Encounters Staff Encounters Staff

Rose Vollaro |

Editor-in-Chief

Don’t know what I’m doing but I’m enjoying doing it!

Editing

Karina Aslanyan | they/he/she | Managing Editor

I like long walks on the beach and Marxism.

Vibodha Gallage Dona | she/they

My spirit animal is a cat who takes a nap 23/7 and the other hour is to wreak havoc.

Sofia Ghasemi | she/her

I’m currently a senior at Baruch I love to read, write, bake, and not get covid!

Malina Seenarine | she/they

I always wanted to be somebody, but now I realize I should have been more specific

Alyssa Leli | she/her

I’m indecisive

Graphics | Marketing

Alexandra Adelina Nita | Marketing & Graphics Director

I love art that embraces the beauty and horror of the weird, and I can't stop thinking about how around 25% of all animals are beetles!

Janelle Anne Mendoza | she/her

I am getting more into astrology lately

Creative

Ariel Sklyarevskiy | she/her | Creative Director

Find me reorganizing and cataloging the entire office twice a month.

Joel Bautista | he/him

The creative powerhouse of the cell

Maya Lugo | she/her

Although I am a psychology major, I love the arts and am an artist myself!

Emilie Sano | she/her

I’m a sophomore at Baruch who probably got a little too much praise for finger-painting as a kid, and now art is my entire personality

Ethan Saif | he/him

I like gaming and reading, writing and listening And breaking grammar rules

Business

Emily Singh | she/her | Treasurer

The friend to go to when you want an adventure.

Sidney Harman

Writer-in-Residence Program

Harman Contest Winners

Fall 2021: Non-Fiction Narrative

Judge: Karla Cornejo Villavicencio, author of The Undocumented Americans

First Place: Amy Marie Bueno

Second Place: Nikala Daguiar

Third Place: Emanuela Gallo

The Program features public readings, lectures, and contests where students can compete to show off their best work.

Since 1998, Baruch has been honored to host these writers:

Edward Albee

Agha Shahid Ali

Hilton Als

Yehuda Amichai

Paul Auster

Elf Batuman

Gabrielle Bell

April Bernard

Susan Choi

Jennifer Clement

Anita Desai

William Finnegan

Mary Gaitskill

Amitav Ghosh

Francisco Goldman

Philip Gourevitch

Xiaolu Guo

Eduardo Halfon

Major Jackson

Branden Jacobs:Jenkins

Gish Jen

Ben Katchor

Jane Kramer

Mark Kurlansky

Tony Kushner

Jhumpa Lahiri

Marilyn Nelson

Adrian Nicole LeBlanc

Beth Macy

Colum McCann

Lorrie Moore

Carol Muske-Dukes

Sigrid Nunez

Joseph O'Connor

George Packer

Rowan Ricardo Phillips

Richard Price

Francine Prose

Brenda Shaughnessy

Laurie Sheck

Russell Shorto

Charles Simic

Stew Stewart

Monique Truong

Katherine Vaz

John Edgar Wideman

Baruch College expresses its gratitude to the Harman Family Foundation. For more information, contact:

Prof. Esther Allen, Director of the Harman Program

Email: Esther.Allen@baruch.cuny.edu

Website: weissman.baruch.cuny.edu/wsas/harman

Facebook: www.facebook.com/HarmanProgramAtBaruch

Office: (646) 312-3966

Encounters Magazine

Email: encountersbaruch@gmail.com

Website: encountersmagazine.org

Facebook: www.facebook.com/EncountersBaruch/

I was hospitali]ed for the first time 2 months before I turned 14 It was a voluntary admission. A voluntary admission means that you went to the psychiatric hospital on your own accord. The reason why I emphasize this so much is because to this day I believe it was the most courageous thing I have ever done in my entire life, and you may ask why. The reason why at 13 years old I made the decision to be admitted to the hospital is because my mental health was not in a good place, and I began to fear myself and my capabilities. When your mind becomes a never-ending pit of darkness the intrusive thoughts that occur are terrifying I knew I wasn’t going to be able to put away those horrid thoughts as my sanity slowly slipped as I hurt myself over and over and quickly became the sole thing that ran circles in my mind. I am Dominican, you may think what that has to do with this, but the reality is that it has everything to do with how it was the bravest thing I have ever done. Growing up Latina sadly I was around a lot of mental health stigma and heard things such as, “You have to get better, so you don’t go to a crazy house.” To think that psychiatric hospitals are only for the insane and crazy is incredibly far from the truth and even though I didn’t know that, and I knew my mother would feel as if I were going to a place for crazy people, I was so incredibly terrified of myself and the risk of attempting suicide that I knew I needed help.

I wasn’t aware of how brave I was to ask for help but I thank God every day that I did. Many expect a story about depression and panic disorder to end after that one hospitali]ation, but the reality is that healing is not linear, and I fell so many times before I could walk the way I can now I was hospitali]ed 6 times from the ages 13 to 17 To be honest with you my heart broke every time and every time I burst into flames and became a different version of myself like a phoenix resurrecting from its ashes.

Depression and Anxiety took away my childhood. My high school experience is me mainly jumping around 4 schools not being able to pass any of my classes because my panic disorder was so debilitating it kept me from going to school and the days, I did go resulted in my mother picking me up all the way in Downtown Manhattan from the Bronx. My teachers would be so disappointed as I would pass my tests, but my attendance was so awful they couldn’t pass me. I was so disappointed in myself as I felt the pressure of the world wanting me to be this normal teenage girl, but I just couldn't stop the panic, it was too much.

The truth is that when you turn 18 if you need to be hospitali]ed you no longer will go to the adolescent unit (for kids 13 - 17 of both genders), you will now face the harsh reality of the women's unit in which your roommate could be double or triple your age with a completely different illness from you. Safe to say that when I was 17 a few months before my 18th birthday I was a patient and completely ready to lose my mind around the fact that if I came back, it would no longer be to the adolescent unit that I have been used to Sadly, depression had made me lose my faith in God but in that moment, I was so desperate that I prayed harder than I have ever in my life, I was sobbing and begging God to help me and I swear to you I felt my heart feel light for the first time since I self-harmed a few weeks before I turned 13.

When I left the hospital, I ended up enrolling in a GED program and graduated 3 months after. Shortly after my GED, I began Community College which was the best experience for me as it gave me the space I needed to grow as an individual and see life from a different lens for the first time in years. My mental health is now always my priority as I reali]ed that with good mental health, everything else follows I got my associates degrees in May 2021; I was crying by myself the day my grades were officially submitted giving me the last credits I needed for graduation. I stared at my scars and cried even harder as nobody but me understood what it took for me to get to this point

I am now 20 years old. I still have moments where I have breakdowns and feel completely broken or intrusive thoughts I still have panic attacks just not as frequently I still get triggered and I still have so much healing to do. However, that does not discredit all the healing I have done to this point and how far I have come. I swore that healing was not real when I was at my lowest, but recovery is real for everyone, and I am so eternally grateful that I say it now and believe it I wish I could give my 13-year-old self a hug and tell her how strong she is even though she felt so weak and to let her know it's going to be okay even when the world feels like it's falling apart.

If you are reading this and are going through any anxiety or depression or negative feelings, I want to remind you and myself at this moment. You are strong. You are brave. You are beautiful/handsome You are anyone you want to be I will believe in you until you learn to believe in yourself. Thank you for reading a bit about my life. I hope you get the strength from it that I do.

Keeping Up With The Family Secrets

by Nikala Daguiar

It was a Sunday at the beginning of September when I told my uncle.It was the last day of my summer break and my last day to stay with my mother before going back home with my guardians, my aunt and uncle, who I called mom and dad. I was to resume living with my guardians and school the next day

It was a perfect day, the sun was not too hot We were at church I was wearing a knee high, black and white polka dot dress. Church was over and everyone in attendance were mingling with each other, catching up with the current gossip. Those who weren't chatting were cleaning, and my uncle was just putting the mop back in the closet. I was sitting in a small room at the back of the church called the baby room (the room in the church where mothers go when their children no longer want to sit in the main hall, or they’re crying). I smelled Fabuloso floor cleaner.

I saw him and I thought, I have to tell because I don't want to go back home; I can’t! It is so hard because I was going to tell this person, who is my father figure, who raised me, whose sons raped me. I asked myself, How do you tell someone who has raised you all your life, that his son ’ s, who he raised as your brothers, raped the girl who he cherished and loved as his own daughter? Will he believe me? I mean these are his sons that I’m talking about? Will he blame me, the way I blame myself? The way that great grandma blamed me and called me a whore? I mean, I did tell her that one of her favorite grandsons raped me. So I guess she had a right to be angry. As he walked back to the main hall, I called him:``Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yes,” he said. “Just now, let me just finish in the hall, okay?”

And I anxiously responded, “ Okay ”

I watched him, in his teal button down long sleeve shirt with black pants and tie, arrange the chairs in the main hall. He looked tired but in a very good mood. In less than five minutes, he was done. He came and sat next to me. “What is it?”

I said, “What I’m about to tell you, I don’t want you to be mad at me. This doesn’t mean that I don’t love or that I hate you, okay Dad?”

He looked confused, but he said, “Okay, tell me. Don’t beat around the bush.”

There was a calmness in his voice. He was always the easiest of my guardians to talk to, and I found myself telling him what happened

When I finished, he was in shock He looked at me, opened his mouth to speak, but didn't We sat in silence. Then he leaned forward, let out a deep breath, and looked around the room. He lowered his head to his palms and shook his head in disbelief. At that moment, when I looked at him shaking his head, I thought, He’s not going to believe me, and I’ll have to go back home and live with them. Then he looked at me. Tears were in his eyes. In a trembling voice, he asked, “Are you okay now?”

I looked at him and he was crying. I moved my head up and down, nodding with tears in my eyes. Yes, I thought. I am okay now. A part of me was relieved that he believed me, but I also knew what question was going to come next. Still in tears, he asked, “Why now? Why are you telling me only now? Didn’t you think that I would have believed you before?”

I thought about it. I knew it was your sons and I didn’t think you would believe it. But I didn’t have to say it because he already knew why I didn’t tell him early So he stood up and came over to where I was seated. He stooped in front of my seat and looked at me. He reassured, “ You are worth more to me than all my sons. I would choose you all the time. You’re my daughter. I love you. Okay?” It was strangely comforting to hear him say that But telling him was only the start

Next,I had to tell his wife, she always treated me terribly As a child, she thought he favored me too much over his own children. Nevertheless, I thought, for me to be free mentally, I have to tell her. After we finished the conversation, I walked out of the room and went to the front of the church. She stood beside Betsy, my uncle's Pickup truck.Her hair was in a low bun, her everyday hairstyle. She wore a light blue blouse with a navy blue skirt. She stood there observing and saying goodbye to the friends who were leaving. I walked to her and said, quietly, “Mommy, I need to talk to you.”

She had a sense that it wasn’t going to be a good conversation She asked harshly, “ What do you have to say?” I realized it wasn't going to be a private conversation. So I said, “I need to talk to you about what happened while I was living with you guys. You know, how them boys troubled me?” It’s taboo to speak of rape, especially in the family in Guyana. Most of the time, it’s covered up

She dismissively said, “ I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I told her, in detail, how her three eldest sons raped me multiple times over the thirteen years that I’d lived with her family.

She angrily said, “You’re lying! After all I did for you, raising you when your mother left you, this is the nonsense you’re spreading! I should have left you to starve!”

I stood there in shame, but I protested: “ I’m not lying. It’s true.” I was in tears and feeling like what happened to me was all my fault.

She said, “If it were true, why you only telling me this now? Why you didn’t tell me when it happened to you?”

I thought to myself, I didn’t tell you because of this exact reaction that you ’ re having. I didn’t tell her that, as I was very fearful of her Instead, in a very shaky voice, I said, “I was scared.”

She looked at me and said, “If it happened to you, you looked for it! You whore!” The women in my family seem to use this word a lot. I knew she wouldn’t believe me, I thought, but she’s a woman, she has a daughter How could she not believe me?

She said,” We’ll talk more when we get home ” I knew that meant she would hit me when my uncle is not home and threaten to hurt me if I tell anyone else.

I told her, “I’m not going back home I'll live with my mother now ” I knew that going back home wasn’t a good idea because I was also having flashbacks. Vivid ones--it was like reliving every second of the act. I could hear myself screaming, “Stop it! You’re hurting me, I’ll tell daddy! You’re my cousin!” I didn’t know how to deal with them. I even asked myself, Why didn't you say something earlier? But I knew exactly why In all honesty, when I was being raped, over and over again, I wanted to tell someone, anyone who could help me. But the men, my aunt and uncle children, my cousins, my blood, the ones who raped me threatened to cut off my tongue and my brother ’s tongue and rape me again.

It’s been five years since that day. The family all act as if nothing happened. I mean, we like to have family barbecues and everyone comes together and eats and breaks bread with those rapists. Those men are all married or having kids, while I have to deal with the trauma of what they did to me. I can’t even stand in a bank lobby alone, because I’m scared that I would get raped again.

I have worked on my pain.

In 2019, I shared my experience for the first time with a group of advocates.There was no judgment, they just listened One of the members in the group was a guy, and after I shared, he approached me: “Thank you for sharing.” He too was a survivor, but he was ashamed to tell anyone when it happened because he didn’t want to be looked down on. Since then, he and I, along with two other women, have launched a platform for sexual survivors to write and share their stories anonymously.

Looking back now, I think as a young woman,I thought that another woman would have believed me. I thought that, as a woman, she would have my best interest. But that was not true in my case: men hurt me, but a man believed He didn’t question my motives, instead he reassured me that I was loved. It’s because of my experience telling my uncle that, today, I’m an advocate for survivors of sexual harassment and sexual assault. I do not want another young person to confide in someone who doesn’t believe them. I want them to know that what happened to them is not their fault. I want them to know that I’m here to listen without judgment.

The Figure On The Balcony

by Emanuela Gallo

I kept waving even after she couldn’t see me anymore.

I was in the backseat of the car, squished between my sister on one side and my mother on the other, my baby brother on her lap. My body was twisted, causing my face to be practically smushed against the glass window at the back of the car.

The car was pulling away against my will and there was nothing I could do but wave at the figure on the balcony. I waved even when I couldn’t tell if her frail fingers with nails I had painted red were still waving. I waved even when I couldn’t make out the individual flowers on her apron. I waved even when I couldn’t see the curls shaped by the hours spent with hair rollers.

I waved until the defined outline of a woman I had come to memorize the past month became fuzzy. I waved until her vibrant colors became a mixed blob in the same way that my vision became blurry after removing my caramel-colored glasses. But my glasses were on, but there was nothing I could do about the distance that grew between us. A distance that grew with every mile that car covered and every hour on the 10-hour flight back to the United States. A distance that was the same thickness as a landline phone with a twirly cord.

At that moment, I had a sinking feeling that it might be the last time I would go down that street. I was right.

Two years later, my mom went back to that street. My grandmother was sick in the hospital, so my mom bought a ticket to go see her. My father co-owns a small business that demands him to work a minimum of twelve hours a day, six days a week. Thus, my sister and I picked up the slack

We had once been squished in that backseat, but now there was almost too much empty room and space in our house, without my mom there.

It was October, so I had just started my junior year of high school arguably its hardest year and was in the middle of all the projects, quizzes, exams, and essays that came along with it.

But school wasn’t my only worry anymore I woke up thinking about helping my sister prepare my nine-year-old brother ’s lunch. I texted his classmate’s mom about whether or not she would be able to bring him home from school. I thought about whether he had to wear his regular or gym uniform and if he had violin practice that day I thought about my lousy bus ride home and laundry and dishes and dinner. I was in no way a stranger to chores, as I had grown up being assigned duties around the house. But dividing my mother ’s essential responsibilities in our household was time-consuming.

But I was happy to keep my mind busy during the day. At night, when I finally closed my books and my head hit the pillow, I stared up at the darkness in my room. My body craved sleep, begging for the rest it knew was necessary to get through the next day But my mind wandered into the past, digging up memories from past summers.

I thought about the vendors who would set up shop in the streets outside my grandmother ’s apartment on Tuesdays Only my mother and I would go, as we were the only ones willing to wake up early enough. We would walk around the block, eyeing the myriad of products and taking in the liveliness of the scene. I clutched my coin purse heavy with thick Euros and kept my mouth shut

“Don’t let people hear you speak English,” she’d say to me before we left. “If they think you’re American, they’ll think you’re rich.”

The fruit sellers would pressure my mom into buying things she didn’t ask for, and I would look at the pretty stuff the next vendor was selling. I still have a few things that I bought there: my first strapless bra, three crystal red, white and green bracelets, a wheel of “fruit” nail decals, a pajama set and a mini-backpack keychain with the first initial of my name fastened on by the seller.

I remembered the vendors that sold children’s tees with nonsensical English phrases slapped onto them. They confused native speakers like me but were “cool” to my foreign cousins. I thought about the 14th birthday present my uncle’s family gave me: a baby blue tank top that read “Miss Moment For You” with metal buckles on the straps.

I remembered me working on my summer math packets in the “basement”: a single room that my aunt and uncle slept in. It had the only other table besides the one in the kitchen, which often had no room for my pencils and erasers

I remembered reading “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” by Betty Smith (and hating it) in the backyard. I remembered playing Monopoly with my cousin, who often succeeded in defeating my sister and me. I remembered running around in circles, trying to get rid of built-up energy; it may have been sweltering and the mosquitoes were feasting on my skin, but anything was better than bouncing off the walls in that tiny apartment.

That backyard also housed a white cat with a large black spot. She was technically a stray, but practically lived in the backyard since my grandmother gave her food and affection.

I thought about the kittens that were born the day we arrived at the beginning of July. I remembered their closed eyes and soft meows as they scratched the floor in attempts to walk. I loved running my fingers against their soft fur, with their mother ’s watchful eye from afar But they were sick, and one by one they died

One of them even died the day we left.

Eventually, I’d look over at my night table and look at the gray figurine of the Lady of Lourdes with the grotto behind her. It was my grandmother ’s; I had been eyeing it all summer. On the day we left, I asked her if I could have it. She said yes and wrapped it in a paper towel for safekeeping My prayers went from “Please God, don’t let her die” to “Please God, can you wait until after next summer so I can kiss her one last time?”

I never was able to On Oct 25, 2017, my online chemistry assignment deleted the 80 answers I had already put in. My aunt then came over to drop off a dinner she made for us. “I’m sorry,” she said to me while handing over the tray. Her eyes dripped with the kind of helpless pity nobody wants to receive.

I spent the next few hours crying and talking to my mother on the phone, in part angry that she had not told me, but not coming up with the emotional bandwidth for it. Then, I re-did those 80 chemistry questions and studied for an algebra test.

I went to school the next day, and the next, because what was there at home for me? Nothing. There was no wake, no funeral. There was no mother. There was no point in sitting at home, miserable and alone when at school, I could pretend algebra tests and history notes were my biggest concern Nothing had changed, and yet everything had Nobody knew except for some of my friends and my homeroom teacher. Everyone else treated me normally like my entire world hadn’t just been ripped to pieces.

Nobody understood the way I had been robbed of my time with her. She had been my only living grandparent. And yet, there was an ocean and a language barrier between us my whole life. A month every two years was not the amount of time we deserved. She died and I hadn’t seen her for two years I didn’t even get to say goodbye

I would trade the calzones from the pizzeria next door, the ocean water warmer than New Yorkers could ever imagine, the mozzarella di bufala that oozes when you cut it and melts in your mouth to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my grandmother. Everyone tells me I’m lucky to have gone to Italy multiple times, but I wish they knew how lucky they are to have their grandparents live a couple of blocks away.