Encounters 2025

Baruch College’s Art and Literary Publication

Encounters Magazine

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Table of Contents

SETLIST Features 12-15 18,19 22,23 26,27 30,31 36,37 40,41 44,45 48,49 52,53 56,57 60,61 64,65 70,71 74,75 76,77 80,81 84,85 88,89 92,93 98,99 104,105

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Martina Tamayo

Jesse Kabongo

Hannah Czerwinski

Information 4 5 104-111 112,113 114,115 116,117 120

Acknowledgments Letter to Reader Harman Student Writing Prize FAQ Letter to Staff Staff Index

Visuals

Writing

38,39 69 105 87 28,29 42,43 62,63 66,67 78 40,41 25 106 74 21 82,83 94,95 47 50,51 55 59 73 91 17 107 75

16 20 24 29 32-35

Brayan Guaman-Camas

Carol Chen Daisy Gomez

38 42 Daniel Jacobson Daniela Cordero Elma Radoncic Eric Gonzalez

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Ethan Canter Ikroop Singh Khushi Gupta

54 58 62 66

Stephanie Cruz-Lopez Zeynep Acka

68 72 79 82 86 90 94 100-103

Future Leila Junious 2025 Kyna Preap You, Ruined Arianna Xu yearning love Kyna Preap Auditioning for Approval Camille Tourdot ÒAfter the Masked BallÓ Isabella Doring ÒyouÕre that ÔnothingÕ when people ask me what IÕm thinking aboutÓ Brianna Augustin untitled Kyna Preap 4 Stages of Nature Leila Junious Golden Hour Arianna Xu Lithium-7 Sonia Tyburczy good night Kyna Preap With You, Living Naomi Guerrier Conversation 17 Arianna Xu Womanhood Isabella Doring Mondays Naomi Guerrier Loner Leila Junious His Self, HeÕs Aware, a Hypocrite Pranto Sami When we Love Naomi Guerrier blinding love Kyna Preap ÔAlong Thy Velvet Corpse, Bare the Fangs of MercyÕ Michelle Mei

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Acknowledgments

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

Dinetta Curtis

Margaret Van-Ess Holman

Director of Student Life

Deputy Director of Student Life

Assistant Director of Leadership Development

Jan Martinez

Stephen Palencia

Richard Suarez

Assistant Director of Diversity, Equity & Inclusion

Assistant Director of Student Activities

Associate Director of Operations

Natalie Otero

Evelyn Almonte

Julia Skarzynska

Operations General Manager, Student Life

Community Engagement Manager, Student Life

Of昀‫؀‬ce Manager, Student Life

Yianice Nieves

Traci Espinet-Marquez

Pat Berger

Operations Coordinator

Technology Specialist/ Webmaster

Budget Specialist

Barbara Harman

Esther Allen

Julia Shi

Executive Director of the Harman Family Foundation

Harman Director

Harman Assistant

To the English Department, the Journalism Department, the Fine & Performing Arts Department, and 昀‫؀‬nally, to the reader of our magazine, we extend our deepest thanks.

Additionally, we thank our hardworking staff.

Patricia Prado

Asia Gross

Media Staff

Editor-in-Chief

Managing Editor

Andrew Zhu Tasmim Bushra Tyler Chan

Anson Wong

Regina Martinez

Business Manager

Secretary

Creators

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Aidan To

Pearl Lin

Media Manager

Graphics Director

Martina Tamayo Jesse Kabongo Hannah Czerwinski

Letter toReader Dear Reader, Welcome to our 2025 issue! We combined Old HollywoodÕs glamour and elegance with the talent found within the Fine and Performing Arts scene at Baruch College. Beyond our credibility as a business oriented environment, there are hidden talents and treasures waiting to be discovered all over campus.

One such treasure exists on the ninth 昀‫؀‬oor of the Lawrence and Eris Field Building, where a stage is the home to BaruchÕs theatrical productions, a place where stories are brought to life through performance, music, and movement. There is a creative science unique to the world of theatre and music: the ability to create so freely and personally, turning emotion and experience into the art of expression. ItÕs a power that transports audiences into intricately cultivated worlds, made possible through the magic of performance.

At Encounters, highlighting the artistic talent on campus has always been at the core of our mission. This issue is a collection of the diverse submissions crafted by the talented creatives of Baruch College, showcasing a variety of artistic mediums. With each issue, we strive to highlight the breadth of creativity within our community and hope that Encounters continues to 昀‫؀‬ourish as a hub for artistic and literary expression to grow.

As you 昀‫؀‬ip through this issue, we hope a spark of inspiration to create 昀‫؀‬nds its way to you. That creative endeavor youÕve been putting offÑwhether out of fear of judgment or self-doubtÑis closer than you think. Take that step, embrace your individuality, and let your art speak for itself.

Whether itÕs photography, poetry, theatre, or any form of artistic expression, the world is ready to see what you can create.

Let the work of our Baruch community and featured creators serve as your invitation to create both fearlessly and authentically.

Sincerely,

Patricia Prado Editor-in-Chief

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2025IssueConcept With each and every magazine issue, Encounters is dedicated to showing the artistic and literary talent in the Baruch community alongside our featured creators. This year, we turn the spotlight towards the 昀‫؀‬ne and performing arts community at Baruch. We celebrate their creativity, their artistry, and determination that de昀‫؀‬nes this dynamic scene.

In this edition, we honor a timeless era of art and cinema in AmericaÑOld Hollywood. We drew inspiration from the greats of Old HollywoodÑMarilyn Monroe, James Dean, Audrey HepburnÑand the timeless ambiance that enriched the ÒGolden Age of Hollywood.Ó The effortless black-and-white elegance, the feathered shawls, gloves, and pearlsÑall represent the iconic vintage glamour weÕve brought to the creative energy thriving at Baruch.

Our featured creatorsÑMartina Tamayo, Jesse Kabongo, and Hannah CzerwinskiÑembody the spirit of creativity and dedication. YouÕll learn more about their journeys as artists: producing and releasing their own music, acting in stage productions, and pursuing their passions all while balancing life as students.

This issue invites you to take a deeper dive into the world of Baruch9s 昀‫؀‬ne and performing arts through the eyes of our featured creators. Their personalized stories and perspectives offer a glimpse into the enthusiasm that shapes their craft. In these pages, we celebrate those who dare to create, perform, and inspireÑartists who bring emotion to life and turn imagination into reality.

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A vintage guitar rests on her lap as Martina Tamayo strums the melody of her latest song. The guitar, a 35 year old relic passed down from her uncle, helped mold Tamayo into the artist she is today.

Although she only started playing guitar 昀‫؀‬ve years ago at the age of 14, Tamayo is no stranger to the world of performing arts. Growing up, she embraced many hobbies such as ballet, choir, chorus, and theater. Upon getting to Baruch, Tamayo quickly became involved in the various opportunities the CollegeÕs arts community had to offer as well. Juggling being a student and performer is hard to naviagte, yet it is imperative to TamayoÕs artistry. She tells Encounters Magazine, ÒYou may not have time to perfect all your hobbiesÉbut I love having all the experiences because they help push me forward in the [music] industry.Ó Similar to her many interests, TamayoÕs music knows no bounds.

She draws on inspiration from a wide variety of artists in different genres such as Amy Whinehouse, The Cranberries, Fleetwood Mac, and Clairo. In昀‫؀‬uences are important to Tamayo as they guide her musical composition. If she wants her music to sound a certain way, she will deconstruct a song based on itÕs instrumentation to achieve the sound sheÕs looking for.

Before she was a musician, Tamayo was a writer. Lyrics are the heart and soul of TamayoÕs music. She notes, <Without the lyrics re昀‫؀‬ecting my life, I feel like that9s truly not my song.= A simple phrase or thought that won9t leave the brain to an emotion thatÕs begging to be released serves as inspiration for Tamayo. Often times, she records voice notes of people in her lives or her thoughts at any given moment. As a songwriter, she 昀‫؀‬nds beauty in the smallest of interactions or exchanged words. No matter how solid a song may be, the creation process is ongoing. A song can always be built upon or revisited when motivation strikes. ÒThatÕs the beautiful thing about music, often times you see remastered versions of songs or a track that is revised. I like that because thoughts change, people change; everything evolves,Ó remarks Tamayo. Her music welcomes change and development with a warm embrace.

Tamayo9s most recent release, <Control= exempli昀‫؀‬es that, marking her exploration into the techno genre. ÒI want diversity in my repertoire and for my music to grow as I grow,Ó explains Tamayo.

Part of growing as a musical artist is understanding the business of music. Because she produces and releases her own music, it is important to Tamayo that she understands how to manage herself as an artist. Love is the driving force behind everything Tamayo wishes to achieve and impart onto others. ÒI havenÕt met one person who doesnÕt love music,Ó exclaims Tamayo. ÒPeople feel so many emotions in music. I want us to come together and love each other, and I believe music is bene昀‫؀‬cial for that.= For Tamayo, music not only allows her to blossom, but gives others the chance to blossom with her.

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Future Leila Junious Hands shaking hands sweating IÕm yearning to know my path Heart racing anxiety pumping A sign to know what to do Days turn into nights Weeks turn into months Sitting here and wondering When?

When will I Know?

Will this sign come now?

When I need it?

When I least expect it?

Patience the killer I need A sign to to show my future Fatigue from wondering The constant feel of emptiness clouds full of loss A future worth waiting Will it come

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Stephanie Cruz-Lopez

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2025 Kyna Preap 2025, what a year to be alive!

Here I am with no job, no sleep, but at least I brush my teeth!

I walk across the street with my very own two feet.

Another 365, 52, and 12 and yet thereÕs still nothing on my trophy shelves.

ItÕs a new year that I donÕt want to be near Yet, I can9t wait to 昀‫؀‬nally leave and do all the things I want to achieve.

But how do I? I canÕt even open my eyes to see how I survived 2024 with all its misery Hopefully, 2025 will be a good mystery.

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Eric Gonzalez

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You, Ruined Arianna Xu You ruined my life took your hands and dug my lungs out of my esophagus So? how am I supposed to live let you how am I supposed to not dream about breaking yellow pencils in half and stabbing them into your eye, one each twirling them like spaghetti blood tomato sauce bend your joints the wrong way snap your 昀‫؀‬ngers pull them off take your doll and squeeze till your lollipop eyeballs pop out stringy red hair Dostoevsky created a character who was all good His friends dug themselves inside his brain and ate it like worms

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Daniela Cordero

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Daisy Gomez

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yearning love Kyna Preap You know, I still think about you in this dreary weather.

If youÕre okay.

If I hurt you in any way.

If youÕre mad at me.

If you hate me.

If you want me back, or if you think about all the things I lack.

IÕm sorry.

ThatÕs all I have to say.

But I just wonder, if you feel the same way.

If you think of me, when you look outside and see the rain fall as hard as I fell for you.

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Auditioning for Approval Camille Tourdot Dear Dad, Papa, Sir, Shaun, Papi, Baba, We remember when you took us to our 昀‫؀‬rst baseball game at Citi Field. It smelled of Heineken and hot dogs, and if Mom were here, sheÕd be commenting on how greasy and fatty everything was. And while we couldnÕt see the game from our top-row seats, we feigned interest as your eyes shimmered whenever we asked questions. Most of us didn9t care for the game, at least not the 昀‫؀‬rst time, but we loved spending time with you.

We were so out of our depth with all the baseball jargon that was being thrown around that the following time, we came better prepared. We memorized all the lyrics to ÒTake Me Out to the Ball GameÓ so we could join your belting during the seventh inning stretch. That9s my baby girl you would tell us as you ruf昀‫؀‬ed our hair, your eyes 昀‫؀‬xed on us for the 昀‫؀‬rst time in the past two hours. In reply, we popped pink bubble gum and asked you about the on-base percentage of the player up to bat. And after each game concluded, whether your our home team was victorious or not, we debriefed the game and analyzed every playerÕs performance with you until our eyelids drooped, and we fell into oblivion.

When we started middle school, we joined our schoolÕs softball teams as pitchers, shortstops, second basemen, and catchers. Some of us didnÕt get a callback, something we never told you, and instead, we packed our schedule with extracurriculars like Model UN and student body president so you would be none the wiser of our failed attempt. But for the more athletic of us, we were ecstatic for the 昀‫؀‬rst game that you would attend.

We practiced every day and asked you for pointers in preparation for the big game. We saved you the best seat, behind the home plate, and bought you some gum and a bag of peanuts to recreate the major baseball league experience. Yet when we returned to your gray minivans, black jeeps, or bikes, you critiqued our performances at length. We were thrown out at second, we weren9t hustling in the out昀‫؀‬eld, and we looked at too many strikes.

We were frozen as your words hit us in waves of astonishment and disappointment. Tears 昀‫؀‬ed down our faces as we began to shake. Stop crying, baseball players donÕt cry. A few of us didnÕt talk to you for a week until our mothers coaxed us into apologizing. Reagan, IÕm only telling you this so you donÕt make an ass of yourself at the next game. And you were right of course, so after sulking, we went with you to the batting cage to correct our form when hitting. We knew you were helping us be the best player we could be, so when you showed up to all our subsequent games and always had criticisms of our performance, we knew you said those things out of love.

When freshman year of high school began, many of us experienced unprecedented depression and anxiety.

Making friends was hard; people didn9t want to be your friend because you9re dif昀‫؀‬cult, classes were harder, and we hated ourselves. We were bad at everythingÑdancing, cheerleading, softball, and singingÑwhile our peers were intelligent and the ones we were always compared to. Natyla is captain of the volleyball team and works part-time, all while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. You should take a page from her book. You were unimpressed by our achievements, or lack thereof, so we stopped con昀‫؀‬ding in you. When we were awarded 昀‫؀‬rst place in an art competition, we felt ill-quali昀‫؀‬ed to be recognized because our work was far from perfect.

We knew the judgment that awaited us at home, so we never mentioned it.

At school, we complained about you because all our friends whined about their parents. We commiserated with them, adding how you and Mom were always on our backs about grades. Some of us jokingly complained about you because we loved you and felt like traitors opening lips that resembled yours to utter words condemning you. But for the most part, we complained about everything, as teenagers do, you would say, and it never amounted to anything. Some of us became good listeners, and others became egotistical ramblers.

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In the fall of our senior year, we went on our 昀‫؀‬rst date. It was at the Mexican restaurant in the area, and as expected, it was an awkward affair until the steaming barbacoa tacos arrived. While we inhaled our meal, we talked about our siblings, our post-graduation plans, and our mutual obsession with collecting postcards whenever we traveled. We felt at ease during dinner, and as he walked us to our door our cheeks were 昀‫؀‬ushed pink from the cold or his hand that was holding ours. The date would have gone down as the best 昀‫؀‬rst date in history, a call to our best friends for sure, but before he turned away, he told us, without permission, ÒYouÕre beautiful.Ó We hated those words, but we managed to smile while we squirmed, our hands and eyes twitching. Some of us mustered up the courage to thank him, and the rest of us scurried up to our room where we proceeded to gag, dissociate, and shake his words off. We never went on a second date with him; we made up reasons to give him and our friends. He was too short, he didnÕt make us laugh, and he gave off more friend vibes, but in reality, we hated the compliment he had given us. Our next date would be with Kyle, who never paid us any attention or compliments, but we would end up dating him for the next two and a half years.

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We are not our college professorsÕ favorite students, and whenever we return home from class, we know you can smell the stench of our inadequacy. An odor that reeks of the garbage bags festering in the living room that we forgot to take out last week. Our stench follows us for weeks as we attempt to make poignant comments in Professor RoderickÕs Honors American Literature class. We discuss the contrast between nihilism and idealism in the class readings and we make, what we think, are profound connections to other pieces of literature and the Bible, which you made us read every Sunday after mass. It isnÕt until we make a connection to 昀‫؀‬lm noir, Howard Hawks9s The Big Sleep, that Professor Roderick raises his eyebrows and remarks, <I like how your mind thinks, itÕs subversive.Ó But when we tell you about Professor RoderickÕs praise and our recent ÒAÓ on our paper in his class, you tell us that being subversive is not something to be proud of. I raised you to be polite. I didnÕt leave a war-torn country to have my daughter mock education and be insolent. Women are supposed to be respectful; that sounds like something your brother would say. Why do you always need to be the center of attention?

The words that donÕt leave your mouth are subservient and demure. You donÕt want to raise a modern feminist daughter; you want a daughter who knows her palace and respects it. You want a daughter who resembles our mother, someone who sits by as you insult the #MeToo movement and nods when you say that sexual harassment is a war on men. Una hija who wants at least four children and will take care of her husband like a 昀‫؀‬fth. Some of us don9t want kids, a secret we will never voice as you would call us sel昀‫؀‬sh. All women want children; give it time, and you will see.

You challenge our perception of reality as we spiral from all you have told us; our victory in our English class feels like eons ago. Are we jealous? Are we sel昀‫؀‬sh? Should we want to get married? Are we judgmental and cruel? Are we lazy and expecting everything to be handed to us?

When we return to class the following afternoon, Professor Roderick applauds Brian because we and our insightful comments are long forgotten. Nonetheless, we are determined to be liked by Professor Roderick, so we keep raising our hands and interrupting our peers. We agree with Professor RoderickÕs statements until he challenges us to think for ourselves and re昀‫؀‬ect upon a distinct perspective. Thus, our repugnant scent returns, and it never quite leaves us. ÒIÕm not going to lie, I donÕt like how you look.Ó It9s the 昀‫؀‬rst words we hear before we leave the house or when our boyfriends, duplicates of you, drop us off after a night out with friends. The resemblance is uncanny; they have your sincerity and coldness along with your hypocrisy as they are dressed in their usual careless style. Their frumpy linen shorts with oversized shirts somehow make them fashion critics. They tell us we look like sluts with our thigh-high boots and our edgy black eyeliner, or that we would have looked prettier with our hair down the way they like it. We are told we dress too much like their grandmother in our button-down pink sweaters and that we should have worn something sexier in front of their friends. Their disapproval reminds us of you; we know the sting they leave on our already bruised egos.

Several of us listen to these comments and the next time we go out we wear our brown Converse while our four-inch boots collect dust in the attic of our house. We add leave-in conditioner and gel to our curled black hair and wear it down instead of the bun that we were told makes our already big foreheads look humongous.

We wear a red velvet top with a plunging neckline that we keep trying to push up because it reveals a lot more than we would like. Women with a triple D should want to show it off. We feel like awkward imposters as we assume this new identity but when our boys smile at us, tell us we look sexy, or deepen our kiss with their tongue caressing ours, we feel happy to have pleased them.

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A few of us push back at you and your clones. We are angered that you ruined our con昀‫؀‬dence with your words, but we are not surprised. The bravest of us engage in an argument that ends with the declaration, <You know where to 昀‫؀‬nd me when you decide to apologize=. But mostly, you never apologize. Not the next morning or the next week. Not when we graduate cum laude from law school, I paid thousands for you to be second echoes as our trembled hands accept our degree, and we save a seat for you next to more deserving people. Not when we come home and visit, and you pretend that all is 昀‫؀‬ne. And not even when you take your last breaths, and we hope for recognition in 昀‫؀‬nal moments of clarity or unwritten wills. But who knows, maybe in death youÕre sorry.

Papa, we blame everything on you. Our anxiety, our depression, our failure in life but our anger, we must admit, is our own. We are sometimes hateful to the men who steal our hearts and love us in the ways we deserve to be loved. They sit on tiled bathroom 昀‫؀‬oors with us as we cry, and they bring 昀‫؀‬owers to our performance and whisper in melodic notes how proud they are of us. They watch stupid and predictable Hallmark movies with us because they, too, are unabashed and corny. Our beautiful men were not easy to 昀‫؀‬nd after years of chasing a love that controls us, the way yours does. But we are self-destructive, so we push our sweet men away thinking we are undeserving of this unapologetic love. We are never good enough for them, because we were never good enough for you. In arguments we cry, ÒYou remind me of my fatherÓ when we want to hurt them in the ways we have been hurt, but truly, we wound them to hurt you. You who wear an indestructible mask. You whose approval we audition for.

Our boyfriends, 昀‫؀‬ancés, and husbands have no responses to our outbursts, and they hate themselves for whom we compare them to. Some cradle us in their arms as they know our words are not directed at them, and some apologize profusely and remain silent the rest of the two-hour drive home. Others of them leave us as we make them feel terrible about themselves. Chantel, I love you, but I canÕt do this anymore. We have hurt them too much and so, in our faux apathy, we push the knife deeper one last time declaring, ÒMy father left me, so this is no different.Ó Sometimes they stay with us out of fear; they donÕt want to mirror their fathers. They want to be dependable and loving fathers, something they too lacked in their childhood. They donÕt want to force their sons to join sports teams as a way to live vicariously through them. They donÕt want to force our daughters to become mothers, telling them they are valueless without children. But sometimes, even through their desire to be better and paragons of good fathers, they fail because, at times, we want them to resemble you.

Very few of us, through self-help books or through therapy, attempt to stop centralizing men in our lives.

We think we have progressed until we relish when we best our male classmates and race past men in the last minutes of the Boston marathon. Alas, we still think of men and of you in all our moments of victory or defeat.

But the men in our lives never seem to do the same. They donÕt hate us the way that so many of us think they do. We waste tears and therapy sessions whining over how we could be misconstrued as ÒhateableÓ. Our binary thinking shields us from reality, a truth in昀‫؀‬nitely more painful that some of us cannot yet swallow; they just donÕt care. We arenÕt a second thought to them, whoever they may be. We are not their girlfriends, best friends, nor their detestable coworkers. We even wish we were the latter as that would elicit a strong emotional reaction, but instead, we are a forgettable murmur in the cacophony of different voices 昀‫؀‬ghting for acceptance.

So, we retreat into your arms of whom we so despise auditioning for. We crave your affectionate one-armed hugs and proud smiles that you bestow so seldom. Your nasty and matter-of-fact statements show us that you care in ways strangers and our boyfriends never seem to. We take the abuse in stride so when those 昀‫؀‬eeting moments of praise occur, we bottle them away in the depth of our memories for times when we need reminders and are starved of appraisal. Because despite our therapistÕs insistence, papa, we cannot cast you away from our hearts.

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ÒAfter the Masked BallÓ Isabella Doring love on my mind ever so inclined our hands intertwine not easy to 昀‫؀‬nd rose glasses leave me color blind I really have to remember to leave those behind whatÕs the harm, just test drive innocently connived in wasting my time please, not another reprise wandering boy shiny new toy pulled off the shelf, very coy as if IÕll jump for joy

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Brayan Guaman-Camas

past my novelty, could you foresee anything keeping you hooked to me? is the pretty doll supposed to be enthralled? butter昀‫؀‬ies rumbling in her stomach left appalled she was just playing dress up after all emotionally awol and you didnÕt even call I should really stop 昀‫؀‬shing with a trawl still young and na•ve is it the boys who deceive, lost in make believe, or a self-ful昀‫؀‬lling prophecy that leaves my fairytale to unweave.

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Daniel Jacobson

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ÒyouÕre that ÔnothingÕ when people ask me what IÕm thinking Brianna Augustin In the quiet spaces between words, you become the unsung melody, the silent crescendo in the symphony of my thoughts.

You are the ÒnothingÓ that speaks volumes, whispering secrets in the language of the unspoken.

A mystery lingering in the corridors of my mind, where questions dissolve into the tranquility of your presence.

When they inquire about the thoughts that dances behind my contemplative eyes, I 昀‫؀‬nd solace in the simplicity of your essence.

A sanctuary of calm in the chaos of introspection.

YouÕre the canvas of serenity painted across the canvas of my wandering mind, a tranquil landscape where words falter, and emotions 昀‫؀‬nd their refuge in the unspoken.

In your silent embrace, I discover the profound beauty of that Ònothing.Ó YouÕre the silent poetry.

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g aboutÓ Daisy Gomez

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Jesse Kabongo It wasnÕt until his senior year of highschool when Jesse Kabongo discovered his af昀‫؀‬nity for acting.

Fueled by encouragement, Kabongo took a chance, he auditioned for his schoolÕs production and landed his 昀‫؀‬rst role: King Creon. Kabongo fell in love with the thrill of embodying a personality that wasnÕt his own, taking a character and just enjoying the experience. He knew he enjoyed acting, but it wasnÕt until freshman year at Baruch where he unearthed his deep passion for the arts. As a 昀‫؀‬nance major, Kabongo craved a creative outlet to distract from the countless hours he spent on his schoolwork. He

stumbled upon the acting scene at the college where he crossed paths with Christopher Scott, director and professor at Baruch College. Professor Scott saw that spark in Kabongo, and played a pivotal role in his success, sending him out on his 昀‫؀‬rst professional auditions. This gave him the knowledge and con昀‫؀‬dence to foster this passion he never imagined heÕd have.

lot of stop, start, and cut, but watching that, I didnÕt even know how to get there as an actor.Ó It was one of the 昀‫؀‬rst performances that in昀‫؀‬uenced what he wishes to evoke on stage and who he wants to be as an actor. He draws inspiration from actors such as Denzel Washington, Jeremy Strong, and Meryl Streep, enthralled by how captivating and raw their performances are.

and glamour. Kabongo notes, ÒPeople see acting as entertainment or a business, which it is, but IÕm in it for the art.Ó

After being cast in ÒBest Night EverÓ at Baruch last year, Kabongo was able to hone his craft. For Kabongo, acting is about something bigger than just being great for the sake of being great or being the best over others. He acts because he 昀‫؀‬nds beauty in the struggles and successes of being an artist and the love of the craft, not for the fame or the glitz

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Sitting in the third row of ÒLeopoldstadtÓ on Broadway, Kabongo experienced what he describes as a kind of magic. ÒI didnÕt know somebody could be that good in real time,= he says. <I know 昀‫؀‬lm is a

Most recently, Kabongo has played the role of Nick Carraway in ÒThese Gilded SoulsÓ and is currently rehearsing for his next project, his 昀‫؀‬rst musical, ÒWe Will Rock You,Ó a dystopian musical based on the music of Queen. His biggest goal is to act as well as he can at that moment. He is never trying to be better than anyone else, only building on his past performances. He tells Encounters Magazine, ÒThe biggest crime art can do is make you feel neutralÉ The best thing I could offer an audience member is giving them a piece of myself, being vulnerable with themÉI can give them a piece of truth to take away with them.Ó

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untitled Kyna Preap No thoughts, head empty.

I thought I was a poet.

How can this be?

I was good at rhythm.

Now writing is not even fun.

And I canÕt even think of a word to end this stanza, so now it sounds really awkward and IÕm sorry but this is me.

A nineteen-year-old girl with nothing but a pen and a dream.

SIKE. What dream?

To be a poet?

Haha, thatÕs funny!

You canÕt even think of a good word to rhyme with funny.

What is poetry anyway?

IsnÕt it just a bunch of words that sound good together even if itÕs justÉ ÒThe hare is hopping, Why donÕt we go shopping!?Ó Poetry is supposed to be simple, easy, and meaningful but How can that be?

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Ethan Canter

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4 Stages Of Nature Leila Junious GREEN From yellow to green Your back Full of life and shine You bring smiles and warm memories of the season All love this season All know this season I want you to stay forever Your life brings me happiness Seeing your leaves hang and blowing in the summer wind I wish this could last forever The Longer days longer nights Your green artistry helps when the sun beats me Sweat beading off my lips while I quench Your smell reminisce of an untouched botanical garden Your trunk hard and rough when touching my back Leaning on you scratching leaving no marks I read and gather my thoughts while you enfold me with your nature This season is your best Nothing less I want you to stay like this forever Thinking about your next stage brings worry The warmth turning a new leaf to a cool breeze Your next stage of life is not yet dead but even more beautiful ORANGE The warmth creeping away A slight briskness in the air Chilled A chill reaching for a sweater For a scarf Its Beauty on the ground Touching you feels wrong Wet Mud and mush Your trunk making me squeal What was 昀‫؀‬rst dirt is now mud Now I canÕt sit next to you Your foliage is a beauty for nature seekers Hell for road runners and walkers My happiness still present Not yet left like a bird heading south Im still here and aware

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Clicking for a shot of your beauty Orange, Red Rust These colors are showing your weakening Slump Clinging for life YouÕll be back soon GONE ThereÕs nothing to show Bare arms Seeing my breath in the wind Its beauty dead Waiting for life Gloomy Brisk Waiting Im wishing for your true from To return Hating your current state Being around you is not the same like other times Your arms look sleepy and yet hollow The atmosphere is dark Im putting on my hat and boots looking at you Thinking of old memories Thinking of your new life next year Pregaming your next stage of life I would touch you but the air too crisp Standing next to you will freeze me Your life is just frozen in time for now until you come back.

YELLOW Your Born again Your coming back to life The weather breaking for you arrival Rain help nourish your fragile foliage My heart beginning to thaw like the air Your beauty is A new beginning A Fresh start Bare arms blossoming The Smell of your beauty hypnotizing the air and humanity Showing your growth and new life Im happy to see you again Even though its not warm I still feel you are fully at your capacity of beauty Im waiting for you come alive and show your True self Ikroop Singh

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Golden Hour Arianna Xu The days get longer when I am with you Nothing IÕve known ever prepared me for this The slanting rays of the setting sun illuminates your features (it is the golden hour) I begin to think the sun has created you in its likeness So, you are celestial tell me everything about you and more and more, until there is nothing left to tell Tell me about the beginning of time and how it leads up to now and where the sun will set teach me a rhythm that I havenÕt heard before and donÕt dare to dream (at least on my own) IÕve never held time like this The sun continues to set at in昀‫؀‬nity, it is paused there so, teach me to use a voice that I left anchored in the sea

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Khushi Gupta

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Lithium-7 Sonia Tyburczy what was, what wasnÕt and what could have been. a bleeding heartÕs last beat as the world goes thump, thump and falls senselessly into darkness once again. to exist, for a moment in your embraceÑ a love born of longing for an end to emptiness. now, alone again, a drop of ichor rolls down the red giantÕs face and falls senselessly into darkness once again. burning brie昀‫؀‬y light swirling threads tangling pulling down a whisper, what was, what wasnÕt and what could have been.

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Khushi Gupta

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good night Kyna Preap Just like the air we breathe, you were everything to me.

My night and day, my day and night.

If I were lost, you9d 昀‫؀‬nd me without a clue on where I could be.

Because you knew that I wouldnÕt be here without you.

So close to the light, I almost heard God say good night.

For a moment in time, I thought it was the end of my life.

But you knew that something was wrong.

Sweat rushes down your veins as you hear me screaming in pain.

With a knife in my hand penetrating the chest as it lands.

Until you, my night and day took my pain away.

And dug the knife deeper and deeper until I could hear God say good night.

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Daisy Gomez

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With You, Living Naomi Guerrier Each day, the world keeps spinning Axes land Slightly crooked yet still And I 昀‫؀‬nd myself alone With you Somewhere echoing Days will pass I draw arms onto my hands Reaching out to you Extended farther than my body wants to Because my brain can9t stand the thought of slippery 昀‫؀‬ngers and regret 昀‫؀‬lled palms In between the stretching and growing I 昀‫؀‬nd myself counting each strand of hair that has the privilege of latching onto you Proudly jealous of your abundance I wish to be even closer Engraved beneath my nails is the sight of your body falling right into me Your touch is my new 昀‫؀‬ngerprint Somewhere, weÕve melted into two Settled in my arms Each week, feelings repeat Time continues Just long enough for us to breathe in each other Never stopping Holding back care is too hard When youÕre intertwined in my mind Now tell me On which day did you teach me that living can be so warm So kind

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Daisy Gomez

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Conversation 17 Arianna Xu IÕm glad to see you areÉ some remnant of who you used to be Am I? I feel like IÕm pretending to be something someone IÕm not someone dead For months, IÕve been forcing the past into the future, making time nauseous vomiting up things that should remain as memory IÕm pulling out timeÕs intestines from the mouth IÕm messing with it Is time sentient?

It feels wrong to force reversion to remove parts of my spine make myself shorter and brainwash myself into being a child Time is nauseous.

Maybe arenÕt you tired? you are controlled by something so in tan gi ble ?

DonÕt you want to take back your life?

IÕm pulling out timeÕs intestines from the mouth There is blood on my hands

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Brayan Guaman-Camas

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Womanhood Isabella Doring Womanhood, noun 1: the state, condition, or fact of being a woman rather than a man 2: little girl, wishing always in sight never in reach when can I wear that? when do I get to do that? when will boys like me? when will I be like them? when will I be enough? little girl, in a daze surrendered? no, ripped away molded or left astray by a manÕs world the same whose gripping hands stripped away the very essence this woman now scours for found in lost pieces IÕm missing from the girl, wishing

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Khushi Gupta

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Elma Radoncic

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These Gilded Souls

Starring Jesse Kabongo as Nick Carraway Zeynep Acka

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Hannah Czerwinski ÒI want to be different, let me do sports,Ó was Hannah Czerwinski9s 昀‫؀‬rst thought when being raised in a family of artistsÉup until fourth grade at least. Czerwinski was awarded a scholarship to a Shakespeare company and promptly fell in love with acting, despite her initial resistance. She always had a playful energy with her characters, approaching each one with enthusiasm and a joy for what she was doing. However, it wasnÕt until college where she discovered how to fully tap into her craft.

Creating voices places Czerwinski into her character, even if itÕs a voice just slightly different from her own. Czerwinski remarks, ÒI know my character is not me because it doesnÕt even sound like me.Ó Method acting provides Czerwinski with an almost out of body experience when she is performing. Learning how to organically approach a character was important in shaping who Czerwinski is as an artist.

Certain scenes pose a hindrance to this approach, and often times directors play a large role in helping actors blossom and step outside of what they know to create a personal moment on a whim. Czerwinski recalls one such moment working with Professor Christopher Scott in ÒThese Gilded Souls.Ó She had come late to rehearsal one day and although she was apologetic, Professor Scott was stern with her. She had panicked and had to rehearse the scene she had been struggling with almost immediately.

She performed it the best she ever had, reaching down into a part of her she didnÕt know existed. ÒThat taught me that there is realism in everything and sometimes all it takes is a little push,Ó she goes on to state, Òhe took me from being a coddled baby and threw me into the pool head昀‫؀‬rst.= It was exactly what Czerwinski needed to reach the emotions held so deeply within her.

Community and the work ethic of others push Czerwinski to challenge herself creatively and immerse herself in opportunities. She speaks on this, mentioning the importance of a shared identity, ÒItÕs so important to surround yourself with other creatives because you think the same and we feed off of each other. ItÕs like magnets that come together and attach.Ó Her inspiration and drive doesnÕt just come from watching icons on the big screen, but also comes from the love and appreciation for her peers.

Currently, Czerwinski is rehearsing for ÒWe Will Rock You,Ó BaruchÕs latest musical alongside fellow creator, Jesse Kabongo. Through all of CzerwinskiÕs work as a creative, she brings with her a gentle admiration for herself and those around her who immerse themselves in their art.

She envisions a future where she can help foster the same love she has for the arts, in others. Czerwinski continues to work towards one day returning to her high school to lead the theater department.

Viola Davis and Robin Williams are two of the biggest inspirations for Czerwinski, due to their in昀‫؀‬uence on propelling oneself into a three dimensional role. ÒI love to look at people who have that range and drive. They arenÕt afraid to do something out of their comfort zone,Ó explains Czerwinski.

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Daisy Gomez

Mondays Naomi Guerrier She never hated Mondays. But this week, she learned that the sickening feeling sheÕd been getting for years had actually clogged up her fatherÕs heart. Doctors say one of his arteries might be blocked.

Years before, she would sit on the bathroom 昀‫؀‬oor, telling herself that her father9s heart wasn9t functioning. SheÕd replay moments where his face looked chewed. Where a smirk was plastered and his words were 昀‫؀‬lled with mockery. Or where his silence gripped on the tears that could only stream down her face. SheÕd spend hours thinking that something had to be wrong with her father. That he didnÕt hate her, but something much more sinister was going on. Coloring outside of the lines. Distorting her memories to create something much worse than a monster. She9d get up from the 昀‫؀‬oor, her mind set on turning him into someone careless. But by the time she walked out the door, she realized that carelessness didnÕt suit him. He was much too meticulous for that.

In high school, she started to wear her father9s shirts and sweaters. It 昀‫؀‬lled her with pride to walk around with his scent on her. Everyone would know whose daughter she was by just standing in her midst. SheÕd get home and would forget to give his clothes back to him. Weeks would go by, clothes would be missing. Her father would never get mad that his daughter had suddenly become a thief. Soon, sheÕd get the guts to sloppily fold up his shirts and sweaters again, obviously misplacing them while making a mental note of which ones sheÕd take next time. Her scent now intertwined with his, she was happy that her father would be able to show off a bit of his daughter to everyone he saw each day.

She still doesnÕt hate Mondays. It would be naive of her to hate the day when doctors realized they needed to save him before the problem worsened. But she does hate all those evenings that latched onto nights where she would only see her father as bad. Where the dark that she was secretly scared of suddenly had his shape. She just hates the parts of herself that canÕt seem to forgive him fully. Oh, how she wished that all it took was some hot water to wash away her resentment.

God, when did he learn to get sick?

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Loner Leila Junious loner wishing for a friendship wishing wanting somebody to call my lover I want to be set free Loner Why canÕt I move? sitting here wondering I want to experience the fun 20s dreaming 2 AM that perfect night dreaming strolling the bright city lights 3 AM Hopping bars hopping in bars dreaming 4 AM deeps talk with strangers 5 AM observing that gleaming Sunrise after that jollity night not from that night of shame Smell that AM air reminiscing that fun night that is what I dream of

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Eric Gonzalez

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Note: (/full stops Ô . Õ /qms Ô ? Õ /blanks Ô Õ) are intended to represent a few particular meanings.

It is recommended to not follow those 3 punctuations for reading tempo.

His Self, HeÕs Aware, a Hypocrite Pranto Sami Am I invincible.

Perhaps I am pretending to be What I wish; I ought to be.

Am I reliable.

Perhaps I want them to rely on me.

For, I found myself; failing to rely on me?

Gratifying & Graceful.

ItÕs what they think of my eyes.

But it never sees beyond the grey in them I am hollowed more than they perceive.

But I tell them how meaningful existing can be.

I am pragmatically a realist.

Yet I convince them to view the magic in me Blessed & Blissful ItÕs what I think of their self hopefully I would never bother to 昀‫؀‬nd solace in them?

They are pretty; pretty enough I would beg to be?

They are breathing in the present.

Breezing, behind my presence.

Perhaps my past induced stature.

Nulli昀‫؀‬es the beauty in me Perhaps my seduced corrupt nature.

Reveals the Matthew in me.

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Carol Chen

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When We Love Naomi Guerrier WeÕre meant to grow together Vines so perfectly intertwined We resemble something otherworldly Or perhaps something entirely human Beautifully trapped in our bodies Loving the bugs that trek up our arms Rooted so deep Tangled forever The soilÕs become jealous of our connection I think I found my soul in you WeÕre lost somewhere deep in the wilderness Coupled with plants and trees EarthÕs most natural born protectors feast on our love They tug at our edges Claw at our skin Somewhere, theyÕve used us to balance the dirt Another has decomposed peacefully, simply because our care surrounds them We whisper sweet everythings into each otherÕs bloodstreams You sink into my veins My body is 昀‫؀‬nally walking Carefree and deliberately IÕve let go of urgency You love me slow And I watch your chest as you breathe Peer into my pupils See how much of you is found in me WeÕve built each other Houses and minds start to seem the same I am molded by your presence Watch me bloom with each touch WeÕve found peace in the dust covered corners Now timelessly fond of each other Carefully devoted to one another I could live off of what weÕve become And I want to live off of what we are to be

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Khushi Gupta

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blinding love Kyna Preap I catch him staring at me as if heÕs never seen a girl who could give him so much glee.

He held the door for me as we leave and I think, huh, this guy acts so kindly.

The next day, I stare at him as we talk about our lives, dreams, and aspirations.

As the seasons go by and I get to know him better, I suddenly 昀‫؀‬nd myself in deep, deep danger.

It canÕt be, It wonÕt be, ItÕs too risky.

I hardly know him, yet he never fails to make me grin.

With his sparkling eyes and kind personality, I canÕt seem to snap back to reality.

Once I spoke my truth, I found out that, all along, he had another girl to choose.

All his friendly gestures and kind words were mistaken for subtle 昀‫؀‬irts.

I took them the wrong way, and as the seasons go by, I watch his smile fade away.

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ÔALONG THY VELVET CORPSE, BARE THE FANGS OF MERCYÕ Michelle Mei Ò1Ò Marcille has begun twaddling at dusk, moaning amidst her sleep only to scramble awake in the crack of morningÕs rise. Jonathan could not humour the sleeping bugs eitherÐ he informs me that his weakened frame has grown accustomed to lying in bed all throughout the day; thus he cannot rest when he truly needs it.

That shack started to heave noises about twenty-three sunrises ago. At times, it would grow unbearable to fall into a deep slumber followed by the loud banging and creaking that would erupt from that shack. Nonetheless, it was considered a taboo to open those rusty doorsÐ that was our rule. DonÕt ponder, only hearken forth the truth. For that, you shall be liberated. Ò 1.5 Ò 1849, 30 days Aye! It was surely under my control. I told Marcille that she wouldnÕt have to waste her worries. The aged shack locked away near the edge of the forest was murmuring once again. The days grow shorter as the air begins to grow quite stale. Are the winds not in our favour?

1849, 24 days I reaped no rewards in the hunt. The damned dogs were making too much noise, and the buck scurried away with its tail tucked behind its skinny legs. The shack was roaring again. Jonathan told me he thinks that it will explode. I reassure him and watch him fall into slumber. Marcille would come home late today.

1849, 20 days Jonathan started to wheeze and cough treacherous screeches out of his body. He reassured me with panic, but he could not hide the bloodied mess on his drenched pillow. Marcille arrived home around noon. I chopped the next batch of lumber.

1849, 10 days You donÕt need to worry. No need. I took care of it. The shack has stopped laughing. I told Marcille it would be okay, but she has not stepped out of her chambers for a whole day. Jonathan is safe, I tell her. She does not listen.

1849, 5 days I did it! It was for love, the warmth of a mother cradling her child. The songbirds chirping in the early dawn. It was love.

Love! The shack has not made any noises for a whole week!

1849, 1 day Marcille! Jonathan! I will join you soon, I will always be next to you. The shackÐ I hear voices from it. The voices call me, wretched voices! But I know the truth is upon my heart and soul. I will join you soon!

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1849, quarter past noon ,W VPHOOHG OLNH URWWLQJ àHVK DQG LURQ ,URQ ,W UHHNHG OLNH LURQ &XUVHV 0DUFLOOH -RQDWKDQ ZK\ ZRQÖW \RX ORRN DW PH" /RRN at me!!

1849 It is not my fault, I was simply doing my duty. It is not my fault.

-0 I did it! ItÕs all over! I am free! Ode to the freedom of the soul! Ode to the songbirds that cry the melodies of joy! Ode to theÐ (The page seems to end abruptly, as the ink trails off with dried blood in the mix.)

Ò2Ò Detective Wolfgang, Investigation Twenty-Three. On the edges of the creaking meadows stood a small cabin surrounded by tall oak trees. Nearby, was an old shack that oozed the scent of gore. I accumulated a strange worry under my twenty years of working as a private investigator. The door to the shack was completely shatteredÐ rather it was ripped to shreds by what seemed to be the canines of an unsightly beast. To be morti昀‫؀‬ed was an understatement, it was horrendous.

Never in my years have I encountered such a horri昀‫؀‬c scene, that it would make me, Sir Wolfgang, falter and tremble back in a wheeze. I had to recuperate on the small lawn near the cabin before trudging back in. The fumes of iron and death forcefully entered my nostrils as I took the 昀‫؀‬rst step inside. On the third or fourth step, there was a loud and unpleasant gurgle that made its way from beneath. Under my tattered boots was an organ of sorts. It was unidenti昀‫؀‬able, with several de昀‫؀‬ning features missing and mutilated.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I scanned the surroundings of the bloodied cabin and made out the dis昀‫؀‬gured mess of two bodies. One appeared to be a woman in her late 40s, evident by the long locks of hair scattered across the 昀‫؀‬oorboards and a surprisingly intact breast hanging on a rusted hook. The other was a man in his early 20s. The oneÕs head was smashed into a cabinet, eyes gouged out and jaw ripped wide open.

I shined my lantern near his head and it seemed as if this man was severely ill. There were several blackened bumps near the lining of his throat, and horrible scabs that had dried blood plastered around the soft palate.

Tharms scattered and interconnected, painting a gory scene.

An awful sight. No man could do such a thing. It was most likely a wild beastÐ no, not even. It is much more sinister; it is surely a monster.

Ò3Ò O, night heed my cries O, night it was foretold!

O, night salvation arrives,

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The sky sings a lonely tale the amber!

I saw it! With my eyes Oh, thy soul Has been banished!

O, night I would not fathom the pain in your hearthstone

Ò4Ò The day that shack was constructed was the day our death was pronounced. We obtained the property in 1840, with a few trinkets of silver left to spare. Famine had ravaged our small town, hollowed corpses scattered across the dry 昀‫؀‬elds. Curses! If only we had hastily prepared, Jonathan would not have to become such a frail and useless man. The propertyÕs previous owner had met death tragicallyÐ the murmurs of the town say that the poor fellow would cry out after the chickens fell into sleepÐ quite agonising! Until one fateful moonrise, did the man halt his nightly shrieks as he was found with his thyroid cartilage ripped out..

The fellow must have made a deal with the devil, that poor pitiful soul. The cabin was reconstructed after 昀‫؀‬fteen years and is now in our hands. A lovely property it was before3 surrounded by lush greens which now were dried out by the drought. We took no time to hastily revive the property. After obtaining a few cattles, we were blessed with the ripeness of our crops. Jonathan has taken steps out of his chamberÐ it seems my prayers were heard!

But I cannot act in a rollicking manner yet; that man, what a peculiar man! That corned coot has begun to turn cold as a wagon tire after we obtained the property. He would arrive late in the night, tuckered out from carrying pails of well water from the town and then gabble to himself in the corner. And around dusk, he would call my name in that hoarse voice of hisÐÕMarcille, marcille!Õ he sputters into my ears. I worry about that man but it appears that after countless moons of dread, he has halted his strange behaviours.

Ò5Ò The banging! The bangingÐ it wonÕt stop, it never ends! O, have thy celestial beings truly abandoned me? It is true that I am now a crippled man.. but O this is too cruel. The bloodÐ it never stops, never! He is coming, he hath come for mine soul. He pounds, mimicking an animal; an animal he is! He is an animal disguised in human 昀‫؀‬esh.. I see it, I see his overgrown claws that peek out from his skin3 they claw at my door with such haste!

O celestial being, am I to die to the mercy of this man? If Marcille doth not return until the owls 昀‫؀‬ock3 I am truly to die alone! He is coming, he is coming! O! He has ripped open my chamber door! O! This is truly my end.

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Brayan Guaman-Camas

Ò6Ò PRIVATE REPORT INVESTIGATION NO. TWENTY FOUR. Richard Roberts | Sr. Investigator CASE FILE 9741 Investigation dispatched. INCONCLUSIVE- Sebastian Wolfgang PEOPLES: 3 LOC: ADAMS PROPERTY, BATCH TOWN CODE: 167 DETAILS: DECEASED MAN AND WOMAN,UNIDENTIFIABLE CONDITION: N/A BODY PIECES ARE SCATTERED IN AN UNRULY MANNER [INVESTIGATION CLOSED.] FURTHER DETAILS REQUIRE LAW COUNTY.

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Elma Radoncic

These Gilded Souls Starring Hannah Czerwinski as Daisy Buchanan

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Zeynep Acka

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Harman Student Writing Prize

FALL 2024

The Fall 2024 Harman Student Writing Prize was judged by journalist and author Eyal Press, Baruch9s Harman Writer-in-Residence for that semester.

Endowed by a successful entrepreneur who graduated from Baruch in 1939, the Sidney Harman Writer-inResidence 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.

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The Figure

1st

Kaya Morrison

If you place a young tomato inside a square plastic cage approximately the size and volume of a fully grown fruit, it will grow in the shape of a cube.

The tomato will remain in thiscubic form until it is eaten, withered, or otherwise destroyed. This does nothing to discount the fact that uninhibited it would have grown to be somewhat spherical, and the fact that it by all means ought to have been round does nothing to discount its six 昀‫؀‬at sides. The tomato, despite being formed into the likeness of a cube, will still lack the sharp edges and 昀‫؀‬awless symmetry of a legitimate geometric model. It is not a cube, but anyone who sees it will think of it as such. &HFL QÖHVW SDV XQ FXEH As a child, I was a mess Ð I wore rain boots or 昀‫؀‬ip-昀‫؀‬ops only (ever-prepared for a jaunt through the vegetable garden with Aunts Ruby and Ginny), signaling my entrances with a cacophony of rubbery squishing sounds. IÕd slap colorful band-aids on halfinch long scratches, no broken skin in sight. I loved books about orphaned heroes setting off to 昀‫؀‬nd adventure, but cried real, salty tears when George and the Man in the Yellow Hat were separated amid a city of skyscrapers and concrete. I cried real tears a lot, and I meant every single drop. I felt so hard, with a passion ten feet taller and at least as many years older than I was.

Eventually, I realized that these things, among others, marked me as strange, or odd. Not so much at 昀‫؀‬ve or six, but as time9s arrow marched onward (never back) it became clearer that I struggled to grow in a way that my peers did not. Perhaps I was a late bloomer in this regard, but by the time I realized that most adults found my squeaking footsteps to be an annoyance, those peers seemed to share the sentiment.

Somewhere along the way from where-I-was to whereI-am, I decided that I needed to approach life with a sharpened strategy; to watch my tongue and posture and expression of opinion, and I sacri昀‫؀‬ced some level of authenticity to do so. In futility, I bitterly wish IÕd

been oblivious to the expectations of dress for longer, if only to know my real face with a genuine familiarity.

Nevertheless, the party rages on and on, day in and day out.

Although I came to understand the pressures to conform, they originated from an outside source. There is an age, however, where they begin to penetrate the very fabric of oneÕs being, and you are to take it upon yourself to carry on.

While my younger brother and male friendsÕ clothing became longer and looser, mine grew shorter, tighter, more 昀‫؀‬attering to The Figure. The Figure, as a sexual ideal, is introduced to the young girl and boy as an idol of religion in America. VictoriaÕs Angels, with their halos casting holy light from above. It goes beyond the shape and size of oneÕs body Ð it is temperament, and grace, and a nurturing demeanor, and a delicate balance. The Divine Feminine. The Figure has changed shape and face countless times throughout history, but nevertheless she smiles down at the rest. To 昀‫؀‬t the mold of that harsh-contoured box is to be invisible; to be cubic is not enough. To possess The Figure is to be radiant, and to cast a shadow of inadequacy over those who do not, resigned to covet and to desperately claw at but never quite have.

So, I swapped my plastic enclosure for a steelboned corset and I cinched in the middle, hard.

This corsetry is not to be spoken of. The only thing more pathetic than not trying is to try with all your might, as it goes against The FigureÕs inherently effortless nature. You just pull tight, straighten your shoulders, and act as though you are drawing full breaths as opposed to fractional gasps. You smile when spoken to, and your stances should be moderately intelligent without being audacious or radical. You should be sexy, but never be the one to declare your own appeal. And one day, you will be saved from

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yourself by a man who will take your Figure and make you a Mother, and then you will spend your most capable years of life 昀‫؀‬ghting to hold both images in one hand.

Of course, these ideals are rooted in antique concepts of hegemonic, blonde, Euro-princess beauty and the notion that a woman9s life is sequential 3 昀‫؀‬rst you must be beautiful, then you must perform your biological duty to create and nurture life. If step two did not tear your beauty from you, you then must watch it fade up until you face your mortality. It is not a re昀‫؀‬ection of modernity, or even a true representation of the 21st century manÕs sexual preferences, regardless of his position as the gravitational pull around which we orbit. Despite this, every decade or two we polish it to a chrome 昀‫؀‬nish and hold it up for all to marvel. Those who grew up in the 90Õs Ð where a womanÕs thighs were to be sending alimony payments across state lines and a size six celebrity was a scandal proportionate to WatergateÐ spent the following two decades thanking God that it was over, only for the cycle of revelry to repeat itself.

As I write this the women around me are shrinking, on screens and on sidewalks. The Figure is no longer curvy-but-only-in-the-right-way as she was several years ago; she has lost inches off her hips and waist and sucked the life out of her once-full cheeks.

The online 昀‫؀‬gures of note followed by millions conceal their choice of corset, tucking their off-label diabetic injections at the back of their fridges behind zerocalorie soft drinks and artfully disguising surgical scars as they pressure the common woman to shell out for their diet plans and workout regimens, advertising these wares as a path to achieving their 昀‫؀‬awless images.

Image, a fundamental piece of this constant virtue-signaling and the way in which we consume others and ourselves, is a mere fragment of an extension of oneÕs being. Think of Marilyn, whose platinum, dolled-up image is still touted as a pinnacle of allure and elegance six decades after her death. This manufactured image lives on, detached from reality and romanticized in perpetuity as the horri昀‫؀‬c truths of her misery, lack of autonomy, and deep-seated insecurities fade into the noise. We have equated image to truth, and it is destroying us.

I am sick of seeing sculpted abdominals and paralyzed foreheads. I am also sick of hundred-昀‫؀‬fty

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dollar 昀‫؀‬are leggings (yoga pants, nothing new) and six-day-a-week gym routines. Hacks, and shapewear, and tutorials on how to nail the Bateman-esque, maximum-effort, I Woke Up Like This look. Products to 昀‫؀‬x your skin (it9s bad), and your hair (that9s bad too), and 昀‫؀‬avored jellies to 昀‫؀‬ll your (skinny-fat) stomach without a meal. Young women promoting the ÒtradwifeÓ lifestyle, declaring housewifery to be more favorable than a career. Teenagers taking to the internet to declare the superiority of certain features and debating the inherent attractiveness or unattractiveness of speci昀‫؀‬c ethnicities (if you recall the major ÒlowsÓ of 20th century world history, such racial hierarchies may be familiar), and encouraging others to Òlooksmax,Ó i.e. dedicate their lives and time to becoming beautiful by these purportedly objective standards by any means necessary. It is exhausting Imagine, if you will, a world in which women felt no pressure to dress a certain way, or to behave according to an accepted standard. You wake up and eat a satisfying breakfast, brush your hair and teeth, wear an out昀‫؀‬t that you love 3 not for its 昀‫؀‬attery of your form or social relevance but for the sake of dressing freely Ð and walk out the front door without fear of judgment. Simple, right?

Now, on paper this may seem like a readily achievable existence. It should not be an act of de昀‫؀‬ance.

In practice, every pressure I have detailed is an obstacle, and girls who are right now reaching adolescence arguably are faced with more pressures than any previous generation, along with a barrage of their own images. Comparison is the thief of happiness, they say, yet it is the cornerstone of The Figure. Beauty is only beautiful when weighed against ugliness. Radiance gleams brightly when juxtaposed with dull and dim, and nobody wants to be less-than. The question is, are you willing to set yourself ablaze, even if it kills you in a way you can never truly comprehend?

I wish to ignite these corsets and cages, instead.

I wish to pop cherry tomatoes between my big front teeth and beam out lopsided smiles spattered with seeds as juice drips down my dimpled chin and stains my white bike shorts with droplets of pink. I wish to grow wild in whatever shape nature intended, and to love the mess. I wish to drink and dance with my laces undone and to hurl my gilded facade as far as I possibly can. I wish, and I wish, and I wish.

Hey Jude

2nd

Michael DeJesus

Friday nights were once my favorite time of week. When my parents closed their store, we would head to queens. Our options were street food or a restaurant, and we never knew which one we would choose until we got closer to queens. There were times we switched our preference last minute but regardless, I always looked forward to it.

The drive to queens was always my favorite part. My fatherÕs playlist of late 80s electropop would blast through the car speakers, the smell of car freshener and leather 昀‫؀‬lled my nose, my brother9s wide eyes staring at the purple hues projected onto the bridge connecting Brooklyn and Queens, my mother enjoying the music alongside my father, and the tires gliding across the highway: this was family bonding at its 昀‫؀‬nest.

It was on one of these car rides where I discovered my favorite band of all time, The Beatles.

I remember the exact moment sitting in traf昀‫؀‬c on the highway, scrolling through my music app when I saw the song ÒHey JudeÓ. The title glowed at me as if it was meant to be played. ÒWhoÕs Jude?Ó I wondered, then hit play.

I listened and was enthralled by PaulÕs vocals, the harmonies of John and George, and the gentleness of the drums. I looked up at the bridge lights with my brother and took in this new song, it became my favorite. The answer to my question was not important anymore, because the song was beautiful.

Once we arrived in Queens, we made our decision; if we chose food from street vendors we would eat in the car and watch a movie together, if we went to a restaurant, we would all indulge in South American food. No matter what restaurant we went to, I always ordered a medium-rare steak, and my brother chicken tenders with fries while my parents ordered a different plate each time.

My parents were the real reason we went out every Friday, they never wanted to stop trying new things together, food was one of the main things alongside movies and travel destinations. Any time

I was in their presence I felt their bond, their love, their connection. They knew how to bridge the space between their own world and ours, always making sure my brother and I were woven into the fabric of their lives.

Our dinner conversations were 昀‫؀‬lled with planning, rumination, and laughter. By the time we left, the muscles in my face would be sore from smiling, and my throat would be tired from laughing. At 昀‫؀‬rst, I thought I was getting sick, but it was just joy. Family bonding was a value engraved in my mind since my 昀‫؀‬rst birthday, not a time we were ever apart. ÒLetÕs thank God for the privilege of being together todayÓ, my father always uttered, and indeed we were reminded to be grateful, its easy to forget a moment when itÕs happening. After my father said his phrase at the table, we begun to feast. Although our conversation came to a pause so we could eat, my parents would share a portion of their food with us so we could try it. My brother stuck to his chicken tenders and so did I to my steak. No matter how many times we didnÕt take the food they continued to share.

One time my dad put a portion of fried pork skin on my plate, it looked completely foreign to me, and I was slightly repulsed. I took a bite and to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I asked for more and my dad offered me his entire plate. ÒAre you sure?Ó I asked.

He nodded, without any hesitation. My mother had the same plate, so they shared with each other.

At the end of our meal, I took the picture that would forever be engraved on a piece of metal stuck on a concrete slab in the ground.

After dinner we took walks around the neighborhood, nobody was around so it felt like we were in our own little world. Despite the sun resting and the owls sleeping, fatigue never took over me. All I cared about was being the moment with my parents and my brother. I knew every moment was special and that I should value them no matter where I was, so I did.

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Despite the pandemic, the morning of May 8th, 2020 started on a good note. I woke up to play with my little brother, pretending to be cops and criminals. Our parents had left to get us breakfast, our father returned to give us sandwiches, but he had to leave immediately after to check on work. He took a look around my messy room and told me to clean up, as he walked to the front door, my vision tunneled on him and time slowed down. He adjusted his hat making sure it wouldnÕt fall off, 昀‫؀‬xed his coat to get the wrinkles out, and walked out with his right foot stepping 昀‫؀‬rst. The waft of his cologne spread throughout the house as he closed the door.

Five hours later my mother came home, but alone. ÒWhere is dad?Ó I asked. ÒHeÕs coming soon,Ó she said while she was putting my dadÕs wallet and phone on the kitchen table. ÒDid you order pizza?Ó she asked me. ÒYeah, dad told me to order for us,Ó I replied.

Her eyes began to swell with tears, but she quickly turned around in order to hide them from me. She walked to the couch in her room and called me in. ÒThis is newÓ, I thought to myself, as I was never called in. At this point 10 minutes had passed since my mom walked in, but my dad hadnÕt come back yet. I sat down on the couch next to my mom and holding my baby brother on my lap.

There was a look on my motherÕs face. One I had never seen before. Her lips shaking, her eyes swollen, her cheeks twitching, and her eyebrows controlled by worry. It looked as if she wanted to bite her tongue and look away, almost as if she wanted to 昀‫؀‬inch away from this moment.

I asked her. ÒWhat happened?Ó. The look on her face intensi昀‫؀‬ed but she managed to say that my dad was in the hospital because he had a heart attack. ÒIs he okay now? What did the doctors say?Ó, I asked with a weight pulling down on my heart but with calmness, ready to reassure my mother that he would be okay. ÒThey did what they couldÉ but your dad isnÕt coming back.Ó, she replied. An exhale followed as if a weight had been lifted off her. The tears in her eyes 昀‫؀‬nally managed to escape and poured down her cheeks.

I was stripped of emotions, thoughts, and feelings, disbelief overwhelmed me. There was no conceivable reaction I could convey. ÒIs this a prank? Am I dreaming? This is not reality. There surely must be a twist. IÕll have to tell people I have no father. What do I do? What do I say?

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Do I cry?Ó, there was a maze I had to travel through in my mind to reach an appropriate reaction. For a couple seconds I didnÕt cry, I didnÕt feel sad, but I felt nothing.

Eventually the last question was answered and I decided to cry because it felt like the appropriate thing to do. My mother quickly wrapped her arm around me, we cried together. As she did, I let go of my brother, he immediately went to play with his dinosaurs and cars, he was 4. The thoughts of explaining to my brother that his dad will never come back came 昀‫؀‬ooding over me, could he even understand that?

My brother was the right age for this to happen.

Not too young to not know him but not old enough to be completely hurt by it. He cried for nights alongside us but he accepted the new reality faster than us. He went back to his old routines, but my mother and I were taking on new responsibilities.

My father used to shop for supplies, be the head cook at the store, and handle all the 昀‫؀‬nances. Now, it was up to my mother to take over his job on top of her previous responsibilities both at home and the store, everything was dropped on her plate to the point it couldÕve shattered. For nights on end, I heard her wailing in the hallway, calling out my fatherÕs name.

What could I do? What do I even say?

There were no more lights on this bridge, no other cars either. Swerving out of our lane into the waters below seemed like the most plausible occurrence. Mom had never driven a car, neither had I. I couldnÕt let my mom do all of this by herself, I offered take a portion of her responsibilities.

Reality forced itself into my life, commitments were now everywhere. School, home, sometimes even work when I pulled shifts to help my mom at the store, and being the main role model for my little brother.

My teen years slipped away in the course of a month.

Everything in my life was a complete shift. Home became a place where we simply just lived.

Sometimes the weather changes three times in a day, but its progressive. It starts sunny, then it slowly gets cloudy, and 昀‫؀‬nally the drizzle proceeded by the rain. For me, it started sunny with clear skies and a minute later hail 昀‫؀‬red down from the sky without any place to run for cover. Going from being the oldest brother to the big brother was out of my skillset, teaching life lessons to him was hypocritical. I changed as much as my life had.

Summer was at its peak, the sun was out, the weather was warm and comforting, and the world was enjoying it, not me though. My room became my world; turning on the light with a tap on my phone

was my way letting the sun come up. A month had come and gone since my father passed, my mother had started letting go but with strain on her heart, she had to, there was no one else to manage the store they ran.

My brother was not old enough to understand what happened, it was indifferent to him. I, on the other hand, still held on to this rope of grief despite my arm starting to detach from my body.

On the sunniest day of the summer, I shut my windows and closed my eyes. My headphones were at an armÕs length, so I grabbed them. Scrolling through my collection I saw my favorite song, ÒHey JudeÓ by The Beatles. The experience of listening to this song never changed, I was enthralled by PaulÕs vocals, the harmonies of John and George, and the gentleness of the drums. I had heard these lyrics countless times before, but this time they felt different. ÒHey JudeÉ the movement you need is on your shoulderÓ, Pau gently sung.

Strange words, ones I never really grasped but didnÕt need to. I just listened, let them linger. I looked up at the turned off lightbulb and the sunlight barely making it through my curtain. Maybe it wasnÕt about understanding. Maybe it was just about feeling something shift, even if only slightly, like a reminder or a nudge that didnÕt come with directions. The words sounded so ordinary, but something in them made me pause. Was it about action? Was it about weight? Who knows.

It didnÕt give me clarity, not really. There was no sudden answer or meaning. But as I lay there in my room, headphones on, curtains drawn, the lyric just stayed with me, just like so many things in life do.

Things that don9t need to be solved or 昀‫؀‬xed, just to be lived with. And somehow, that was enough. Enough to close my eyes again and trust that whatever movement was needed, whether big or small, it would come.

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.

My mother, my brother, and I sat for dinner that evening. ÒLetÕs thank God for the privilege of being together todayÓ, I said.

109

CHANTS, PINTS, & SCAMS: FOOTBALL TH

Jack Van Hecke

The Overground train ran express from Central London to South London through the frigid January air. It skipped stations of other periphery London neighborhoods because it only had one in mind. Every passenger that crammed the train had a shared destination: Selhurst Station. Every passenger had a shared objective: to partake in the widespread whirl of intensity that is the Premier League. Tonight, was Crystal Palace versus Manchester United.

for supporters to instigate deadly riots and ravage towns. It became such a problem that Red Devils were banned from attending their own matches in the mid-80sÑthe ban was issued by the team itself. Since then, the wreckage caused by football hooligans has diminishedÑno one has been throwing knives at their rivals latelyÑbut the potential for something mutinous to break out is on everyoneÕs mind and is never ruled out.

The train slowed and our station was announced. The crowdÑthe push ratherÑtrampled what had been a quaint, quiet station only moments earlier. I didnÕt know where the stadium wasÑ hell I didnÕt even have a ticket. It didnÕt matter that I didnÕt know where to go; there was nowhere to go but with the push. The streets were barricaded by metal blockades and police in neon vests with weird hats. Their sole purpose: to halt any wanderings out of sight and down side streets of dark family homes. Unexpectedly, chants burst from the depths of the Crystal Palace fanatics surrounding me. It was as if they could no longer contain their anticipation and excitement and the only thing that would satisfy their sensations was to roar. It was time to let Croydon know theyÕd entered; it was time to make their arrival felt by all.

Supporter cries were peaking as some began to shuf昀‫؀‬e through the gates. I was so enamored by the pre-match rituals that I forgot I didn9t have a ticket. I needed to 昀‫؀‬nd one, I needed to get into the match; the atmosphere had an inexplicable grip on me, and I craved the experience it offered.

Or maybe it was the pints. Whatever it may be, I knew I was experiencing a cultural phenomenon.

South! South! South! South London! rang through the streets.

Fans were spawning everywhere, and with their growth came the spawning of more copsÉand more pints. A lot more pints. Everywhere. The decibels of the chants grew as the pint consumption did. South London grew more and more electric with every fan, every shout, every lager. It became tangible; the electricity consumed every present soul and built with every minute that ticked off toward kickoff.

The verve arose radically when a haunting 昀‫؀‬eet of busses came teeming onto the grounds. Here come the Red DevilsÑ their words, not mine. Each wheeled behemoth made its way through the yelling crowds and lined up single 昀‫؀‬le along the 昀‫؀‬ooded streets. Hundreds of Manchester United fanatics engulfed those of Crystal Palace, screaming, Glory, Glory Man United! Glory, Glory Man United! As the Reds go marching ON, ON, ON! It became a dualling of chants, an unspoken competition to see who was more intimidating. The sea of supporters divided like oil and water. The pints kept 昀‫؀‬owing. The volume kept rising. The police surveilled acutely, for the Red Devils had a reputationÑmost Premier League supporters do for that matter. A few decades ago, football hooliganism was a calamitous problem in Europe. It was not uncommon

110

It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to jump on the train for the matchÑI hadnÕt planned for it really, but I couldnÕt spend another night dead stoned in a London pub.

My night prior had ended in one of LondonÕs many Prince of Wales pubs on the northern end. There I can remember giggling in the smallest bathroom IÕd ever been in with two elderly British lads, but I canÕt recall much else. I too remember being serenaded by a pretty Scottish lady seated at a piano. My brain spun fast, wide circles as it 昀‫؀‬nally found a pillowÑstill thinking about the Scottish splendor.

I circled the stadium looking for tickets. I dodged drunken Englishmen scar昀‫؀‬ng down take-out. I maneuvered my way through kids up to no goodÑprobably secretly drunken off their fathersÕ supply. I even saw a fox cross the street in the midst of all the chaosÑthatÕs not a lie or hallucinationÑa real fox. I was utterly stupe昀‫؀‬ed by my every surrounding; it enigmatically consumed my actions and thoughts.

I found two British lads standing near the concourse. One was rather tall and skinnyÑweÕll call him Bones. His friend was very short and very plumpÑweÕll call him Pudge. Bones shouted something about having tickets, so I approached.

Bones offered a price in pounds, and my American-dollaraccustomed brain did an inaccurate conversion. It was pricey, but I needed it. The police presence was too great for me to have con昀‫؀‬dence being on the jib (that9s British slang for sneaking in). I talked the man down to a price we agreed on and he presented the ticket. I skimmed the ticket for scams, to be sure I was getting a legitimate ticket. It looked right.

HE BRITISH WAY.

ÒYouÕre not trying to scam me, are you?Ó I asked him. Stupid question. ÒNo, no, I donÕt want in, you can have it,Ó Bones replied. We completed the transaction, and I took off for the gate.

I was quickly frisked by security to ensure I didnÕt have a shank on my person. I passed. I approached the ticketer where my ticket was denied. I looked at the ticket and only now did I realize I was scammed. I had bought a ticket for a game between Crystal Palace and Manchester United that happened 昀‫؀‬ve months earlier. My 昀‫؀‬rst thought was: You idiot, how did you overlook the date?! I guess I was blind from fervorÉ and one or two pints. My next thought was: I made that way too easy for Bones. He thinks IÕm some stupid yank.

I sprinted around the stadium scouring for my wanker scammer. I donÕt think I can say that since I am in fact some stupid Yank, but I was acting on pure, hooligan adrenaline that was omnipresent around and in me. I couldnÕt deny it, it was addicting, it was provocative. I didnÕt know what IÕd do when I found Bones, but I was getting that ticket if it were the last thing I did.

I was not to be made a fool.

I couldn9t 昀‫؀‬nd him anywhere. I ran around, frenzied, searching. Finally, I found Pudge. I ran directly toward him and shouted, ÒYo, you sold me a fake ticket,Ó I was close to Pudge, looking down on him with every ounce of intimidation I could muster from my unintimidating stature. ÒGive me the real one or IÕll make a scene. You told me this wasnÕt any shady shit.Ó Nearby police watched us, I could feel their eyes.

Pudge was confused, he seemed entirely unsure of what I was referring to. It became clear to me that Pudge didnÕt realize Bones was conning me. Pudge truly believed I had been given a legitimate ticket, so he was alarmed when I sprung on him in anger. ÒIÕm not trying to fookinÕ scam ya, mate!Ó He exclaimed. ÒMaybe not you, but your buddy sure as hell was! Where is he?Ó Pudge didnÕt know. ÒGive me the fucking ticket I paid for!Ó I barked.

3rd

I felt sorry for Pudge, but I was not about to lose many of my few remaining Pounds to BonesÕ easy scheme. Pudge began to realize IÕd do whatever it took to shake the ticket out of him. I now 昀‫؀‬rmly believed I9d do whatever it took to shake the ticket out of him. He couldnÕt runÑIÕd easily catch this out-of-prime hooligan. He was exactly that: an out-of-prime hooligan. And I was a wannabe hooliganÑa new hooligan who didnÕt know how to comprehend the energy of the atmosphere. This wasnÕt anything like American football. I could see him weighing his options. Twenty years ago, this man wouldÕve tried to put me in the dirt. But he saw the cops, he saw I was not going to let this go, and he saw he was in a losing battle. I had won the intimidation match. He gave me my ticket in defeat, and I sprinted, yet again, to my gate.

The match was as electric as its pre-match shenanigans. The chants never died out once, the fans continued their binging of howls and pints all ninety minutes. Crystal Palace scored an equalizing goal in extra time right before the 昀‫؀‬nal whistle.

Selhurst Stadium erupted like IÕve never seen a stadium erupt before, all for a draw. Fans rushed the 昀‫؀‬eld four different times throughout the match. Some were drunken idiots who wanted a story to tell, others were young kids who couldnÕt contain the euphoria of seeing their idols in front of them. It was magical, it was a human experience.

It carried onto the train as well. The entire ride back, a few Red Devils rocked violently with the movement along the rails; they chanted their slurred, unharmonious chorus, and drank deep, deep toward rapture.

I stopped in a pub once I was back in Central London to wash away some of the electricity still 昀‫؀‬owing through me.

As I left in search of a pillow, I stumbled past a small, scrawny man wearing a Tottenham jersey. His body swayed down the sidewalkÑunable to hold a straight line.

He sang his loyalty into the coldÑnow quietÑmidnight air: Tottenham till I die!

ThereÕs a puzzling ferity to English football. ItÕs a bewildering cultural phenomenon. Something is generated at every match that reverberates and courses through every present creature to form an addictive, chaotic, pure, and perfect human condition.

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F A Q 112

What is Encounters Magazine?

Encounters Magazine is Baruch CollegeÕs undergraduate student-run literary and arts magazine. We release two publications each year: a small zine in collaboration with Mishkin Gallery, BaruchÕs on campus art gallery, and a full length magazine each spring. All Baruch undergraduate students are welcome to submit their work (poetry, prose, photography, etc.) for consideration in either publication.

When are Meetings Held?

Encounters does not hold scheduled weekly meetings. Instead, we host and co-sponsor a variety of club events each semester. We aim to hold at least one General Interest Meeting (GIM) per semester where students can meet some of the staff and learn about submission guidelines and deadlines.

Additionally, we host two launch parties per year for our publication where attendees receive a copy of the new zine or magazine.

During the zine launch, attendees can also view the current exhibit displayed at the Mishkin Gallery and meet the curators.

During the spring issue launch, attendees can expect to meet Harman Writing Program members and contributors, and listen to readings from the members whose work is published by Encounters.

How Can I Become Involved?

Students often start by submitting their work for publication in order to become familiar with the submission evaluation process. They can also become general members by joining our Slack page through the link on our Instagram.

If you have a passion for arts and the magazine, and would like to be considered for an E-Board position, we would love to hear from you. We typically consider those who are general members for a semester or more, and/or those who have submitted pieces to us before.

Submission Guidelines and Criteria Art:

Writing:

Feature Submissions:

¥ Photography, graphic design, etc. ¥ Name your pieces ¥ No more than 25 pieces ¥ No .jpeg ¥ .png only

¥ Short stories, poetry, etc. ¥ Fiction and non昀‫؀‬ction ¥ Name your pieces ¥ .doc form only ¥ Max of 2,500 words ¥ No 昀‫؀‬le limit

¥ Includes both writing and art ¥ Demonstrates high levels of creativity and attention to detail

We look forward to receiving your submissions!

Where Can I Find More Information?

Website: encountersmagazine.org General Email: encountersbaruch@gmail.com Submission Email: submitencounters@gmail.com Instagram: @encountersmag Of昀‫؀‬ce: NVC 3-291 (Media Suite)

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Letter toStaff Dear Encounters Magazine, Perseverance in the face of adversity has been a recurring motif for us this year, and IÕd like to extend my deepest gratitude to each and every one of you for your optimism and innovation throughout it all. The day of our featured creators photoshoot, I felt hopeless Ð none of our props had been delivered and we discovered a miscommunication regarding the use of our chosen space.

My cheeks were 昀‫؀‬ushed as all eyes turned to me to resolve the situation. Had it not been for the astuteness of Aidan To and Christopher Clarke, we would not have been able to produce such thoughtful photography, let alone secure a location. It was a true group effort, drawing on the ingenuity of the team and exemplifying what it means to be a creative.

IÕd like to give special thanks to Patricia Prado, our president. Not only have I gained a colleague, but also a friend who inspires me to trust myself and the process, even when the outlook is bleak.

Patricia has led our team with grace, and her tenacity and dedication to the magazine has been pivotal. Without her vision and guidance, we would not have been able to uphold the growth and excellence instilled by her predecessor, Melani Bonilla.

For every step Patricia and I took, Anson Wong was two steps ahead, ensuring our 昀‫؀‬nancial success despite the many trials and tribulations we faced in paperwork and budget approval. Even with a delayed late start in the development of both Mosaics and our 2025 Spring Issue, Pearl LinÕs fastidious work on design and layout was instrumental in meeting our printing deadlines and shaping these publications.

To my fellow graduating staff members, I could not be prouder of the work we produced and the impact weÕve had on the arts community. Thank you for trusting me as your vice president. I look forward to seeing where your talents take you, as I know you will be successful. To those of you who will continue to be and those of you who will one day become the heart and soul of Encounters, I am 昀‫؀‬lled with nothing short of con昀‫؀‬dence that you will continue to strengthen Encounters Magazine and the community of artists within it. Never stop advocating for the arts and humanities, even as those in power try to sti昀‫؀‬e them. Let this year9s perseverance be a reminder that although all odds may be against you, creativity will prevail.

It has been my greatest pleasure continuing the legacy of Encounters Magazine. HereÕs to many more years 昀‫؀‬lled with bold publications, events, and contributors.

Sincerely,

Asia Gross Managing Editor

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BEHIND THE CURTAIN

116

Patricia Prado Editor-in-Chief

Asia Gross Managing Editor

Anson Wong Business Manager

Regina Martinez Secretary

Aidan To Media Manager

Pearl Lin Graphics Director

Andrew Zhu Media Staff

Tasmim Bushra Media Staff

Christopher Clarke Media Staff 117

Tha Y 118

ank You 119

Index

ROLL CALL 24 54 68 38,39 69 105 42 32-35 87 28,29 42,43 62,63 66,67 78 40,41 25 106 74 21 82,83 94,95 47 50,51 38 72

120

Arianna Xu

Brayan Guaman-Camas

Brianna Augustin Camille Tourdot Carol Chen Daisy Gomez

Daniel Jacobson Daniela Cordero Elma Radoncic Eric Gonzalez

Ethan Canter Ikroop Singh Isabella Doring

55 59 73 91 20 29 46 62 94 16 50,51 82 102-106 66 79 90 86 58 17 107 75

Khushi Gupta

Kyna Preap

Leila Junious

Michelle Mei Naomi Guerrier

Pranto Sami Sonia Tyburczy Stephanie Cruz-Lopez Zeynep Acka