Encounters 2024

Ansel Foster

Homme D’affaire CUNYOutfits

Photography

Sofia Ludwig Brady Rivera

Kyna Preap

TABLE OF CONTENTS 03

Shannon Donnelly

Andrew Zhu

Carol Chen

Tyler Lara

Sazida Marzia

04 Writing

[you were only a season]

Isabella Doring

Beautiful Like You Regina Martinez

Watching you check your blood sugar Kay Zehr

The Fawn’s Kiss Shannon Donnelly

The Mind Kyna Preap

Like no Other Kyna Preap

Soul Tie Jacquelyn Cook

Partially Stained Bathroom

Mirror Zayd Patel

Jealous Naomi Riggs

River Bed Jacquelyn Cook

A Letter to My

Mother Pt. 2 Naomi Riggs

Hereditary Regina Martinez

Annabel Lee is Dead

Regina Martinez

Little Girl Kyna Preap

Morissy’s Mahogany

Maracas Ethan Saif

Orbitoclast Valerie Conklin

Respite Zayd Patel

Rebirth Arianna Xu

People only think they

love me Arianna Xu

Ransom Dorothy Joy Delacruz

Betrayed Woman Liba Shabbir

Encounters Magazine expresses gratitude for the following individuals and organizations who support and enrich our publications each semester

Damali Smith Tolson Director of Student Life

Dinetta Curtis

Deputy Director of Student Life

Brianna Braun

Assistant Director of Student Activities

Gary Smalls Program Coordinator of Lawrence Field Center

Pat Berger Budget Specialist

Evelyn Almonte Office Manager, Student Life

Esther Allen Harman Director

Mia Mikki Harman Assistant

Richard Suarez

Associate Director of Operations

Jan Martinez

Assistant Director of Diversity, Equity & Inclusion

Barbara Harman

Executive Director of the Harman Family Foundation

To the English Department, the Journalism Department, the Fine & Performing Arts Department, to our staff for their unwavering support, and, finally, to the reader of our magazine, we extend our deepest thanks. Additionally, we thank our hardworking staff

Melani Bonilla Editor-in-Chief

Anika Rios Managing Editor

Pearl Lin Graphics Director

Patricia Prado Media Manager

Puspita Dasroy Business Manager

Ethan Saif Secretary

Editorial Staff

Asia Gross

Ethan Hoyte

Mansi Sajan

Vedanti Jaiman Amin

Leena Moudjed

Regina Martinez Media Staff

Aidan To

Christopher Clarke

Tyler Chan

Julissa Perez

Lindy Morocho

Jada Flores

Marketing Staff

Dorothy Joy Delacruz

Razia Islam

Creators

Veronica McNally

Joel Ramirez

Ansel Foster

Renukh Rampaul

Djamina Drabo

ackn owle dgem ents

Dear Reader,

Welcome to our 2024 issue! In this issue, we decided to play with themes of color, popular culture, and fashion. Although we are in a business-oriented environment, there has been an influx of the entrepreneurial spirit here at Baruch. Students have started launching their own brands, shows in NYFW, and building up their wardrobe.

Fashion is a big part of who we are. The logo on your shirt, the pins on your backpack, or the tote bag you carry around all give a little glimpse of you. Fashion is expressive, creative, and a medium unique to each individual.

It’s important to us to highlight the artistic voices on campus beyond fashion as well. We’ve gathered submissions from a variety of mediums, all created by Baruch students. We hope that Encounters will continue to grow and provide a space to highlight student work in the years to come.

As you flip through this magazine, I hope you feel inspired and motivated to create. Creating is what makes us so special and unique in this world - whether it’s creating couture, poems, or art.

Hopefully you’ll share your creativity with us, just as the creators featured here have shared it with you.

2024 ISSUE CONCEPT

With each and every magazine issue, Encounters is dedicated to showcasing the artistic and literary talent in the Baruch community alongside our featured creators. This year, we have chosen to celebrate the fashion community at Baruch, highlighting their ambition, creativity, and versatility.

Drawing inspiration from Greta Gerwig’s visuals in Barbie and the numerous careers the doll simultaneously masters and manages, this issue reflects Barbie’s essence as our creator’s channel. Our creators not only devote their efforts to their creative pursuits but are also full-time college students, juggling their academic rigor and fashion endeavors.

Our selected group of fashion visionaries —Veronica McNally, Joel Ramirez, Ansel Foster, Renukh Rampaul, Djamina Drabo, and CUNYOutfits—are a testament to the fashion-forward and entrepreneurial spirit that thrives on our campus. Reminding us that fashion is more than just clothing but a reflection of our identity.

As you flip through the pages adorned with vibrant hues of pink, yellow, and blue, you’ll have the chance to dive deeper into the lives of our creators. You’ll learn about who they are, what inspires them, and how they are making their mark in the world of fashion.

[you were only a season]

Isabella Doring

I was swept off my feet while we blossomed alongside the flowers of spring. I mistook the warmth of your touch as beams of sunlight that I let intertwine with mine.

but my naivety blinded me I was staring at the sun when the darkness of your winter sent a shivering chill down my spine. our budding flower left frostbitten by your icy touch-in attempt to freeze us in time, to preserve what was. this is just a season, we’ll have a spring again

but as the days got shorter, and the leaves started to fall I was taken by the winds of change as you still yearned for an eternal summer.

you were digging through the dirt, searching surrounded by weeds and thorns in your unkept garden and asked, “Could we ever be thawed?”

but the flower was long gone and I had let the cooling autumn breeze wisp away our crimson leaves as you were nothing more than a season. -i.d.

Sofia Ludwig

Veronica McNally’s fashion journey surfaced in the world of Depop and Etsy, where she resold garments and handmade intricate beaded jewelry. These experiences ultimately paved the path to releasing her clothing brand, Xu, which is best described as sustainable couture. With a shining creative vessel she has nurtured for over two years, Veronica channels a vision embedded with love, community, and striking pieces that have made an appearance at New York Fashion Week.

It takes work to create a brand, especially when each piece is meticulously made by hand. Veronica spoke to Encounters Magazine, “I am a self-taught designer. I started sewing and fell in love with very meticulous handwork. One of the first pieces I made was by hand.” Her style has almost always had a preference for upcycled materials. The Baruch student frequents second-hand shops like Fabscrap to cut down costs but relies on these types of businesses from an ethical stance as well. She explained, “Clothing is how you present yourself. Where did it come from? Who made it?”

Veronica’s distinctive attributes are coded within her brand: the name Xu stems from her embraced Chinese identity, and the slogan “I AM YOU, YOU ARE ME”, shares a message of togetherness. Veronica noted, “Fashion builds your confidence and how you carry yourself. That trickles down into all the different opportunities that can come your way. Experiencing that first hand, I just want

to be able to share that with more people and find other people that have a shared love for that as well.” Her blog site, When the Xu Fits, invites others into her creative processes and reflections.

After numerous collections, fashion shows with one-of-one creations, and commissioned works, Veronica received an invitation to showcase her designs at New York Fashion Week.. Her models walked down the runway adorned in a collection inspired by the elemental forces. Each piece, created with painstaking labor, emulated butterflies, birds, and blazing phoenixes. “The whole time I was working on pieces for my show I was in my room. I transformed my dining room because I needed more floor space.” Veronica hardly slept for weeks leading up to the show. The day of, two supportive friends dashed around with her in search of last minute feathers and embellishments. “It was a different level. I kind of loved that though. I was crying over the fact that I couldn’t get the right shoes at 8AM. That’s exactly the type of struggle I want to have in life. It was a rollercoaster but I loved it.”

Veronica is currently working on creating an online shop for her one-of-one creations. Drawing inspiration from the likes of Mugler, she is determined to build a fashion house and establish herself further as a designer who can achieve anything.

Beautiful Like You

Regina Martinez

This flower is breathing and beautiful. Beautiful like you.

It’s living and breathing and beautiful, and our garden is where it grew.

We poured life into this flower when it wasn’t yet a flower –long before the sounds of spring. Where it was born in the earth, where it will die in the earth, where it, in between, became this beautiful thing. And now I pick it, bare it, and bind it. Tie it gently with a bow. And I leave it on your nightstand, replanted in a dreamland, a place where love can grow.

A love that’s living and breathing and beautiful. Beautiful like you.

A love that leaves flowers on nightstands, and grows in garden lands, after seasons we poured life into.

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Xu's NYFW Show

Watching you check your blood sugar

This burgundy bead, that sits simply on your finger-tip comes from your heart, plainly put: it’s a liquid you. when you show me

i wonder what you expect me to do. rather than surprise you i decide it’s too early for that. i turn around look out the window and enjoy the view.

Kay Zehr

The Fawn’s Kiss

Shannon Donnelly

And so, she walked. She walked across grass, as if it were as pillowy as the clouds in the sky above. The earth itself reaches for her; reaching to connect with the fruit of its own labor. She floats through the meadow like she was born to ride the whistling waves of the grass that the wind produces, surfing with the bare soles of her feet. In the distance she hears the deafening buzz of the cicadas, flexing their muscles and contracting their ribs in a large collective cry. And yet their fervent hum could be taken in agony or cathartic release: natures orchestra filling a void. Her feet push off the ground with such strength, and land with such grace, as she skips and skips and skips to the patch of flowers just over the hill. Her curls fall so loosely to her shoulders with each bounce, angelic and instinctive, dancing like the mesmerizing flicker of the flame that ignites her exuberant soul. Her hands sort through the flowers, and pluck those that match her beauty, lifting them to her face and resting them gently in between the coils of her hair. She continues her wander, to which there seems to be no end, and with each additional step she morphs her walk to a waltz. She extends her leg forwards, leading with a pointed toe and contagious joy, swinging her arms around and lifting her chest to the sky. Her unclasped hands search through the air, but there’s nothing to grab onto. No trees with outstretched limbs, or hands to catch her plunging elbow before the fatal fall.

And yet with all her beauty, she spends too much time in that head of hers, filling it with thoughts of how and why. Thoughts of her multifaceted self, with as many avenues as neurons, and a heart that seeks relief. A heart that believes prevention is possible through perfection, and a brain that knows better. A brain that knows better, but is in love with the heart—willing to search to the edge of its own universe to remedy its impossible naivety. She gets stuck. She lives inside the walls of her skull and beats her fists on them until they’re bloodied and raw. Her mind is her prison. And yet her heart loves her brain just the same. To her heart, her brain is an enigma; delicate and profound. So deserving of compassion and love, that the brain refuses from the heart. And so, she is ruled by a heart and a mind who shut out each other’s love. The weight of this endeavor sits at the crown of her head, and drags her down to the root of the earth.

Her silky white dress falls around her like the Madonna and the grass smells sweet; freshly watered for the showers of the day before. There was a fawn hiding in the nearby woods, observing this girl in all her beauty and her dancing and her instinct to wander. There was fascination and awe of the human girl who had such ease and trust in each step, that even the earth wanted to meet her halfway for their exchange. She commanded the natural world around her to love her as much as she loved it back, especially when she was unable to give it to herself. She was magic, and the fawn could see that even when the girl could not. Emerging from the shade of the lucid wood, curiosity overcoming fear, the fawn pranced over to the girl. She lies still, as the face of the fawn hovers just above her own, and while the fawn lays a kiss on her forehead. It is just them, and the hum of the cicadas.

Donnelly

Shannon Donnelly

The Mind Kyna

Preap

Contains thoughts, rapid yet serene.

From school to work, from family to friends, from cherished memories to feelings of regret.

These thoughts, rummaging through the mind, lingering and waiting until a new one, a new thought plants itself into the mind and sprouts into an intricate tree with a vast network of branches.

One branch connected to love, one branch connected to hate, and one branch connected to shame.

That branch eats away all my love, all my hatred until I’m left with nothing but shame.

Why did you think that thought? How dare you allow such a seed to plant itself in your mind?

These thoughts, rapid yet serene, are imprisoned in my mind safe and invisible from the outside yet dangerous and obstructive to me.

Like No Other

Kyna Preap

The gentle touch and sweet kiss from a mother is like no other.

From holding my hand as we walk across the street to making me breakfast as we hear the early birds tweet. Every hour of every day, she is always there. Without a mother, oh how life would be so bare!

She is my protector, my savior, my best friend.

A source of happiness and nothing less.

Her precious smile makes my whole day; it’s even brighter than a sun’s ray!

A mother’s love is like no other because she will always love you now and forever.

Sofia Ludwig

At a young age, Joel Ramirez was given the nickname “49” from his family during summers in the Dominican Republic. He would count numbers in English to his Spanish-speaking relatives, telling Encounters Magazine, “My family liked how I said 49, and they all decided to call me 49 since.” His moniker would later be used for his clothing brand, 49 Archive.

The custom-designed collection ranges from hoodies, caps, and bags created by hand as well as manufacturing processes. Among his favorites is a hat embellished with the phrase ‘Lemme guess, your ex is toxic’ planted across the front. “I find that hilarious. I feel like making people laugh is a positive message.” Ramirez explained.

The idea for 49 Archive traces back to his birthday in 2022, sparked by a desire for clothing that reflected his identity. Ramirez has always been heavily inspired by his parents, “My father was always a little fashionista. I got some of my fashion sense from him growing up. My mother too because she would always encourage me to be myself,” Their influence coupled with his own zest for life permeates the core message of 49 Archive: “Chase your dreams and accept who you are. I know that it’s not easy. A lot of people judge and I want people to understand that just because they judge, that doesn’t mean you can’t be you.”

Ramirez describes himself as a sponge that absorbs knowledge from various sources. From avidly

studying fashion literature to asking questions about materials in New York clothing stores, his pursuit of quality garments has fueled his creative evolution. “Before I started designing, I wanted it fast. But it’s not simple. It actually takes time. My first design took me about three months to feel comfortable with.”

Ramirez’s intensive approach to marketing his brand through social media and in-person initiatives paved the path for the success of his first drop in March of 2023. He reminisced, “It’s about to bring me to tears now. It sold out in a week, that feeling was amazing. People believing in me, loving the concept, just starting something new. That so far is memorable.” With one fashion show already under their belt, 49 Archive anticipates three fashion shows scheduled for April 20th, April 27th, and May 9th of 2024 in schools including Boston College. Ramirez envisions scaling up his brand in the coming years while finishing his degree at Baruch College. “I transferred from Buffalo State a year ago. I think coming to Baruch was the best thing ever for me.” said Ramirez who emphasized the business of his schedule, “I’m learning how to time-manage and self-study.”

49 Archive embodies the genuiness of Joel Ramirez. “As long as you get to do what you love and do what you feel the most comfortable in, then life is perfect.” Exciting prospects lie ahead for the young designer working hard for success.

Soul Tie

Jacquelyn Cook

Someone I once called a soul mate has cut ties with me. I am scrap paper.

Hands I used to hold in the street. The same hands that played with my hair at sleepovers are now washed clean of me.

Maybe our friendship was overgrown, and like weeds, she had to rip from the root. Pieces of us still cling on for dear life, in picture frames and friendship necklaces.

Maybe I loved her more than I thought I did. Maybe I was delusional about the love she had for me. Perhaps my love has always been unrequited.

As I fought for her attention and fought to take first place I told myself, It’s you, you won

Finally, someone who feels the same

Don’t do anything to make this one leave like everyone else

Now the time has come.

Soon everything you worked for in this friendship, the one you have been longing for since childhood, will be burned to ash. The twin flame connection you thought you had is extinguished, and you are left cold and empty.

You will be all alone again just as you were on the playground at ten years old. You cry and don’t understand how someone who loves you could discard you; Just like you did at ten.

Come to terms with the fact that the face you saw every day will soon become a stinging memory

The love and laughs you shared with her turn to resentment. A soul tie unraveled.

Partially Stained Bathroom Mirror

Zayd Patel

She knew him for a while now. Friend’s friend or friend’s friend’s friend; something like that. He made an occasional appearance in her life. Did she look forward to these occasional appearances? She couldn’t tell you. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was indifferent she’d tell you, but then she’d lie.

Life was so sad. Not her life, of course— her life was alright perhaps. But life surrounding her was sad, and being a part of a sad life or a sad world or a sad society was, well, saddening. She exuded an image of toughness when in public. Leather jacket, leather gloves, spikes on her face, shit like that. She wanted people to know who she was, and more importantly, she wanted people to know she was tough. In such a sad world being tough was good, she thought. To maintain her delicate image of toughness she lived alone. She secretly hated being alone. The walls of her one-bedroom apartment were midnight black. The apartment was not cheap, not attractive, not safe, but it was midnight black. To her, it was perfect.

When she was alone surrounded by the perfect midnight black walls in her apartment a tiny feeling of questioning made its entrance in her melancholic mind. The feeling was like a rock in her 4-inch patent black boots. It was a small and shallow rock, easy to disregard, but uncomfortable nonetheless.

“I hate your walls,” he said to her in a teasing almost flirtful manner. She was hosting some friends at her place when he said this and he was one of the lucky seven in her apartment on that wet evening.

“I hate you,” she responded, but she couldn’t catch his eyes. She fiddled with the strap on her leather jacket as she said this. When she said the three words he laughed. She didn’t.

The seven people in her apartment on that wet evening obviously didn’t hate each other. The seven people got along with each other. The seven people liked each other. She liked him. Why did she tell him she hated him then?

She went inside her bathroom a few minutes after she expressed her apparent hatred. Her leather was still on her skin, and her spikes were still on her face. Outside of the not heavy enough bathroom door, she could hear the six people in her apartment laughing jovially and having a great and seemingly exciting evening. She washed her face,

washed her spikes, and looked at herself in the partially stained bathroom mirror. She looked at her leather, looked at her spikes, then looked at her eyes. She stared at the person in the mirror for a minute maybe, and as she eyed the person she noticed something was not there. The rock in her boots made its appearance again. She stared deep into the pupils of her own eyes and tried to discern a feeling or emotion from deep within them; the thing she was looking for was not as shallow and evident as she wished it was but it had to be there, right? So she looked deeper and deeper into the pupils of the now unfamiliar face looking straight back at her in the partially stained bathroom mirror and frantically looked deeper and harder until one minute of staring turned into two. The normal first minute of staring turned into an uncomfortable second minute which now turned into a frantic third minute. The stranger was looking nervously at her through the partially stained bathroom mirror in an almost sarcastic way. She felt her eyes starting to get wet but the stranger’s face seemed unwavering. She couldn’t take it anymore. She turned away from the mirror with apprehension and sadness and wondered if the six people outside the door could see that she was missing something as well. Her eyes produced water but no tears ran down her face; when was the last time she cried?

“Tough girls don’t cry” she quietly whispered to the wall opposite of the partially stained bathroom mirror. But then again, the thing that was missing from the stranger’s eyes opposite of the wall opposite of the partially stained bathroom mirror was just that - toughness. Her spikes, her gloves, her leather, but the toughness was missing. How long had she been pretending?

She had been in her bathroom for multiple minutes at this point. She was afraid to exit the bathroom and face her guests again but then again, tough girls don’t get afraid. With a deep sense of apprehension and dread, she took the one and a half steps toward the bathroom door and gripped the handle. She reluctantly looked in the partially stained bathroom mirror one last time to ensure the wetness surrounding her eyes was not visible. “Another good reason for midnight black walls,” she thought. Small subtleties would go unnoticed.

She twisted the handle and pulled it open with some illplaced aggression and took another one and a half steps out the door, and unwillingly or unfortunately caught

his glance; he beckoned her toward the seat next to him and she reluctantly abided. Her diffident almost stumble was uncharacteristic for her as she slumped into the dark maroon cushion on the floor next to him.

He knew something was amiss but knew better than to address it right away.

She was afraid he might ask her if she was ‘alright?’ Was there a more patronizing question in conversation?

After a moment, she opened her mouth to ask him something.

“Why do you hate my walls?”

He wasn’t facing her when she mumbled this to him, but he recognized her voice and slowly turned to face her and give her his attention rather than to the five other people who were all talking in the room. He looked at her right eye then her left then looked away from her as he was pondering the question and preparing an answer. His face screwed up and his eyes squinted deeply as if the midnight black walls he was looking at were a polar opposite blinding white. He slowly turned toward her again.

“I don’t hate your walls. I love your walls for you. They’re unique and strange and obviously tough, but I hate them for me. They’re too dark and I can’t see anyone properly in this room. I can barely make out the silhouette of your face and the dark of your eyes.” He paused for a moment and quickly shifted which eye of hers he was looking at; he wanted to gauge her reaction but the silhouette of her face and the dark of her eyes did not change. He continued after a brief consideration. “But I don’t understand why you have black walls. I mean shit, everything in here is dark as death. What’s up with that?”

She continued to look at him but didn’t say anything.

He continued after another brief consideration. “Don’t you think the world is already so dark as it is? Why do your walls and your cushion and your clothes have to be dark too? When was the last time you wore color?”

He asked this last question in a charming and humorous way and tried to get her to laugh or smile at least.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t reply. She continued to look at him with an immutable expression but was struck by his question. When was the last time she wore color? When

was the last time she cried? Why did she say she hated him?

I hate him because he always asks shit like this. He asks questions in such a matter-of-fact way as if the answer could possibly either be zero or one. Life is so simple for him and it’s so easy for him to judge me and ask me questions that he must know are uncomfortable for me to answer. He could expose me with ease, and he may be already by asking all these fucking questions.

He looks at me with that goofy expression again. God, I wish I could be him. I wish I could live his life and wake up each morning and go to sleep each night with only simplicity in between my rest. He leans slightly closer toward me - somehow it’s not weird.

“Sometimes, I wake up and hardly recognize myself. Sometimes I hate myself. But I know that each moment is different from the last, and so I keep going even when I hate everything about the world and everything about me in hopes of a better moment replacing the current mournful moment I find myself in.”

“But what if a new moment never comes to replace the last?”

“All we can do is hope. It’s a strange effect in that sense. Maybe it’s not that the moment gets better but maybe it’s the hope we have that changes things.”

“Maybe.”

“But a new moment always seems to come. All we can do is hope.”

I look at him strangely. He looks at me soundly.

“So all you can do is hope for better times?”

“You can hope for a better society. You can hope for a better world. You can hope for a better moment for your friends too.”

He’s been hoping for her for a while now.

I look at him inquisitively. I guess I’ll give hope a try. I just cried for the first time in years. I don’t think I’m allowed in the tough girls club for a little while at least.

Jealous

Naomi Riggs

I am jealous of who?

Jealous of you?

This is book club.

I am the leader and you, the open book. The open book of which I have read and still do. Word for word, page by page. I am jealous of who?

Jealous of you?

Your story isn’t admirable, Or even half as motivating, Though, it is a bit entertaining. Your story is a tragedy, One of pain and one of pride. Your story is, for some, A means for suicide.

I am jealous of who?

Jealous of you?

You, who makes jokes?

You, who belittles?

You, who hide behind pointed fingers and mean-spirited riddles? I am jealous of who?

Jealous of you?

You, who is desperately wanting to be liked? You who anxiously waits to be called, “Mr. Cool Guy”?

I am jealous of who?

Jealous of you?

You, who are babied?

You, who are coddled?

You who are, when poked back, so easily rattled? I am jealous of who?

Jealous of you?

You, who are searching for the motherly love he never received?

You, who leaves behind, A line of women hurt and displeased?

Your story is bitter. Your story is cold.

Your story repels and can only attract a few. Your story is sad.

So, tell me how could I ever be jealous of you?

River Bed

Jacquelyn Cook

When I was young my older cousin Sharon would watch me. It was usually her or my favorite cousin Colleen. But once Colleen got too old and too popular, it was always Sharon. Sharon was an artist, her room was covered in paint. Painted chairs, painted walls, and paint-splattered sheets. We would spend our days together sneaking under the wire fence and overgrown bushes to get to the river near her house. It’s called the floodwall in my town because it’s a big hill protecting half of the town from floods when we get a lot of rain. It protects my half, not Sharon’s.

We went when it was sunny so that the light would peak through the trees at us. We had a little cove under those trees with pillows, rocks for chairs, and old scratchy picnic blankets. We would wander barefoot on the rocky shore, looking for treasure, coins, rings, Mcdonald’s toys, and whatever else had been forgotten. We would splash through the cold rippling creek, Sharon always went first to make sure none of the big rocks were too slippery with green algae or just in case there was anything sharp. She wore long skirts that would always trail in the water like the tail of a sea creature. It didn’t matter if she picked it up to walk. Her skirts would always end up getting wet, but it was better that way because we twirled around and danced in the sun until our clothes air-dried. We made friends with frogs, fish, and butterflies. I was told not to chase them because it was rude. After all, they weren’t chasing me. We’d go in search of fairies in the trees. The mythical beings we were looking for would always be hiding but were always welcome to say hello.

Sharon would bring paper to draw, coloring books, and crayons. She said I was an artist too. When I would color blobs of pink, purple, and green in the coloring book, I’d go outside the lines, and she said “It looks cool that

way. Creative.” I changed so much in later years, I would make sure I got every character’s dress and hair the right color, and that every color stayed inside the line because if I messed up the page, I messed up the whole book. Our parent’s found out about their missing pillows and blankets, and where they had gone. They stopped letting us go to the river. They said it was because some big animal might eat me. Sharon said, “I’d never let something eat you.” I think they just missed their throw pillows. We brought home the things that made our river home cozy. Soon enough, I didn’t need a babysitter anymore.

I didn’t go back to the river until years later as a teenager. I brought a boy there. He had brown eyes and a chubby face. He didn’t want to walk in the water so we just watched it. He watched me, then kissed me—my first kiss. I lay in the overgrown grass and stayed silent as unfamiliar hands went where only mine ever had. I went home feeling no good. He went home with a story to tell about a dirty girl and a dirty river.

But it wasn’t a dirty place to me. It was somewhere I had loved once. Somewhere that was magical with hidden fairies, twinkly light peeking through the trees, and a familiar sound of close wind chimes and distant traffic.

Whenever I see the river now I do see a dirty place. Plastic cups, candy wrappers, and used needles. I think of my childhood too. I remember coloring under the trees, I remember watching my cousin’s skirt get wet, and I remember thinking I was tough for not wearing shoes while dancing on the rocks, sticks, and dirty ground. I remember the chubby-faced boy, and how I came home with bug bites, chapped lips, and a shame I hadn’t felt before.

Kyna Preap

A Letter to My Mother Pt.II

Naomi Riggs

I thank you for giving me breath, A tiresome task of which I must complete, For in me there lies a new will to live, I’ve forged a new road ahead, One that leads through a tunnel, To take me beyond my ghastly dreams, To whisk away my drowning sorrows, I shan’t forget the woes you ‘ve bled, So, I can live today, I must make it to the light, I shall wait for a better tomorrow.

Hereditary

Regina Martinez

We laugh like our mother’s mother. We laugh when we are young. We watch we fear we chase and choke on our mother’s mother tongue.

We hear her like a choir, a song of all her mother’s guns, kept sacred from the ears of her father’s brother’s sons.

The inheritance of her blood is a pain her mother smiled. The crow’s feet on our temples. The regret of our first child.

So we laugh like our mother’s mother til we’re the only mother left, and the daughters of sister’s lovers laugh while mothers rest.

Carol Chen

Annabel Lee is Dead

Regina Martinez

a kiss on a tattooed arm stings of honey gin to finally know rest is to sleep on a chest where a crucifix had been blood on a tattooed arm ready ripe red rust your mouth is covered in copper your brain is nerves and dust to love a tattooed arm is to hear sappy stories children playing with boxcars to hold a piece of worldly glory but a sinful tattooed arm, black and red dermis debris is a poem, dead like the hymn of Annabel Lee

“It goes so much further than women or men who attend college. I make clothes so that when people wear them they feel confident in themselves. I want people to see themselves as indomitable. They’re strong. They can do anything. So that’s how I design my clothes. With boldness. With elegance.” said Ansel Foster. A Baruch student who juggles many different hats, including producer, explained the origins of his brand, Pretty Girls Go To College (PGGTC). “I wanted to shoot a music video originally but then it transpired into a clothing brand.” The iconic phrase originally came from a song written in March of 2023 and later became the name of his label.

Growing up in charter schools as a dedicated believer in God in the bustling streets of New York inspires PGGTC’s visual appeal. “I wanted to blend streetwear with an elevated look so you look put together no matter where you are. You have an interview? You can still hit that interview. You go to church? You can still go to church but if you want to go out you can still look that part.”

Explaining starting his brand, Foster comments on his home-made screen press system, “At first I used to put textbooks under the shirt and screen press, but I didn’t get the logo precisely in the exact placement every time. So I invested in a screen printing machine.” While the automation proved helpful, the increasing demand of his clothing made it time-consuming. In turn, Foster built up

his PGGTC team and has decided to transition clothing production to a professional manufacturer in the near future.

While navigating the process of streamlining aspects of his brand, Foster works out other logistics from designing pieces and spearheading an online following to organizing events and managing a small Pretty Girls team. This year, he collaborated with Bobby Christian’s brand War VS The Elite, culminating in a custom set for two fashion shows at Baruch. He smiled while reminiscing on PGGTC’s first runway appearance, “As soon as I came home from it I didn’t really sleep, I went back to working for the next show. When I do things I like to execute it in its fullness. I made sure I had stylists and makeup artists on set. If the models were hungry I bought a dozen donuts just so they could feel relaxed.”

Foster stepped away from the brand to focus on his connection with God and returned recently with renewed confidence. “I haven’t been around for a year yet. The fact that I took a break for a month and a half and I was able to pick it back up even faster than I left off with it really testifies how much the brand resonates with people.” The multi-talented 20-year old student, producer, and designer envisions PGGTC expanding to different colleges and even reaching international markets. To achieve his ambitious goals, he brings along his beliefs and momentum with him.

Little Girl

Kyna Preap

I was once a little girl singing my ABC’s, and all I wanted to do was to grow up and flee.

Now I'm a big girl with all these responsibilities, but all I wanna do is dream of life’s possibilities.

As a little girl, there were no worries, just play and play all night and all day.

The world looked bigger. The ceiling was taller, and my mom's shoes were wider. But, now, her shoes fit me better!

Today, the world looks smaller, and life seems shorter.

As a big girl, there’re so many worries, Who am I?

What do I do? Where do I go? Why am I? When will I finally be ready?

The truth is, I’ll never be ready. And, that’s okay.

Life is meant to be lived, not anticipated.

I admit, I’m scared. But fear is good.

Because, it means I care.

I care about my future, I wanna be independent and mature.

So, it’s okay to be afraid.

Because growing up means leaving that little girl behind but only to fulfill her dreams and shine.

Sofia Ludwig

Shannon Donnelly

Morissy’s Mahogany Maracas

Ethan Saif

Hi, it’s me

Surprised to see another apology?

Not from the hero but her anti

Crawling out from a bloody table, to tell a goodbye story

I’ll leave the door open, let us step out a moment

My heart is more frigid than winter

Feel the wind icey, it’s not colder than I

I wish it turned my lips a tie dye

Of pink and purple, God stop my blood circle

Now my visions enclosing

Subsidized emotions zeroing out oxytocin

Due to my thoughts ambrosian

I thought being a workhorse was what you admired

And maybe you’d look up if I had looked tired

I thought I was thinking outside of me

Not consuming your tragedy

I’m dropping the cleaver, leaving the weapon

Taming inside my flames of aggression

Not again not again not again

I desire to Defend

One could guess I judge books by their covers

Coveting looks and voyeurism desires

Your words stand firm, my defensive voice quivers

About my patterns around old listeners

How have I found an enemy in every new beginning

Soar ardent phoenix send fire spinning

Learning sensitivity slowly I’m believing

But not quick enough for the blood I leave streaming

Above and below are simple verse

Perhaps an evermore curse

To remove this dirt I piled on my hurt

Covering my Mahogany Maracas

I want to cease acting so obnoxious

Andrew Zhu

Orbitoclast

Valerie Conklin

I cross my heart, I’d rather die.

They’ll put that ice pick through my eye.

I hate these men’s white coats and ties, elitist morals, lofty lies.

“A gentle cure, they’re pacified.”

“Stir them up! They can’t deny!”

Their patients, playthings, victimized.

I’ve seen them staring. I’ve heard their sighs.

“We cannot to help,” “too strange, too shy,” “Hysterical.”

They didn’t try.

Here it comes!

I grip my thighs— They put the ice pick through my eye.

Didn’t hurt much.

Now who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I?

Respite

Zayd Patel

“Make sure he finishes his food before he leaves. The bus will be here very soon.” These are the only words my wife says to me before she leaves for work. Her work usually starts after mine, but this morning I remain in the house with our son. Just me, my son, and the intangible weight of my impending meeting with Mr. Richards in an hour. The email reads: IMPORTANT PERFORMANCE REVIEW. Where is this damn bus?

My son is reading the cartoons on the back of the cereal box rather than eating the cereal. He has to eat or he won’t grow. He has to eat or he’ll lose weight. He has to eat because my wife said so.

My son is never late to school. My wife would find it unforgivable if he was late.

“Stop reading the cartoons and eat your cereal!” If the bus comes within the next 5 minutes I can still make it on time for the meeting. But he keeps reading the cartoons.

“Henry, I’m serious. Eat up.”

“Mom always lets me read the cartoons.” He slurps from his spoon loudly, prolonged, as if to invoke some painful torture; he’s making me aware that he indeed is eating but at his own pace.

I look at him spitefully.

“Well, I’m not Mom.” She warned me that the bus would appear in the window when it arrives. It has been brought to my attention that there has been inappropriate conduct taking place in the office space. Inappropriate conduct?

“Stop slurping!”

“I’m not slurping.”

“Henry! I heard you.”

“But you didn’t see me.”

I still don’t see the bus, but I cannot neglect the window because I cannot miss it. If you are late to this meeting, your employment will be terminated.

“Henry! Goddammit! Stop that slurping!”

His slurping stops and he begins to cough.

“See what happens when you don’t listen to your father.”

He keeps coughing. Ms. Oswald will be at the meeting, as well. Fuck.

He stops coughing.

The bus appears through the window I’ve been so carefully watching. If I can leave now then I’ll make it on time.

“Henry, the bus is here. Let’s go.” But I turn towards him from the window and his face is purple. He’s gasping for breath. He can’t breathe.

My apprehension turns to frenetic fear.

He can’t breathe.

I try to dislodge whatever’s stuck in his throat. It’s a futile effort. Hurriedly, I grab my phone and dial 9-1-1, while I call for help from the bus driver. He makes his way to my kitchen where my son is suffering. I try everything I can to help my only child live as the bus driver watches and speaks to the dispatcher on my phone.

The paramedics arrive a few minutes later. They tell me what I was afraid I already knew.

My son, my shining star, the only thing brightening the night sky that is my life of monotony and mild misery has ceased to be. He choked to death right in front of me. He choked while I stood there hopelessly and helplessly; like he was hopeless and helpless.

Perhaps if I wasn’t preoccupied over that performance review or if I wasn’t worriedly watching the window or if I wasn’t scolding my son to stop slurping or I didn’t sleep with Ms. Oswald a few months ago then I wouldn’t have a performance review and I wouldn’t have been looking at my email instead of my son who needed me more than ever and I wasn’t there for him and now he’s dead–

It’s my fault my son died.

My wife doesn’t sleep with me anymore. We decided to get a divorce. In fact, I haven’t slept at all since my son died three weeks ago. When we do talk, it’s to discuss our divorce. She doesn’t say much to me except cold, curt phrases like my father used to; when I didn’t clean my room and he’d tell me for ‘the thousandth time’ or when I couldn’t play in the baseball game because I lost my glove somewhere or when he got back from the parent-teacher conference after I ignored a few homework assignments or when …

She blames me and so do I. At least we still share that in common.

It’s been three weeks since my son died and I’ve lost everything I love since then. The passionate frustration and self-hatred subsided after a day. The tears and anguish a week after that. Now only depression remains. I wish someone would speak to me without it being out of courteous pity or with pointed blame. I lost someone I love too.

Who will take care of me after I failed to take care of another?

Rebirth

Arianna Xu

Your tongue whispered a password into my mouth; a name I never knew I had Rebirth isn’t possible, but that’s what this was I gave you a hieroglyph one for everything I was, am, and wanted to be everything I was is what I wanted to be Hold it dear Hold it

Your tongue imprinted everything but a password into my mouth strings of numbers, dubious data, warped statistics, lack of teeth Where are your teeth?

Grow monstrous. I want teeth so long they break like glass That’s called love.

Not whatever your sweet brown eyes say

Shannon Donnelly

Shannon Donnelly

People only think they love me. Arianna Xu

People only think they love me. Something something about the way I’m quiet, or something opens limits: Quiet, but freaky, secretly extroverted, touchy-feely, walk-on-the-beach-with-me lovely with deer eyes, or something Quiet, but kind, or something. The truth is I want to be something anything other than what I am stoic robot-like unreadable monstrous empty hopeless pessimistic flinching distant ( trauma-induced ) hyper-independent obsessed with optimization to the point where ilookandeverything anumberatoola

People only think they could learn to love me not realizing the impossibility hope/lessness of what I am

Andrew Zhu

Ransom

Dorothy Joy Delacruz

The elite live in a parallel city

A new plutocratic republic

Flashes of dark red satin

Striking oriental opulence

Taste the bitter-aged wine

You’re just a juvenile glutton

Hungry for the underworld

“Sister, spit the poison out”

“The canary pecks at your fish eye”

Oh, this is hell.

Incandescent fissures

Fracture concrete and steel

Young sirens slumped in tar

A failed exodus

Embedded fossilized innocence

Subdued by ancient tinctures

Prehistoric entities domineer

Shrouded in deadly sins

Dimming souls darken the exit

My ragged breath alerts the reaper

His scythe slices through my cloak

Fear bubbles from my bareness

I cleave through the thorned flesh wall

Pain leaves my battered body

The torrential downpour of tears

Dissolves residual tar

Betrayed Woman

Liba Shabbir

Everytime a flame decays, transposed to shrivels of smoke-tint I know it converses with immortal fragments of the wind

And only then must I avow I’ve felt the past transcend

I’ve seen my world collapse, in ways the roman empires have And though dwelling in this modernity– I’m cursed with the medieval wrath The corners of these crystal stones, malformed in a single row Buried–as deep as your betrayals go,

And I remain buried, like an art.

Princess Isabella of Aquitaine Begging King Richard the Lionheart Buried in his tower, like an art.

An untrue tale, for the sake of mere art

And everytime the sky reforms

Embroidering the opaque ocean waters

I watch the sun, so feminine

Amongst it’s palace corridors

It’s capable and healing

Like a forsaken daughter

But must I say, it’s reflection amongst the ashen waters

Remain unloved, like a forsaken daughter

Must I also confess?

Turn half of you whole and fracture myself into a crescent?

I’ve seen a woman based from love, reach love

And a woman based from pain only reach the desire to be loved

Or be infrastructured by poetry you may not understand

Built on the backs of songs you just cannot stand

Or walk the nights alone, bleeding her music awake

Or break the law of youth, on her last cigarette break

Her final flame

A flame that decays, transposes to shrivels of smoke-tint she knows it converses with immortal fragments of the wind

And only then must she avow she’s felt the past transcend

Co-founders Renukh Rampaul and Djamina Drabo

In cursive lettering, Homme D’affaire, French for “people in business,” is embroidered on articles of clothing that form an alliance between casual and business attire. With different placements dependent on each individual design, Homme D’affaire sells business casual hoodies, half zips, polos, and t-shirts that come in neutral colors, dusty rose and sage green amongst others.

With many Zoom meetings during the COVID-19 era of fall 2021, co-founders Renukh Rampaul and Djamina Drabo realized that although the world had changed and shifted to a new form of communication, what had not changed was the clothing worn by Zoom meeting participants. Suits and business casual clothing were still evident, thus inspiring their brand Homme D’affaire.

Rampaul, a marketing major, and Drabo, a CIS major, founded the brand with two other former students within the entrepreneurship club at Baruch. The entrepreneurship club creates a new brand every year and Homme D’affaire happened to catch the attention of Baruch students.

“Why not start a clothing brand, a student-led clothing brand that is not only affordable, high quality, but comfortable for business students and students like ourselves,” Drabo said.

Rampaul and Drabo both decided to continue the brand after two of the other founders graduated. “When I saw that there was so much progress and success after the launch, I was like okay, we can keep doing this,” Rampaul said.

The Homme D’affaire team consists of around 20 interns and seven departments. Rampaul and Drabo split up managing the departments.

The first clothing launch was on May 11, 2022. They participated in the 2022 Winter Marketplace where they sold out all of their inventory and any inventory they had left. On May 11, 2023, the brand had their one year anniversary and first ever fashion show with 100 people in attendance.

They want to expand their brand outside of Baruch and into all CUNY and SUNY schools and soon to different professions and professionals. “Sometimes people have a hard time starting because they are waiting on a right time to start, but there is never really a right time to start,” Drabo says to those who are looking to start a business.

“It’s gonna become successful because I believe in the brand,” Rampaul saids.

The Fall 2023 Harman Student Writing Prize was judged by poet Mark Doty, Baruch’s Harman Writer-in Residence for that semester.

Endowed by a successful entrepreneur who graduated from Baruch in 1939, the Sidney Harman Writer-in-Residence Program has over the past quarter-century become a beloved Baruch institution. Each semester, the Program brings an eminent writer to campus to teach an intimate creative writing seminar course, give a public reading, and judge a student writing competition. Each spring semester, the Harman Program also runs the Jerome L. Schulman Memorial Poetry Prize, which honors the late husband of Professor Emerita Grace Schulman, who judges the prize. All Baruch undergraduates are welcome to submit their writing for both prizes. Winners are awarded $1000, second place $600, and third place $400.

Preserved in Amber Paul Bottigliero

my father’s father kept bees that kept the neighbors anxious—

suburban hedges and fences can’t block the occasional swarm but his cherished harvest perished with him— I supposed something more than memories must evolve and dissolve into the world—

decades later following my father’s death found within his garage (reliquary of the hoarder) a large Mason jar behind the clutter

like ancient Roman amphora holding treasure within the ruins

my sister gave me our father’s watch and it never leaves my drawer—

familiar device that measured minutes until the agonizing end reaching into his casket I removed the belt from my father’s body

useful memento saved from the fire

later what remained was burned and I put ashes into an hourglass hung around my neck

splintered shard of bone stopping the grim sands flowing from one side to the other

my mother’s mother gave me a brass pocket watch

which I lost years ago then forgot

days before I would help carry her from home to hearse

as she held my infant son speaking with her heavy Hungarian accent

I was asked kisfiú… do you still have the watch? and without hesitation I said that I did

1st Place

a relic (talisman with a worth fed and fattened

by the patina of time) a talisman (token

fetishized) a token (a belonging blossoming sentiment)

a belonging (desire obtained) desire itself a longing

itself a suffering like the aching

ticks of loss like losing time

my father’s father’s honey remains untouched in the pantry for months

unsure if it is safe until I learn edible honey was found in ancient Egyptian edible tombs

tasting an ageless spoonful I am again a child

looking beyond the safety of the kitchen windows framing my grandparent’s yard

my father and his father — suited like astronauts— slowly making their way among the milling

kaleidoscopic black and yellow carpet

I am transfixed as they gently shake bees off the branches of trees and returned to the present I sip the sweetened tea

amazed how each swallow cheats time

kisfiú (keesh-fee-yum): little boy

2nd Place

Temporary Permanent

Kenia Torres

Placed between the wall and the femme with the gold medallion tucked between her breasts, bearing the etched image of the Virgin’s folded hands and averted look, I succumb.

Cast upon her the poet’s gaze, she on me, the painter’s eye— making muses out of women, out of imperfections, art.

Ignore the protesting whine of the dive’s bathroom door; step in with her— two more lovers to scar the walls with proclamations of profound adoration that will die before the next couple enters.

Exchange love-plated promises and looks that overthrow reason— reigning monarch— and crown the heart instead.

Muffle the ticking of time’s villanous laughter— with the joy of lips meeting skin

Run to catch the final train— extend a hand to grasp the kiss blown from crimson lips as distance consumes her.

Release a clenched fist to reveal nothing.

3rd Place

Of Woeful Daughters and Ignorant Sons

Karena Rong

My mother was raised by weavers— their hands stitched upon needles, branching pins into clothes of no specialty. We were all made that way. Their affection wired by silken parts of nomadic hearts, moving too far, too fast if not tethered to a baby.

In two years from now, she’ll be gone, and what’s left of her will soon follow—no namesake recognition—

a life of care, wreathed with cynicism and fluids which escaped my body and bones crunched into her stomach.

In another universe, I would have been grown when we met. We would have weaved together, though such is the fate of foreign

families. Perhaps in the galaxies strung upon the Milky Way we are destined to meet again. In longing, in yonder, if nothing else,

may your body rest, delight in mountains of durian and a family adorn with red envelopes in praise of a dancing dragon.

And if not that, just rest. Remain forever unburdened of ropes tethered between our hearts, bearing symbols of mother.

May your hands release into an infinite web, weaving upon centuries of lost time. Let go and realize that it is all yours.

In the bustling world of New York City, the diverse student body of the City University of New York (CUNY) campuses brings together a rich tapestry of cultures, backgrounds, and styles. At the forefront of capturing this dynamic fashion landscape is @cunyoutfits, an Instagram account curated by an International Marketing student at Baruch College. With a keen eye for style and a passion for showcasing unique fashion expressions across the eight CUNY campuses, this account has become a digital platform for creativity and selfexpression.

A distinctive aspect of CUNYOutfits is the anonymity of its owner. Rather than placing the spotlight on their identity, the owner intends to spotlight and celebrate the abundant talent present within the CUNY system - including models, photographers, editors, and writers. Featuring students from various campuses, from Lehman College in the Bronx to Baruch College in Manhattan, CUNYOutfits showcases the distinctive perspectives of each institution, fostering and strengthening connections across the campus landscape.

“The idea came to me on campus one day while admiring other students’ outfits. I always loved the idea of starting an Instagram community, so when I realized how fashionable CUNY students are, it

just made sense” said the founder in an interview with Encounters Magazine. The account first began with posting students’ outfits but has evolved over time to a magazine operated by the collaborative efforts and talents of CUNY students.

The magazine serves as more than just a platform for fashion inspiration—it fosters a sense of community among CUNY students. Through meticulously planned photo shoots, captivating editorials, and vibrant showcases, CUNYOutfits provides a glimpse into the variety of creative expressions flourishing within the CUNY campuses. From the polished elegance of professional attire to the bold individualism of street fashion, each project narrates a story of not only personal identity but communal belonging.

“It’s meant to highlight the community and the people who thrive in it. Not every brand needs a face, and when they don’t have one, it allows people to focus on the community more.”

As the digital realm continues to shape the landscape of fashion, CUNYOutfits leverages social media’s influence to redefine representation and redefine beauty norms. Each post not only captures the essence of CUNY style but also inspires a new generation of students to embrace their individuality in style and thought.

Dear Encounters Magazine,

First and foremost, I extend my deepest thanks to each and every one of you for all of your hard work. Together, we revived Encounters Magazine following the setback caused by the pandemic. From finally being back in print after several years to an increase in department members and countless wonderful events, I have witnessed all of the efforts everyone has shown behind the scenes to make all of this possible. Our 2024 issue stands as a testament to this collective endeavor. Patricia Prado’s work on theme concepts was instrumental, and along with the help of Aidan To and Christopher Clarke, the photography provided a striking contribution to the publication. Pearl Lin’s efforts in executing the page layouts also played a crucial role in our success. These individuals, along with so many others, have been significant in shaping this publication.

I want to extend a special thanks to Melani Bonilla, our president. The time she has put into revitalizing this club has not gone unseen. Without her vision and drive, the progress this club has made to grow would have not been possible. Melani, your leadership is commendable.

To the staff graduating with me this semester, thank you for having welcomed me onto the team. Your talent left a mark on Encounters Magazine, and I have no doubt you will do amazing things in your future endeavors. To the current and future staff still along for the ride, I am filled with optimism for the journey ahead. I have every confidence that you will carry the torch forward, guiding Encounters Magazine to even greater heights.

Together, we laid the foundation for a brighter future. Here is to more events, consistent publications, and a great Encounters Magazine.

Sincerely,

Anika Guadalupe Rios Managing Editor

Anika Rios

Managing Editor

Puspita Dasroy Business Manager

Ethan Saif

Secretary

Patricia Prado

Media Manager

Lin Graphics Director

STAFF

Pearl

Aidan To Media Staff

Asia Gross Editorial Staff STAFF

Christopher Clarke

Alisia Alushllari

Razia Islam

Marketing Staff

Media Staff

Media Staff

Marketing Staff

STAFF

Dorothy Joy Delacruz

Julissa Perez

Jada Flores

Thank You All

Andrew Zhu

Arianna Xu

Brady Rivera

Carol Chen

Dorothy Joy Delacruz

Ethan Saif

Isabella Doring

Jacquelyn Cook

Kay Zehr

Kyna Preap

Liba Shabbir

Naomi Riggs