART OF NO MAN’S LAND: script by dylan skudlarek, rachel scalera, and connor gallant 55. CURIOSITY PET THE CAT: art by madeline weinstein-avery, phoebe loew 56. A GUIDE FOR TRAVELING WITH LIFE-THREATENING FOOD ALLERGIES: prose by owen elphick 60. AIRBOY: art by will nichols 61. MY BLOOD, HIS BLOOD, OUR BLOOD: prose by isabelle braun 65. IN THE AIRBNB: art by charlie welling 66. RECOVERY: prose by ximena delgado 70. SANTORINI: art by charlie welling 71. THE MAGIC IN NOT CHANGING: prose by victoria d’angelo 73. STRAWBERRY MAN: art by emilie krone 74. I WENT TO EUROPE AND LEARNED ABSOLUTELY NOTHING: prose by jacob nakshian 77. STAFF BIOS

contents

editor’s letter DAYSIA TOLENTINO

When I was initially accepted into this program, it was incredibly difficult for me to find descriptions or images of Kasteel Well anywhere. Some of my acquaintances that had gone during previous semesters gave me a vague idea of what the castle is like, but most found it difficult to explain. I was quite frustrated because I wanted to know what exactly I was getting into. I had so many questions. What will my living space look like? How are the classes? Is it hard to balance everything? Where the hell is Well, Limburg? Why won’t anyone give me a straight answer about these things? One year later, I am here and I think I understand. It’s almost time to leave, and I have yet to find the right words to describe the semester I’ve had. I haven’t had the time; it all passes by so quickly. It has been a surreal thing to process, yet I’ve come to realize 6

that some experiences are quite hard to put in words. Some of my favorite memories cannot be found in my camera roll nor can they be fully relived through conversation. Some things can never be recaptured as they were during the initial moment, so I hesitate to try. From biking the streets of Copenhagen to crying out of homesickness on my birthday in Prague to dumping cold water on my head in a Budapest thermal bath, these are the moments that made me feel most present. Twelve weeks of constantly moving can start to desensitize you, and the sense of wonder can disappear after awhile. Europe is a beautiful and magical place, but not everything provokes a reaction. Those instances that do take your breath away, however, are the things you will remember the most. Everyone has a different experience at the castle, and thus it is hard to articulate a universal one.

The contents in this magazine are just a fraction of the feelings, experiences, and places that this semester’s students had. The mood of the work in this publication ranges from lighthearted to deeply saddening which parallels what one can learn and experience during the Kasteel Well program. To future castle dwellers, I wish you a wonderful semester. I cannot tell you what the next three months have in store for you, but I can almost guarantee it will be nothing that you have experienced before. You’ll meet new people, both within the Emerson community and outside of it. You’ll live in different cities almost every weekend. You’ll be surprised at how easily a group of metropolitan American kids can make a rural Dutch village their home. It is a beautiful thing to watch.

With love, Daysia Tolentino

4,182 miles BY OWEN ELPHICK

It may interest you to know that we are 4,182 miles away from each other right now, according to Apple Maps, unlike the usual 3,792 miles that gape between us across the ocean like an open, widening mouth. I call out, call out to say I miss you, or I’ll be back soon or Don’t forget me, even as I travel farther away. Tomorrow, Google tells me, we will be 6,810 kilometers apart, which is 4,231.538 miles away, and what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry. I know numbers are insufficient, to express the distance in my mind, the scent of you in my back pocket, which I carry with me everywhere, the way I reach out to touch the pixels composing you over FaceTime, how I can be so far away and right next to you at the same time.

transit-ion

BY VICTORIA Dâ€™ANGELO

pink elephants BY FIONA LUDDY

“Pink Elephants on Parade” scared the shit out of me when I was six. Whoever illustrated that piece was on some acid trip from hell and decided to drag my dumb ass along with them as I sat, transfixed, in front of a grainy screen watching Dumbo in my raggedy old PJs. The elephants morphed into one another, different objects, shapes, and wild faces, each transformation more upsetting than the last. “Don’t think about the pink elephants,” my mom would say to me as she tucked me into bed. Well now I’m thinking about them, aren’t I? Now at nineteen, sitting in the Delirium Cafe in Brussels, I think about the pink elephants winding along the bar’s glasses. These aren’t so scary; as I drink, they get smaller and smaller, becoming specks in the foam. “I want to keep it, they won’t notice. Do you know how many of these glasses drunk idiots break every night? Nah, it’ll be fine.” I bolster my confidence on a false sense of security established in being an 10

“industry” worker for a few summers at a tourist trap back home. “Do it,” he says. The bell shaped glass sits on my desk now, holding my lipstick and mascara. My mom told me it was a good souvenir. Even my roommate told me she thought about stealing one too, but she’s happy I did it. Would I have taken it though, if it weren’t for the buzz of the night, the lights, or the remnants of a 25cl glass flecked along the cobblestone streets of Brussels? If it weren’t for those eyes, that flashed blue like the neon Delirium signs and challenged my rationality? If I weren’t trying so hard to engage this new city I seemed to fall in love with after only half a day, to find the thrill in travel. Nothing makes you feel alive like a risk that has no consequences. A baby step in the realm of rebellion. But I am just an American tourist acting like yet another American tourist. Buying disposable cameras to keep our memories in some vintage sheen because we feel like we need an immediate retrospective

look on anything that makes us happy. The hollowed tint of Instagram’s latest nostalgic filter. Valencia, sepia, juno, lo-fi. The adventure without risk, the nostalgia without time. But everything looks better on film. White cable knit sweaters or cheetah print coats. Chipping red paint on a metal table with one leg shorter than the rest on a side street in Brussels. The people we love, any imperfection in their skin or clothes smoothed by the slight fade of flash on the dark and glossy photo paper. These all look better on film. When I was younger, I imagined love like the kind from romance movies. I thought when I’d travel, I’d find a fairy tale in the cobblestoned streets shaded by ivy-covered walls, the cracking brick barely visible beneath the greenery. I wanted nights bound in film that don’t exist. And so, a dinner in Brussels, some local Belgian food, having a blast with your friends, are memories best found in retrospect. Walking from your small cafe back into the tourist trap center of bustling lights and oh, that Irish coffee that came with dinner looks better on film too. We take a picture, the type you’d see in a wedding slideshow, of friends together on their study abroad, and move onto the bar with the infamous elephants. I forget about the Bailey’s I’ve

already had tonight and get a beer in a plastic cup as long as my face. I wanted the pink elephants. He and I exchange uncertain looks, the drinks are good, but where are our glasses? The plot thickens, he encourages this. We chug our drinks and I go order two more, ensuring that this time I get my grail. The night moves along with arm wrestling on dark rough wood that maybe was once a part of a ship, or is at least a part of that illusion. Two friends fight, propped up on their elbows, cameras out, nearby tables taking teams. Collared shirts ruffle, his eye pulling the right corner of his mouth up with a squinting struggle, the other boy’s nose crinkles in entertained exhaustion. The boys quarrel, that’s what boys do. “Boys will be boys,” people say. People say a lot of things. Don’t think about the pink elephants. Yet, these boys are as likely to hurt me as the flat painted animals on my glass. I can take comfort in their hands on my back, my shoulders. I can count on them to take me home safely, to keep me away from another boy who doesn’t understand no. Boys will be boys, but not these boys. These boys are my boys. I watch the pink elephants dance as I take a sip out of my soon to be souvenir. The arm wrestle ends in a truce, and I giggle as I take a picture with my disposable camera. 11

mountains

BY BRAM LOWENSTEIN

blur

BY KAMRYN LEONCAVALLO

Things were blurry for quite a while, are still blurry even almost two months in. Those first weeks in September I hadn't slept a lot, hadn't figured out what the weather would be like, hadn't even broken in my new white sneakers. Forgot over the lonely summer what it was like to have friends, because after high school the bridges burned—my parents moved in the summer, everything got thrown off, including me. But finally lonely long summer ended—went to Europe (crazy, new). A different tick in my thought-clock, every second—I am in Europe, I am in Europe. Arrival is blurry: making friends with people I didn’t know and forgetting what the things were at home that I had to care about (what was it all? I don't remember) and feeling a good way about myself (feeling no way about myself)—no time for 14

self-reflection. Only time for jumping in the moat, falling off my lofted bed (but no, I didn't do these things, it’s metaphors). My beautiful room with Ximena and Fiona and the two huge windows and that's just my room—the prospect of rest of Europe is even more huge, with even more windows, even more girls with lovely laughs, even more sunshine in the morning. Boston is blurry: to imagine, to remember, crying in the morning and saying, naively, repeatedly: I don't want to leave, I don't want to go, I know I should but I know I don't want to. But even from the blurry beginning that happened so fast there was changing, shifting. In the airport, on the plane: changed, shifted. Blur: I woke up in the morning (first European morning) flooded with the kind of light that probably happens in your mind when you're praying and you mean it. I stopped thinking about all the things that had been on repeat, got less defensive, got busy. I am in Europe, Europe, Europe! And capably speaking, breathing, blinking—even walking and eating in front of people I didn't know a week ago. I am in Europe and high and moodless like pills can't recreate. New neuropathways

burning inside of me, still burning, still tripping me up (it's good for me). Less than a week in Europe and Alison says, "I wish I were as confident as Kamryn,” and I find this ridiculous to hear from Alison, who barely knows me, and I barely know her, but no: I’m confident, moodless, honest, okay. Blurred: to go to Europe, its cities, its trains, Amsterdam and Brussels and etc., etc., etc., to put my lips to the pavement of a street in Italy with my last name, to brag about it all to people who are doing the same. To write it here now, to realize that this is real, but be afraid anyway (this feeling might just be manufactured, temporary, dishonest). To acknowledge the low points when my brain is a bass hum: but to move on. To scatter my thoughts hurriedly and all at once on a piece of paper because I didn't have time or clarity to write in the first weeks when everything was so blurry. To navigate new streets and brand new maps into my mind. But also the old map (more difficult to navigate): love myself—if I don't I won't have anything at all, not even narcissism. And at least I have blurry narcissism, prose poems, me not grinding my teeth. At least I have cheerful oscillations, broken sunglasses, dirty white sneakers. 15

castle

faces

BY CHARLIE WELLING

reflections of an asianamerican in europe BY DAYSIA TOLENTINO

“WHERE ARE YOU R E A L LY FROM?” On a chilly Saturday evening in Brussels, my friends and I got dressed up for a fun night on the town. In the mood to dance, we decided to head to an establishment called Madame Moustache, which had DJs and a 18

wide dance floor. As we got to the front of the line, the bouncer sized me up and asked me a question. “Where are you from?” “Oh, I’m from San Francisco.” “No, where are you really from?” My initial reaction was one of confusion, immediately followed by annoyance. So I told him again: “I’m from San Francisco in California.” Then, I asked the man if he was inquiring about my ethnicity. He said that he did not want to get into a conversation “like that” right now. He, an ethnically ambiguous man, proceeded to ask me if he looked like a typical Belgian, and I said that I wouldn’t know. He seemed as Belgian as I was American. I am proud of my Filipino heritage, and my identity is deeply rooted in being an Asian-American woman. Because of this, I have experienced stereotyping and objectification. However, my experiences as a person of color (POC) abroad have been distinct. The stares and advances that I have endured here feel different; people express a more outward fixation on my race and appearance. People have looked at me and assumed I am different than the rest of my friends, that I am less of an American than them and something more exotic. This happens often, despite the fact that I have distinct American mannerisms and

that my passport shows that I was born and raised in the USA. Despite its flaws, the United States has cities that are more diverse in comparison to those in many European countries. Having a multicultural population exposes us to people from a wide range of backgrounds and normalizes encounters between people of different ethnicities. Growing up near the ethnically diverse cities of San Francisco and Oakland, I didn’t feel like I was different from other Americans because people in my community came from different cultural backgrounds. At home, people don’t usually stare at me on the street because they have likely seen another Asian-American woman before. In contrast, in Belgium it seemed as though the people I encountered had never seen someone who looked like me before. Most looks are not out of malice; most are out of curiosity because there are not many Asian people living in Belgium (12.75% of the Belgian population was comprised of foreign non-European inhabitants in 2012). Nonetheless, it is exhausting and dehumanizing when people are constantly staring at you, assuming your background, the language you speak, and fetishizing you. In Brussels, there were several instances in which I was clearly made the “other” because of my appearance. A group that stood next to the bounc19

er intently watched our interaction, and stared at me as if to see whether they could figure out my background for themselves. Later that night at the club, I was looked at predatorily and followed by an older Asian man who wanted to dance with me because of my ethnicity. On Tinder the night before, I matched with two different men who sent me messages along the lines of “pretty Asian! :-o” When we checked out of our Airbnb, our host asked my group whether we spoke different languages and was quite surprised that I, the only POC in our group, only spoke English, saying, “You don’t speak any other languages?” By the end of the trip, I felt alienated and emotionally drained by the weekend’s events. I am bound to experience racial microaggressions anywhere I go, including the US, and I have. That is the unfortunate reality of being who I am. However, I have personally felt that these types of encounters have been more jarring in Europe. I have learned to deal with these types of situations all my life, but it felt different in Brussels. At home, there is more of a culture of political correctness and ethnic sensitivity, but in many of the European cities I have 20

traveled to, that appears to be absent. The comments, questions, and behaviors that I experience did not seem inappropriate to those I interacted with. Coming to Europe, it had not crossed my mind that interethnic interactions would be different than in America. I was not prepared for the frequency of these racial “othering” instances, but discussions with fellow POCs at the castle helped me process them better. There is a lot to love about Brussels and Europe, but the lack of POCs and knowledge about them can be taxing. I ended all of the uncomfortable conversations I had feeling kinda sh*tty, but I did not let them stop me from enjoying the rest of my trip and the rest of Europe. My experiences were not unique in any way, but the sheer bluntness of my interactions still shook me. I haven’t really seen many writings about incidents like these, but I think it is important to document them. To POCs who may be reading this in the future: you are not an object to be stared at, you are a person. Try not to let others inhibit you from enjoying this beautiful continent, and always remember to take care of yourself.

follow the pretty BY SHAFAQ PATEL

(it’s about auschwitz) BY KAMRYN LEONCAVALLO

The bus leaves the Krakow metropolitan area and I look out the window at the Polish countryside. I pop my ears in the mountains, blow my nose into napkins, the onset of a new cold, and things are surreal. The white-haired bus driver whistles Rihanna with the radio. The bus windows are tinted but I can still tell Poland is beautiful this morning. I’m thinking about loss. And the loss thoughts shift inward (back home, back in Boston) then outward (we are on a bus to Auschwitz), inward, etc. And I wonder about the economic history of Poland (how are they doing so well, considering). Before we got on the bus (trying to figure out which bus and when and how to pay) a woman grabbed my hand to her heart, talked to me in Polish. Her blue loving eyes, and I know what it looks like for blue eyes to love me. She was at least as old as 24

my mother's mother, who was born with loving blue eyes in America in 1942 (and 1942 was one of the worst years in Poland, ever). Now the bus driver whistles Christina Aguilera. We have nearly arrived. Alison puts an ear in her book and starts talking to me again, but the consistency of my thoughts now is a too-viscous milkshake and I'm stuck. Off the bus. Snack bar is the first thing to see, then slabs of marble with who's donated money and whom they love and whom they lost. I am close to crying. We have to wait two hours for the next available tour, we didn't plan this well. I scratch the back of my throat with my tongue. I take napkins from the food court because I'm still snotty and I anticipate a cry. Is it wrong for them to serve kielbasa and hams and porks in the food court? (Or is it so right — we are in

Poland.) Is it wrong for me to try to catch the eyes of this boy with red hair? Is it wrong for this girl to take a selfie, and is it wrong to forget the introspection momentarily and fakelaugh at nothing funny? Our tour is now going to be even later because the tour guide didn't show up today. Maybe she quit, sometimes you just can't do anything about all the badness and I bet it gets to you and I bet you try to establish boundaries in your life but I bet it's hard. Loss thoughts gone inward. But get out of your head now — shift thoughts. Care about meaningful things and not about the gnats swarming, the easy gross clutter things. The barbed wire fence. Thick real sadness. When I was six, my mother told me about the Holocaust with honest urgency because that's the only way it makes sense. At the breakfast table in the morning before kindergarten. About the Nazis (word sounds evil by itself already): they told everyone to get in the shower, stole their clothes, and then that shower wasn't a real shower anyway — no water but poisonous gas. I cried that morning at the breakfast table and the bus stop and I didn't even yet know all the precise details. Our tour guide now tells us the precise details. There are pictures and the real evidence of it: suitcases, baby shoes, hair. The precise details: the number of tons of

hair, the number of people who were kept in this room, the dates, and the fact that Auschwitz is the Germanized word for the actual Polish town Oświęcim. The precise details: aren't for me to recount because the numbers add up in the end to zero, nothing, nothing to excuse, to justify, to make it right. Nothing inside me and as I force myself to be saturated in it I'm sorry for ever feeling — I'm sorry for ever eating, I'm sorry for ever spending money, for ever speaking in public, for daring to think the word love (say the word love out loud) when it's doubtful that it matters — when it's incredibly important that it matters — when it's all too much and I feel a little lightheaded, then a vibrating in my mouth, but my feelings are barely there and I'm feeling too much, feeling nothing at all. I wish it was time to leave but we haven't even gone to Birkenau yet. At Birkenau, the tour guide continues with precise details and maybe it's disrespectful in the worst way to lose focus, but I do. The gorgeous teen girls with long dark hair and white sweatshirts with the blue Star of David on the back, on a school trip, taking pictures on the train tracks. Taking turns with their portrait model shots — head down, eyes up for the camera, hair long. Little breeze lifts the hair curtain, there she is. It's beautiful, devastating, dis25

“WRITING (NOW, REALLY NOW), SITTING BY UP, LOOKING DOWN, IT’S ALL

respectful in the worst way (maybe not). Her family history — the piles of hair in the museum, the pile of hair on her head (genetics, recent, recent family history). The passage of time only makes the pain change shape, doesn't make it less, doesn't make the stolen hair behind the glass wall a different thing than what it is — the terrifying worst fate of hair. Taken, unbraided, unbrushed, displayed. The beautiful long darkhaired girls on the unholy train tracks don't laugh too loudly, but they do laugh a little. We have been at Auschwitz for nearly six hours and it's all a bit too much. It's all (all, all) a bit too much. Writing (now, really now), sitting by the huge open window three stories up, looking down, it's all a bit too much. I never did cry. My phone dies on the bus back to Krakow and I slurp my spit. Ran 26

out of napkins so I've been rubbing my snot into my sleeves. Alison and I are pressed — it's going to take a while to get to Krakow, then a while to get our bags from the hostel, walk back to the train station, blah blah blah. Then we've GOT to meet by Saint Mary's in the square between eight o'clock and eight thirty for the boat party we paid a hundred and ten zloty for (that's thirty American dollars! a boat with unlimited drinks! followed by VIP club access! it's a Thursday night!) and my phone is dead — Alison's phone is dying. Then we have to catch our train to Warsaw at 2am — that leaves us with six hours to party. Should pair nicely with our six hours at Auschwitz (nice pairing like cheese and wine). The bus stops super suddenly and I'm finally thrown out of the muddy milkshake thoughts with the lurch forward, lurch backward, sit in traffic.

THE HUGE OPEN WINDOW THREE STORIES A BIT TOO MUCH. I NEVER DID CRY.”

Alison looks up from her book at me and the only thing that makes sense to say is, "Alison, I think I'm going to have to marry this bus driver," and I laugh at my lame joke and Alison laughs but maybe we are laughing not because I'm funny but because laughter helps make that empty feel less. I don't know what to do with the precise details that are like neon lights except elaborate on the image that now plays out in my head: the bus finally pulls into the station only for the white-haired bus driver to stand up slowly and announce in Polish-English amalgam that he is refusing to let anyone off the bus until I (that's me) agree to marry him. I somberly comply, for the sake of everyone else on the bus, and live the rest of my life married to the bus driver in Krakow (the only bus driver in Krakow, I'm sure). I never make it to the boat party, or Warsaw, or back

to America, back home. Our wedding is held right there on the bus and I walk down the aisle towards my future of devotion and pierogies, for better or for worse, everyone cheers. Alison returns from Poland alone, but changed. I could go on. But it seems now that beautiful absurdity is the only thing that doesn't feel surreal (feels real — but what's that even mean? don’t know what it means). Everything in shambles plus guilt, plus guilt of existing, plus existing plus responsible plus inadequate plus all of it too much: amounts to that feeling of nothing and selfish tears — or breathe inside myself. Reach for the back of my esophagus and pluck out some spindle of me that lets me detach without alcohol; it lets loose the thick thought sludge as I blow my nose, blow my nose, blow my nose. I'll be okay yet, we arrive at the bus stop, I'll be okay, yet. 27

devil of heidelberg BY GREGORIO LEÃ“N

cages BY ZOE ZIYUE CHEN

like a slap in the face BY EMILIE KRONE

My first night out in Amsterdam started with a strange man “credit card swiping” my boobs as I stepped off the tram in my brand new dress. If you’re not familiar with this maneuver, congratulations! You’re either a somewhat decent guy or a super fortunate girl. Essentially, the “credit card swipe” is an unflattering advance in which a man pretends he’s holding a credit card and swipes his hands down in front of your cleavage with the casual coolness of someone paying for their groceries. It falls — I would argue — under the generally nasty practice of catcalling, an ancient art form that I have realized is universal. The situation itself wasn’t that unsettling. The man even made sound effects when he was do30

ing it, a stupid cha-ching like his transaction had gone through. (It didn’t. I only take cash.) I even found myself laughing, possibly out of shock, but also because the whole thing was so gimmicky and pathetic. What was he expecting to get out of it? I wasn’t afraid for my life, and it didn’t really put a damper on the rest of my night. But that doesn’t matter. This simple and offensive gesture took a lot of the magic out of Amsterdam. It didn’t necessarily ruin my trip, but it did change the way I saw the city. Catcalling is something I’ve experienced all my life. Whether I’m picking up some antibiotics at CVS in my pajamas or walking to class in my nice school outfit, I can always count on some strange dude across the street offering his opinion on my

appearance. It’s a minor inconvenience at best. I deal with it, just like I always have. I wear my resting bitch face with pride when I’m out on the sidewalk in Boston. At home, I push my nighttime walks to ten or eleven o’clock, when the obnoxious high school boys who drive up and down the main street have finally retired for the night. When someone whistles, I clench my fists, grit my teeth, and say nothing. That’s life for a girl. It just is. Unfavorable male attention is as much a part of my daily life as brushing my teeth. It feels almost mundane sometimes, like some meaningless task I have to force myself through each day to keep going. So when it happened in Amsterdam, I wasn’t afraid, but it doesn’t mean I wasn’t affected. The illusion of a beautiful, inviting city was shattered. This wasn’t some fantasy trip into a new realm. This place I had romanticized and admired was suddenly, painfully clear and honest with me, like a slap in the face. It was a new backdrop, but the culture was the same. Catcalling is a language that transcends cul-

ture and class. It was uncomfortably familiar. I came to this brand new place to experience something foreign and exciting, and the only consistency I found was the one thing I was most looking forward to leaving behind. I learned a hard truth in Amsterdam. Maybe that outlook is cynical, but I don’t think so. More than anything, I learned that travel is not an escape from life. All these stories of people running away to a new country to start over are, frankly, bullshit. Men will catcall no matter where you go, and people will get jumped and children will go missing and tragedy will occur in some dark corner of the city because even though the world is filled with good people, it’s got its handful of shitty ones too. I’ll go back to Amsterdam. I really did love it there, with its old buildings, new perspectives, and its giant open heart. But when I see it next, it won’t be through the rose-tinted glasses that obscured my view the first time around. And maybe, ultimately, that’s all for the best. 31

european zine queens BY DAYSIA TOLENTINO

a letter to my future daughter BY GABRIELLE MARTIN

Although we have many years before we meet, I am already thinking of you, of what you will be like, if you will be anything like me, of how I may share the experiences of my life with you to shape yours. I have many things to share with you from my time in the Netherlands, but the most important thing I have learned here is that home is nothing more than a concept. Home is not the four walls that surround you wherever you typically reside or the place where you know exactly where you can find soup mugs in the kitchen. If youâ€™re anything like me, you will find that home is intangible. It always will be, and it is ever-changing, just like our fickle human hearts. Home is where you find it, what you make of it, and can be discovered almost anywhere your heart feels content enough to sigh in relief. Sometimes home is nothing more than a place where you can comfortably rest at the end of a

trying day, a place that has extended its arms and opened its doors, where there are hearts that beat in a rhythm tuned to yours. I have found an absolute sense of belonging in some very unexpected places, and they will all leave a lasting imprint on my soul. Although I may never return to them physically in this lifetime, traces of my heart will always linger there. That is why I have to believe that I will walk the streets of Amsterdam again, that I will return to the Netherlands; to imagine otherwise would be simply unthinkable. All dramatics aside, I have found something here that cannot be duplicated anywhere else, and that is a truly magical thing in a world of carbon copies. You need to see Amsterdam! Of course, I am a firm believer that you need to see the whole world and all of its miracles, but Amsterdam is especially good for the soul. Nothing else will bring you the re33

lief of travel; perhaps Amsterdam will not mean the same to you as it means to me, but it certainly will leave its mark on your heart, whatever that may be. Youâ€™ll have to see for yourself. My advice to you is simple: if and when you find yourself in Amsterdam, visit the Red Light District on a Friday night, preferably wearing a coat made of faux fur and a dress of champagne-colored crushed velvet. Bring three girlfriends and walk among the throngs of men who gather at the windows. Even though you have known it all your life, you will be reminded here that the male gaze is a heavy and dangerous thing; feel it on your skin and consider its conception. You will feel the blood pumping through your veins and your pulse pounding in your ears as you push through the crowds and make eye contact with a woman in a window. Look at everything, even when it makes your skin crawl. I encourage you to take up space here, even if it is one of the rare occasions in your life when you allow yourself to do so. It is important to realize that your group will likely be some of the only women present in the Dis34

trict, aside from the girls behind the windows. You are receiving the same predatory looks as them from the men in the city, and you will realize that the only difference between you and the workers is that they are safely placed behind panes of glass while you are out in the open. Do you feel safe? Probably not. Ask yourself what it means to be a woman in this world. This might be the first time you really conceptualize the violence women face every day, the objectification we are constantly subjected to, and it might hurt to acknowledge this. You may even ask yourself who you are and what you represent in a world determined to place you in a box. Do not let it: you cannot be placed in a box. Your spirits are too big for that kind of small thinking. For the next day, schedule a visit to the Anne Frank House. Walk along the walls with their faded floral wallpaper and hear the ghosts of those who have been there before you whisper their stories. Let them call out to you as you walk in the footsteps of the thousands. See the worn places on the steps that so many have treaded in their travels. Trace your fingertips against the railings of the steepest staircases, so

a piece of you may linger behind in the wake of your visit, offering support to all those who will find themselves there after you. After your visit, walk along the canals with a camera in hand and eyes open wide to receive the world around you. Watch the tours float by on the boats and the families standing together at the edges of the murky water. Take plenty of photos for when your memories become groggy. Once you’ve done that, go into churches and light candles for the people who you once loved, who you have lost. If you have not lost anyone by the time you’re reading this, light a candle for me so my presence will be with you even if we’re apart. Find yourself in this city, in a place where you are entirely anonymous and free to be whoever you need to be. Discover romance not with another, but within yourself, in the solitude of the city very late at night, in being alone in a large crowd and feeling at ease despite the strangeness of this new place. At least, that’s what I did. If I close my eyes, I can still see the lights of the Stopera rising and falling. I can envision the pink carpeted stairs of the ballet,

and the little gold heels I wore that night. I will fondly remember getting cheeseburgers with friends at a Spanish-Dutch restaurant because we ached for familiarity, and the panic that came with illegally riding the train from Centraal Station to Nijmegen. I can still envision the hazy fog of the club we went to and the juxtaposition of the sky sparkling with glittery stars that night. I will carry it all with me for as long as I live. In Amsterdam, there is the possibility to transcend personhood and become a spectacle, and for brief periods in your life, that can be a very good thing. At this season in mine, it was absolutely necessary. Whatever this city will be and mean to you, may you find something here that you were searching for. Love always, Your mother

Schio, Italy O train platform, bathed in gold sunlight, the rising rays kissing each rust-nibbled pole that holds you up, their long shadows shot parallel to each other across the tiny squares of red that form the floor. I could have stayed inside the station, while I waited for my 8:09 a.m. train to Vicenza, and on to Venice, but I wanted to feel the uncaring bite of the early morning encase my hands, even as Helios casts his glow across them. Writing this is my best way of keeping warm. A greenish, primordial slime bursts from me with each crack of my extinct throat, and I huddle over the page, coughing, listening to the ringing of the bell that signals my trainâ€™s approach. It has been ringing for a long time now, perhaps ten minutes, but ring on, little bell, ring on, and fill my ears with your tiny music, your joyful inevitability. Soon my chariot will arrive, and I must go, but for now, let me sit on this bench in a room without walls, resting in the space between leaving and staying

platform BY OWEN ELPHICK

and admire the quiet wonder of simple beauties: the sweet symmetry of a train platform running off into the mist, the mellifluous symphony of Italian words streaming from my fellow passengers, mixing with the booming song of the mountains, reverberating off of the morning. 37

well BY WILL NICHOLS

italia BY KATRINA CHAPUT

short poems BY AL SPRUILL

oh loverâ€”

This road is quite long. Stars themselves must part, a lovely sunrise. When I shut my eyes, I see different stars amongst the rubble.

area code: 10708

41 days, 3500 miles, 200 megabytes, 21 minutes 53 seconds, Heartbreak.

câ€™est toi BY MADELINE WEINSTEIN-AVERY 43

white box BY DAVID FADUL

In my head I’m checking off all the laws that would be broken back home. Drug possession, public intoxication, jaywalking, having fun, reckless cycling. The more I check off, the less I want to go back. The streets hum with a kind of harmony that eludes most cities. People are stumbling, laughing, and smoking beneath the warmth of the strungup streetlights. The bikes don’t crash. The tram doesn’t run people over. No drunken fights break out. I feel that I’m becoming more like these residents of Amsterdam. The initial shock of the near-bike-collisions wears off. Here, thinking that these are near-collisions is like thinking that walking is near-tripping. The haze that covers the streets fades to the back of my mind. Back home this smell meant late summer nights and jail time. Here, it means Saturday. 46

The next morning is just as beautiful. The sunlight coats the cool stone and slushing waterways. The day is full of window-shopping and near-death bicycle experiences. My friends and I discuss moving here more times than I can count. The more I think of it, the more exciting it seems. A truly free city across the ocean from home. Once we’ve had enough of walking around, we decide to head back to the hostel. Passing a dirty construction site and turning onto a cramped side street, I spot a small white cigarette box. The concrete around it is stained with a brown blot. I recognize where we are. Two neon clad men stood above the woman last night. One held a notebook, while the other shook his head. He said something in a language I desperately wanted to understand. Blood, deep and thick, dribbled down to the con-

crete. Tears and streaming snot poured down her off-white cheek, mixing with the carefully applied mascara. I imagined her wondering if the black clothes she wore would allow her to melt into the night. She had one hand covering her face while the other pressed into the cool concrete, forcing uneven prints into her palm. Feeling it must have helped her stay upright. The warm yellow lights that blanketed the streets all evening suddenly seemed to cool. We walked by the woman and fell silent in a desperate attempt to feign ignorance. I shivered in the newly-frigid air. Was she mugged? Why was that man so calm? I could have asked, but decided against it. We talked about it in hushed tones as we approached the hostel. Now the white box glints in the afternoon sun. The blots around it start to make me sick—they seem to

grow the more I stare. My friends keep walking, but I feel nailed to the ground. I feel like reaching out and grabbing the box to make sure what I’d seen last night was real. The air smells of burning. I want to apologize. I’ve stopped to stare this time, but only because there won’t be anyone to see it. I mutter an apology to the empty street, trying desperately to keep the illusion that I’d ever fit in this city. I look at the box one last time, then rip my feet from the ground and begin to walk after my friends. As we round the corner, I realize I no longer remember the woman’s face.

graffiti BY EMILIE KRONE, DAYSIA TOLENTINO,

AND MADELINE WEINSTEIN-AVERY

in the heart of no man’s land

A SCRIPT BY DYLAN SKUDLAREK, RACHEL SCALERA, AND CONNOR GALLANT

FADE IN: INT. NO MAN’S LAND WWI - MID DAY The GERMAN and FRENCH ARMIES are engaged in battle somewhere along the border of the two countries. HANS, a German solider, is running through No Man’s Land when he spots a French Soldier, JEAN PIERRE, pointing his rifle at him. Hans charges forward and tries to aim his weapon at Jean Pierre. JP FIRES the rifle and nails Hans in the shoulder. As Hans plummets to the ground in pain, he falls forward into a large hole that is in front of him. JP runs over to the hole to see if the man he shot is dead. Right before he peers down, JP trips over a body hidden in the brush, and falls into the hole, as well. In the hole, Hans gets up and tries to shoot JP. His gun is jammed, so Hans tries to use it as a blunt object to attack JP. Both of the men struggle for the gun. A photo of a WOMAN falls out of JP’s coat pocket. Hans picks up the photo. 49

HANS Where did you get this photograph? JP You speak English? Thats my girlfriend. She’s British. HANS What are you talking about? Hans takes out picture of a woman. It is the same woman in JP’s photograph. HANS (CONT’D) Thats my girlfriend, Bethany! She’s the one who taught me English! JP What?! My girlfriend taught me English too...and her name is Bethany! Are we dating the same British woman? HANS How is this possible? She said I was the only one!

(CONTINUED) 50

CONTINUED: 2. JP She told me the same thing! We can’t let her get away with this. I can’t fight in this war with a broken heart! HANS We have to confront her. Let’s rally our boys. JP What about the bullet in your shoulder? You’re bleeding everywhere. HANS To hell with my shoulder! This is way more important. JP But how are we going to get out of this hole? They both look up. Hans sees his comrade WILHELM running by. HANS Wilhelm! Help! 51

Wilhelm looks down and points his gun at JP. Hans jumps in front. HANS Don’t shoot! He’s cool. I’ll explain everything when you get us out of this hole. WILHELM Uh, okay. Wilhelm pulls them out of the ditch and back onto No Man’s Land. Hans and JP explain to Wilhelm the situation. They are all deeply invested in the story as bullets fly by and bombs are going off. A SOLDIER running by overhears Hans. HANS ...and that’s how we found out we are both dating the same woman! The soldier stops in his tracks. SOLDIER That’s a really messed up situation. You have to confront her right away. A WOUNDED SOLDIER crawls up to the group for help.

(CONTINUED) 52

WOUNDED SOLDIER Can someone help me please?

CONTINUED: 3.

WILHELM

No hold on. We have bigger problems here. These guys just got their heart broken by the same woman! WOUNDED SOLDIER Oh my bad. That’s crazy-- wait-The wounded soldier calls out to a another SOLDIER running by. WOUNDED SOLDIER (CONT’D) Joey, you gotta hear this! They all talk some more. A crowd forms in the middle of No Man’s Land. HANS ...and that’s how we found out we are both dating the same woman! THE CROWD yells in unison. THE CROWD To London! INT. COMMERCIAL PLANE The group of soldiers are sitting comfortably in the plane. JP, wearing a neck pillow, gets the attention of the flight attendant. 53

JP Excuse me, Miss? This water has too many bubbles. EXT. LONDON FLAT - DUSK The French and German armies all arrive at BETHANYâ€™S flat. Hans and JP hesitate to open the door. Both armies support them. SOLDIER Do it. She broke both of your hearts. Confronting her is the only way to heal. Hans and JP place both their hands on the door and open it together. They are surprised to see the woman with an Italian man named NICOLO. The armies gasp and move inside. BETHANY Hans! Jean Pierre! How are you back from the war already? HANS We stopped World War One to tell you that we know you lied to us. We thought you were loyal. (CONTINUED) 54

CONTINUED: 4. BETHANY Well, you guys were at war. I honestly didn’t expect to see you ever again. I’ve been hanging with Nicolo. He’s Italian and taught me how to make pasta. NICOLO Sorry to see that you guys are heartbroken, but I actually fell in love with the art of pasta making. I can teach you guys. Everyone nods in agreement. They put their differences behind them and make pasta. INT. UN MEETING Hans, JP, Bethany, Nicolo, and both armies are signing the treaty to end the war. Everyone is eating pasta. JP Wow. I can’t believe we just ended World War one and learned the art of pasta making! I feel my heart healing already.

HANS Yeah, that’s really cool, and I’m totally happy about that don’t get me wrong. But remember back in the war when you shot me? I don’t hold a grudge or anything, but I’m still bleeding and need to go to the hospital, like, right now. JP Oh, shit. Yeah, damn, I forgot about that, my bad. HANS Oh, no problem man. We both got caught up in all the excitement. I just know that I’m going to bleed out soon, so-JP Yeah! Like let’s go to the hospital right now. HANS Okay, thanks man! FADE TO BLACK.

curiosity pet the cat

BY MADELINE WEINSTEIN-AVERY & PHOEBE LOEW

a guide for traveling with life-threatening food allergies BY OWEN ELPHICK

AUTHOR’S NOTE: For more on the basic practices and principles of not letting the food you eat kill you, consult “A Guide for Living With Life-Threatening Food Allergies,” if you have not already memorized and internalized it (which, in all honesty, you almost certainly have, or you would not be reading this). 1. Make sure you have suitable health/life insurance before going. 2. If you cannot obtain suitable health/life insurance, make a sacrifice to the allergy gods—the blood of three vegetarians and/or one vegan over a bonfire of unused Epipens should do the trick. 3. Always have your Epipen on you. NO EXCEPTIONS. 4. Know how to use your Epipen. 5. If you have a reaction, and need to use your Epipen, use it. 6. Don’t be scared. Don’t let being scared kill you. 58

7. Learn to go whole days without eating, if necessary. Live only on bread and water, like a monk. Starve, but don’t die. 8. Identify what allergen-free food you can get through customs on the flight over. Fill any remaining space in your luggage with it. 9. Be suspicious of airline food. This applies to everyone, but you especially. 10. Be prepared for disappointment. 11. Once you have arrived, identify the nearest grocery store. They are cheaper and have more options than any restaurant. Stock up a personal food supply there. 12. Resist the urge to buy only candy and chips that are allergen-free for your personal food supply, and identify healthy foods that won’t kill you as well. 13. Learn to read ingredient lists in other languages. The allergens are usually bolded. Use Google Trans-

late for words you don’t recognize. 14. Know you won’t be eating the same brands you get to rely on at home. Be open to discovery, but don’t let discovery kill you. 15. If you are somewhere that offers food you are not allergic to for free, take as much of it as you can. 16. Don’t expect to get dessert. See #10. 17. Do research beforehand. Seek out places with good reputations. Search for “allergy-friendly.” 18. Type up and print out cards that explain your situation in all of the languages you haven’t bothered to learn before going (e.g. French, Spanish, Dutch, Japanese, Old English, Czech, cuneiform, hieroglyphics [in the case of time travel—if you go back in time, you want your ass covered]). You can give these to the waiter when you go to a restaurant—it saves time for everyone. These cards might read:

Please give this to the chef. I have life-threatening food allergies to ____, It is extremely important that my meal not contain any of these items. Even very small amounts could cause a life-threatening reaction. Are there items on the menu I can eat? Can you cook my meal plain on a clean grill, with no sauce? 19. When the waiter comes back from talking to the chef, and jokes that the chef has read your card and has understood perfectly, and will now be putting all your allergens into your dish, don’t pretend to laugh. Just smile. 20. When your dish gets brought out with the thing that will kill you on it, after you specifically asked them to leave it off, don’t get angry. Just smile. Call the waiter over, and make sure that you are right. 21. When you are right, don’t hold it over them. Just smile. Hand them back the dish so they can fix it. 22. When they fuck up again, don’t get upset. Just smile. Laugh when they say they’re going to kill the 59

chef. Make it into a joke. 23. Repeat #22 as many times as necessary until they get it right. See #10. 24. When they get it right, act grateful. Be grateful you get to eat at all. 25. Savor what food you get. Let it linger on your tongue. 26. Remember, you have as much of a right to delicious food as anybody. Don’t assume that you won’t have options. 27. Remember, you will usually not be provided for. See #10. 28. Don’t let it depress you. 29. Don’t make other people worry about you too much. It’s bad enough you have to put up with it; so why should they have to? 30. Find someone else like you. Keep each other safe. 31. Reflect on how much harder this would have been fifteen years ago, without iPhones, or the Internet, or actual widespread awareness in the food industry of people like you. Be grateful to your parents for not letting you die. 32. Don’t die. 33. Type up and print out cards that explain in whatever language 60

the nearest person may speak (see #18) that you are having a reaction, so that they can help you, rather than just stand around wondering why you are writhing on the floor. These cards might read: Medical Emergency! I have life-threatening food allergies and I am having a serious reaction. This reaction may eliminate my ability to breathe. Please help me call an ambulance and get me to a doctor/hospital. FOR THE DOCTOR/EMERGENCY MEDICAL PERSONNEL: I have life-threatening allergies to____. I have already received ___ doses of epinephrine.

34. If you put food in your mouth, and you notice something is wrong immediately, trust yourself. Even if they said it was fine, TRUST YOURSELF. 35. If you feel like you’re having a reaction, but not like it will kill you yet (e.g. you mouth starts itching but your airway has not started closing), don’t waste your Epipen. Go to the bathroom. See #6. 36. Use the water in the sink. Swish and spit and swish and spit and swish until you can’t feel your mouth anymore. Swish and spit as many times as you need to to make the feeling of infection go away, to calm yourself down, to stop panicking. 37. Don’t panic. 38. Do what you have to do. Stick your finger down your throat. Make yourself throw up. Do it. Just do it. Just get it out, get it out of your stomach, out of your system and if afterward the taste is back in your mouth, repeat #36. 39. Breathe. You’ve got this. 40. Disregard #10. You already are.

airboy

BY WILL NICHOLS

my blood, his blood, our blood BY ISABELLE BRAUN

My dad told be to be careful at Oktoberfest. He told me to be responsible, to be smart. My understanding of that turned into my not ordering a beer like everybody else. That’s probably why the waitress in the blue dirndl gives me a pointed look; she thinks I’m nuts for going to a beer garden and not drinking. My friends and I hand her 85.60 euros for the beer. The golden, bubbly liquid foams at the top and over the glass as the mugs transfer from one set of hands to another. It’s not until she leaves with the coins jingling in her dirndl pockets that I realize I paid for a beer I never ordered. The heavy beer mugs go up in the air, the girls holding them with two hands and the guys ignore their shaking arms, not wanting to show weakness. They smile, say cheers, and the cups clang together. Beer sloshes over the long wooden table, and little droplets land on my

hand. My mouth runs dry with the thought of it on my tongue, so I wipe it off on my dirndl. My friends yell cheers again and I can’t help but laugh; they stare at me, perplexed. “In German you say prost, not cheers,” I say, hoping that doesn’t sound bitchy. My friends shrug their shoulders, lift their shaking cups, and yell “PROST!” They all have white mustaches when they put their mugs down. I wonder if they notice. “You want a sip?” Davis asks, bringing the beer close to my lips. My stomach clenches at the bitter smell. I shake my head; I feel a little guilty for declining his offer. He’s doing the right thing as my boyfriend by trying to include me in everything, but he doesn’t know the whole story. “The German knows the proper way to drink but doesn’t drink herself,” Davis says before taking another long sip. 63

I grab the beer mug from his hands before it hits the table. The cold liquid settles in my stomach and I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up. I put the mug down. I check for my beer mustache. My friends cheer, lift their cups high into the air, and yell, “PROST!” Everyone laughs, some stand on the table and chug, and the waitresses in dirndls carry eight beers at once from one table to the next. I don’t know how they do that since they have tiny hands. My stomach churns from the one sip of beer, but I have an easy smile on my face. I laugh at the jokes and my friends’ funny faces. I cheer for them to swallow the last drops that make them go wild. My hands wrap around random half full mugs and my lips touch the beer but it doesn’t touch my tongue. I don’t taste it. I don’t swallow it. I heed my dad’s warning. 64

*** I find myself in a different beer garden the next day. Our group, five girls and Davis, hogs the table to ourselves. The waiter suggests lemonade beer when I say I’m not drinking— he’s insistent. His brown lederhosen disappear around the corner and then reappear with six glasses. I pay for the beer; the bubbles disappear into the foam. My friends take long sips of beer and talk about what they can remember from yesterday, which is very little, but I remember it all. The sunlight reflects off the light golden liquid; it doesn’t touch Davis’s dark beer. My friends have white mustaches sometimes, but I don’t. The foam still overflows. We start playing “Truth or Drink” as our fingers pick at the giant heart-shaped cookie in front of us. It’s too gingery for my taste, and I don’t like hard frosting. I pass off my pieces to Davis. He answers

a question that I don’t hear. My focus is on the bubbles in my lemonade beer that continue to disappear into the foam. “You going to answer or drink, Isabelle,” Abby asks me. She elongates the “s” in my name slightly. I glance at her mug; the beer has a pretty good dent in it. Either the beer is a lot stronger than we thought or she just didn’t eat. I glance at my other friends, their faces looking doubtful about the question. My mug is the fullest. “What’s the question?” The floral wreath above Davis’s head distracts me. Red, yellow, and black flowers sprinkled throughout the green leaves. “Describe your worst drinking experience,” Davis answers me. His tone suggests that I don’t have a story. Yelling from the table next to

ours interrupts my thoughts. A guy in blue lederhosen pours beer on his head and smashes his drink on the table. A piece of glass sticks out of his hand and blood slowly seeps out. His red-faced friend takes it out and places the bloody object on his Peter Pan hat. Blue Lederhosen’s hand has red rivers spilling onto the wood, followed soon by beer colored vomit. Rain drizzles down and spreads it among the wood. I forget about the question; Blue Lederhosen reminds me of something else. My dad walked into a bar and walked out again with a passed out man over his shoulders. Sober and drunk and all the same blood. One fourteen and the other forty-five. They stumbled along the slippery streets, toes catching on the cobblestones. My dad dropped his father on the ground, and he threw up. The drunk turned the pale street into a dark murky river of newly exposed beer and stomach contents. My dad watched, hands in his 65

“THE MUG IS EMPTY; THE REMAINING FOAM SLIDES DOWN TO SETTLE AT THE BOTTOM AND DISAPPEARS INTO THE AIR.”

trouser pockets that weren’t really pockets as they had no ending. His wet, moth bitten shirt formed to his skinny body; he couldn’t afford a jacket; the slurring man spent the family money in bars he was now banned from. My dad frowned and turned his eyes away from the passed out drunk, up the dimly lit streets. Eventually he got his father home. Alcohol didn’t touch his lips until he was thirty-five. “Isabelle?” Davis asks. I blink and focus on him. I forget my dad’s advice. My hands lift my mug, and I take a long sip. One gulp, two gulps, three gulps. It tastes like sour lemonade. I keep drinking and tilt my head back. Some of the beer escapes my mouth and runs down my neck like those who chugged it on the tables. It doesn’t taste bitter. I put the empty mug down on the table and hiccup. My head is fuzzy 66

and my friends stare; Davis is a little slack-jawed. The mug is empty; the remaining foam slides down to settle at the bottom and disappears into the air. Pressure releases from my shoulders and I feel like I can breathe. I hand the waiter a twenty and wrap my hands around another beer mug. I drink half of it. My body feels light and my mind free. I take another sip to forget my dad’s story. A sip after that to forget the work I have to do. A third to forget my family’s shitshow of life. I wonder if this is why my grandfather drank. It makes sense. I understand now.

in the airbnb BY CHARLIE WELLING

recovery BY XIMENA DELGADO

“The things that are important to us have a way of coming back,” Fiona said to me as we walked down the path towards the bar. Our eyes glued on the cracked floor and the scattered leaves that laid on top of it. Our eyes moved back and forth, looking for a small silver and green ring that she had lost hours before during our drunken American Night. Memories kept coming back to me. Dancing on tables, playing beer pong with small plastic cups and stolen balls from the castle, the one too many tequila shots. There were also memories of laying on the floor of my room crying while my friends held me. Tears streaming down uncontrollably, mumbling Cam’s name over and over until it ceased to mean anything. Closing my eyes only to see his face, my body tingling as if it was missing a part of itself, like I was no longer whole and simply a combination of broken pieces. Holding myself together with nee68

dle and thread. My drunken mind bringing back the nights in which he held me, the days in which we walked to the Esplanade together and sat by the water watching the sunset. I threw up those memories, the good and the bad along with my dinner from hours before. I spat out his name into the arms of people who love me. But love is such a strong word, what does it even mean? Whoever said Paris is the city of love has obviously never sat by the steps of the Piazza de Michelangelo looking down at the vast landscape of Florence. The orangeturned-to-pink sun setting while music plays in the background. It’s easy to lose yourself in the beauty when it stands high and mighty all around you. I rest my back against his chest, his arms around me as we watch the light turn to dark, and we both know so much about darkness.

This new boy who wants to know everything from my past and be a part of my future. This new boy who holds my hand as we walk down the street. The one who calls me the ‘most beautiful thing in this place’ as we make our way through elegant museums. This new boy who wants me, good and bad. “Are you happy?” he asks as we walk along the river. The city lights reflecting on the water in such a delicate way that the world could come to an end in that moment and I wouldn’t care. But that’s a hard question, happy is not something I feel often. This city is nothing like Rome with all its crumbling pieces. There I felt like I was home. I could walk through the fallen parts of the ancient city and imagine each cracked rock belonged to me. It was in the broken beauty that I could see something

beautiful inside the pain which lingers in my core. The broken beauty which manifested in Boston and which I can’t seem to run away from. But here, this place, this boy, it is all too new and scary. It is all a bit too perfect, and what even are perfect moments. Because how can they be perfect when this new boy pulls me toward him, but my mind pulls towards Cam and the miles which lay between us. Nostalgia standing in the middle forcing me to believe things were better than they truly were. What a shitty feeling to want someone who doesn’t want you, to have your heart beat for a person who doesn’t even want to be a part of your life. And what a shitty feeling to have someone new want you, when you have no idea how to want them back. He smiles at me as we walk 69

through the cathedral, he dances with me as our friends look up towards the Duomo. We stand side by side, my arm through his arm, and he leans over to kiss my cheek. My legs start to tingle and shake, a shiver runs down my spine. I tell him I’m cold because it’s easier to say that than to explain how for the longest time my body hasn’t belonged to me. This body that carries me from country to country has been eroded to the bone. The gradual destruction occurs as wind blows Cam farther away from me. But for the first time in months this body is mine. This scarred body that has supported me through so much is finally mine and nobody else’s. At night, he holds me. This new boy who doesn’t care about the cuts along my arms, who laughs at all the stupid things I say and always tries to make me feel better. He 70

leans over so that his lips are next to my ear and says, “you make me really happy,” right before falling into a deep sleep. At night I lay awake, I watch as his chest rises and falls with the steady breathing that I can’t seem to muster. Fear seeps in through my pores, out back into the room, the hostel, the city. Until all of Florence is covered in the fear only love can create. The fear of letting another person into your world while giving them the power to destroy every part of you. “I’m going to break your heart,” I whisper in the dark room, “or you’re going to break mine.” I let myself fall. “Maybe we should turn back,” Fiona said right before we reached the bar. “We’re almost there,” I said, and we kept walking. I made my way to the tables outside, reached

the door and spun around to look at her, disappointment clouding her blue eyes. But as we turned to leave she stopped, and I could see it in the way her body froze, two steps to the right, and there, behind one of the chairs laid the small ring. She picked it up and put it back on her middle finger. It was too big for her, no wonder it fell off in the first place. “I’m gonna start wearing it around a chain,” she said with a bright smile as she began to walk away. I stood looking at her back, the wind whistling through the trees, leaves fell over into the ground. My mind trapped back in Boston, trapped inside the things I had lost. “The things that are important to us have a way of coming back,” I whispered to myself and ran over to catch up to her.

“THE THINGS THAT ARE IMPORTANT TO US HAVE A WAY OF COMING BACK.”

santorini BY CHARLIE WELLING

the magic in not changing BY VICTORIA D’ANGELO

I went into this adventure with a strange mentality, one that I tend to beat myself up over a lot. I took off with an Eat, Pray, Love sort of dream. Was that because the last book I read before I left was Elizabeth Gilbert’s biographical telling of a self-discovering, self-loving journey? Probably. But I’ve always placed such an emphasis on traveling, making it less of a vacation and more of a period in which I’d become someone different, even unrecognizable. Be this through a strong tan that forced a change in concealer color (which never happened), or a meditative journey through which I found myself and inner peace (which also never happened), I always attempt to make the temporary change in scenery something more than it is. I reach too far beneath the surface level of even a weekend getaway, and dis-

appoint myself in the process. But traveling independently for ninety days presented the perfect opportunity for the self-discovery I had always dreamed of. I would come back someone new. I would come back with more stories of travel written on my face, enough that someone passing me on the street would sense my sophistication and my world knowledge. I would walk around each country and take in the sights the way no one else could. I imagined my mind and heart cleansing themselves of any toxicity with each footstep, and Europe would reinvent a new Me, and grant me the gift of renewal. The realization of the absurdity of my beliefs about this trip came about when I looked on Facebook and saw seven or eight other people traveling abroad this semester. It made me think about all the oth73

er people before them who have posted pictures of the Eiffel Tower, followed by a snapshot of the Colosseum, then the bridges in Amsterdam. It made me think about those who have ventured on the same journey with the same hopes and intentions that I have. Not to mention the eighty-two other students who are also on this trip. At a castle, nonetheless — no hut or tent or desert. A castle. Nothing that exemplifies struggle or hardship, or provides a take-this-andlearn-from-it experience, but rather screams comfort and the sheer privilege of luxury. After all, we are liberal arts students at a school that charges three arms and both your legs a year to attend. It all hit me at once, that my dreams of reinvention through this semester were nothing but that of a clueless American tourist looking to find something life just didn’t provide. (And what could that even be?) Where did I find the right to take a country, someone’s home, and squeeze all I could out of it to benefit my existence, while simultaneously losing my true essence in the process? I realized I take each moment for granted, expecting

from it something different than it provides. Where I look for immersive culture, I find the realities of American influence. Where I look for peace and solitude, I find challenges and the enjoyment of traveling with friends. Where I look for moments of clarity, I find the rewarding moments of managing to navigate a new and unknown city. It is through this self-awareness that I find peace in not seeking change. I now understand that change cannot be forced. Change must be equally natural, gradual, and beautiful, and sometimes so subtle you don’t even notice it. I now find solace in the familiarity of being me. I now look differently at myself and my relationship with the people that surround me and the environment of every place I travel — as far away as London, and as close as Onder de Linden on American Night. I now appreciate certain aspects of myself that I had previously overlooked in order to become whatever renovated version of myself I had in mind. I’m at peace with who I am and whatever this semester brings me. And maybe that’s the change I’ve been looking for all this time.

strawberry man BY EMILIE KRONE 75

i went to europe and learned absolutely nothing BY JACOB NAKSHIAN

On September 14, 2017, the coarse winds of the Boston Harbor blew against my pink, boyish cheeks as I leaned over the railing of the ship’s bow. A single tear rolled down my face as I gripped my leather sack of clothing and stared into a sepia-toned photograph of my twomonth-year-old son. The day had finally come. My new life in Europe was here. Though, ten minutes later I was alerted that aquatic transatlantic voyages had become obsolete decades ago and that sneaking into shipyards was a felony. If it wasn’t for my burning willpower and expertise in seducing ship captains, I would have never been able to arrive in Well, Netherlands and start my semester abroad. I was go76

ing to see the world. I was going to expand my mind. I was going to wait in line for two hours at the Eiffel Tower, then get queasy in line and have to go into a McDonald’s to tell the guy at the counter that I would buy a coffee after I used the bathroom, then use the bathroom and leave quickly without making eye contact. One thing was for certain, my life was going to change. Ninety days, one semester, and $2,500 worth of stroopwafel later, I really don’t know what to tell you. I got nothing. I’ve been living on another continent for the past three months, and I have yet to improve myself or change my outlook of the world in the slightest.

“MAYBE I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND EUROPE.”

I don’t know what went wrong. I did everything I was supposed to. Every weekend, I travelled to amazing new cities with groups of my friends. Berlin, Rome, the one with the big clock. Yet as they learned to appreciate their own lives as part of a broader spectrum of humanity, it became obvious to me pretty quickly that I was clinically brain dead when it came to cultural immersion. As they engaged in meaningful conversations with total strangers over glasses of wine and slept with German hunks on Das Tïnder, I gripped onto the belief that other languages besides English sound like goblin talk. They kept dragging me to see “famous art pieces”, but I’d rather go back to just enjoying the great taste of lead-based paint than look at some big drawing. Up to that point, I thought Dalí was just something that Pitbull yelled in a song when he got excited. I don’t even have a

firm grasp on geography anymore. I think I’ve lost information. Ask me to find France on a map and I’ll stress vomit even though I’m 90 percent sure I’ve been there. Maybe I just don’t understand Europe. I remember being excited to travel to Brussels and see the hot sights Belgium had to throw my way. But when I found out that thousands of tourists flocked to see a statue of this little Piss Boy taking a whizz, I was dumbfounded. Is this what the people of Europe love? Is this art? Is this entertainment? Do Belgian families sit down on the couch at night and stare into pictures of the Piss Boy like it’s Wheel of Fortune? Yet, the classmates that I went with audibly gasped and excitedly snapped pictures as if they had run into Ryan Seacrest circa 2003. I just didn’t get it. If they were that fascinated with public urination, all they had to do was follow me for ten minutes af77

ter I leave the bar every American Night. The disconnect between this environment and myself felt more potent in that moment than it ever had before. I invite you to look at him. Yes, him. Not the statue. I mean look at me. Look into the face of Culture Shock. Of misery, of sorrow incarnate. This is the face of a man who is doubting his existence, who is starting to question if maybe he has been the little Piss Boy all along. The hardest part of this predicament is that my parents keep trying to ask me about my trip and I don’t know how to lie to them any longer. Was this giant financial investment into my transformation into a better global citizen worth it? Just like my attempts to drink river water from every major city I’ve been to, you bet your ass it wasn’t. I mean, I drove around the Italian countryside for a week and didn’t even write a fucking memoir. I’ve been dodging their questions over FaceTime by incessantly rubbing two pieces of tin foil together and complaining about the bad connection, but this charade can’t last forever. Soon, I’ll be home and have 78

to look them in the eyes. What will they think when they ask me how I’ve grown as a person and all I can whisper to myself is, “Acua minerale...” over and over again? Was there something I did wrong? Something I could have done better? No, I am a good person and this was other people’s fault. But who do I blame? My classmates? JoJo? Maybe this is because of Brexit or something? I shouldn’t stress myself out. I’ll have all of winter break to figure this out. When I return home, I’ll go back to my life and pretend everything is normal. I’ll eat Frosted Flakes, I’ll work up the motivation to exercise and stop after ten minutes, and I’ll smile when my friends ask me if I had sex with any Dutch girls, mostly because I’m not even sure if they have those over here. So my life wasn’t changed by living in Europe at all. Big deal. Whatever. Self-improvement is for people with aspirations. But I shouldn’t say I learned nothing. In fact, let me leave you with two parting tips: 1) It’s easiest to sneak drugs through airport security by keeping it inside of your firearm and 2) Any sink is a bidet if you try hard enough.

STAFF BIOS

daysia tolentino editor-in-chief

Journalism, 2020. Bay Area resident. Magazine enthusiast. Bubbly. Ambitious. Dramatic. Sorry about it. Wants to report on important issues and interesting people. Has seen slide goat irl! Libra baby. Hypothetical band name creator.

hannah ebanks

madeline weinstein-avery

Journalism, 2020. Island girl. If I’m not traveling, I’m planning my next trip. Always have at least one book in my bag. Writer of 10 imaginary novels. Spends too much time looking at dog videos on the internet. Probably on a plane.

Theater, 2019. Proud female and Baltimore native. Would rather be in an Arizona desert sipping red wine and eating a very rare steak.

haley cohen

carl stewart

Marketing, 2020. So “Los Angeles” sometimes it hurts. Sitcom addict. Lover of puns and music from the early 2000s. Left handed, and proud. Does not have an appendix, or a sense of rhythm.

Film Production, 2020. DC born and raised. Photo geek with a passion for cinematography. Wants to travel the world making pictures and videos to tell stories. Gearhead. Bladerunner 2049 is his new favorite movie. Has three dogs. Wishes he could go back in time to document the world pre-World Wars.

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erin nolan

shafaq patel

Journalism, 2020. Northern New Jersey. Wants to understand and inform. Passionate about elephants and polar bears. Sweet tooth. Writing, photography, and mint green tea. Scarves and boots make the best outfits. Definitely a libra, but occasionally an Pisces.

Journalism, 2020. Houstonian. Glitter lover and a true dreamy Pisces. At her happiest with a horse in sight. Rode a bike successfully for the first time in the Netherlands. Twirls in the narrow European streets like a cheesy happy traveler.

isabelle braun

carissa dunlap

WLP, 2020. Newport Beach resident. Book lover and art obsessed. Determined. Empathetic. Thoughtful. Wants to jump off cool cliffs but scared of heights. Love hate relationship with tickling. Capricorn born mixed with Aquarius traits. Dog obsessed to the moon and back.

Writing, Literature and Publishing, 2020. Lover of books, music and all things Riverdale. Watches Harry Potter and Gilmore Girls on a regular basis. Will eventually see the Spice Girls reunion concert. Virgo child, but low key still a Leo.

owen elphick

emilie krone

Writing, Literature, and Publishing, 2020. Nevada-born, Connecticut-raised, half-British. Writer and performer. Loves books. Wants to play pretend and make up stories for a living. Worries about legacy too much. Overly existential. Beatboxes anxiously.

WLP, 2020. Bay Area born and raised. Too Virgo to function. Consignment store connoisseur and karaoke queen. Crime show enthusiast. Hummus addict. Certified Mom Friend. Currently drinking 4 cups of coffee a day and not proud of it. (Kinda proud of it). Pug Mama. Shonda Rhimes Worshipper.

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emma cox

WLP, 2020. Lover of stories. Oscar Wilde is his dad. Cries about Les Mis. Inwardly emotional. Outwardly not. Fan of giraffes. Amateur flute player. Gemini in every sense. Loves to write. Lives in perpetual chaos. Enjoys it.

Marketing, 2020. Iowa native. Anti-theft purse owner. Loves frites, fashion, the castle peacocks, and Jojo. Wants to change the fashion industry one ad at a time. Art enthusiast. Dreams of one day knowing all of the words to Bodak Yellow. Believes calories don’t count in Europe.

Pe y t o n H a s s l e r

ben nadler

Political Communications, 2020. “Black Swan has shown me how fine of a line there is between politicians and inanimate publications; working PR for Black Swan has been great!” Thinks pants are the most important part of any outfit. Is passionate about collaborating with likeminded workers and change makers do get shit done.

VMA, 2020. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. An optimistic realist. Wants everyone to just be happy. Tries. Always wishing on stars. Still playing pretend. Actor? Singer? Dancer? Figuring out what to do in the multiverse. Hasn’t seen enough TV shows or movies. A magic-obsessed nerd (we all know it’s true). INFP, fight me. Loves cats, and dogs, but mostly cats.

mackenzie blalock

gregorio león

Visual Media Arts Major, 2020. Scared of swans. Not afraid of adventure.

Undecided, 2020. Loves film, literature, photography and other kinds of bourgeois entertainment. Recently came to the sad conclusion that Batman is just a rich man beating up on the poor.

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faculty advisors ROBBERT VAN HELSDINGEN BA Physical Education , MA Cultural Studies. Enjoys D&D, Binding & Brewing, and watching Rick and Morty. Obsessed with scientific progress. Following world politics with a mix of amazement and horror.

TIKESHA R. MORGAN B.S. Sociology/Black History Minor 1998, M.S. of Higher Education & Student Affairs Administration 2000. Current resident of the Netherlands, but originally from Brooklyn, NYC, and worked and lived in Boston MA for 13yrs. I am advocate for self. I am an advocate for others. I am truth teller. I speak even when my voice shakes.