Encounters 2025 by Encounters Magazine

Baruch College’s Art and Literary Publication Baruch Art and Literary Publication

Encounters Magazine

Hannah Czerwinski

Acknowledgments

Martina Tamayo

Jesse Kabongo

Brayan Guaman-Camas

Carol Chen

Daisy Gomez

Writing

Future Leila Junious

2025 Kyna Preap

You, Ruined Arianna Xu

yearning love Kyna Preap

Auditioning for Approval

Camille Tourdot

“After the Masked Ball”

Isabella Doring

Daniel Jacobson

Daniela Cordero

Elma Radoncic

Eric Gonzalez

Ethan Canter

Ikroop Singh

Khushi Gupta

Stephanie Cruz-Lopez

Zeynep Acka

“you’re that ‘nothing’ when people ask me what I’m thinking about”

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, He’s Aware, a Hypocrite Pranto Sami

When we Love Naomi Guerrier

blinding love Kyna Preap

‘Along Thy Velvet Corpse, Bare the Fangs of Mercy’

Michelle Mei

Acknowledgments CASTING

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

Damali Smith Tolson Director of Student Life

Jan Martinez

Assistant Director of Diversity, Equity & Inclusion

Natalie Otero Operations General Manager, Student Life

Yianice Nieves Operations Coordinator

Barbara Harman Executive Director of the Harman Family Foundation

Dinetta Curtis Deputy Director of Student Life

Stephen Palencia Assistant Director of Student Activities

Evelyn Almonte Community Engagement Manager, Student Life

Traci Espinet-Marquez Technology Specialist/ Webmaster

Esther Allen Harman Director

Margaret Van-Ess Holman

Assistant Director of Leadership Development

Richard Suarez Associate Director of Operations

Julia Skarzynska

Of昀؀ce Manager, Student Life

Pat Berger Budget Specialist

Julia Shi 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 Editor-in-Chief

Anson Wong Business Manager

Aidan To Media Manager

Asia Gross Managing Editor

Regina Martinez Secretary

Pearl Lin Graphics Director

Media Staff

Andrew Zhu

Tasmim Bushra

Tyler Chan Creators

Martina Tamayo

Jesse Kabongo

Hannah Czerwinski

Dear Reader,

Letter toReader

Welcome to our 2025 issue! We combined Old Hollywood’s 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 Baruch’s 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. It’s 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 you’ve been putting off—whether out of fear of judgment or self-doubt—is closer than you think. Take that step, embrace your individuality, and let your art speak for itself. Whether it’s 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

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 America—Old Hollywood. We drew inspiration from the greats of Old Hollywood—Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Audrey Hepburn—and the timeless ambiance that enriched the “Golden Age of Hollywood.” The effortless black-and-white elegance, the feathered shawls, gloves, and pearls—all represent the iconic vintage glamour we’ve brought to the creative energy thriving at Baruch.

Our featured creators—Martina Tamayo, Jesse Kabongo, and Hannah Czerwinski—embody the spirit of creativity and dedication. You’ll 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 inspire—artists who bring emotion to life and turn imagination into reality.

Future

Leila Junious

Hands shaking hands sweating

I’m 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

Stephanie Cruz-Lopez

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 there’s still nothing on my trophy shelves.

It’s a new year that I don’t 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 can’t even open my eyes to see how I survived

2024 with all its misery

Hopefully, 2025 will be a good mystery.

Eric Gonzalez

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 then His friends dug themselves inside his brain and ate it like worms

Daniela

yearning love

Kyna Preap

You know, I still think about you in this dreary weather.

If you’re okay. If I hurt you in any way.

If you’re mad at me. If you hate me.

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

I’m sorry. That’s 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.

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, she’d be commenting on how greasy and fatty everything was. And while we couldn’t 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 “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” 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 player’s performance with you until our eyelids drooped, and we fell into oblivion.

When we started middle school, we joined our school’s softball teams as pitchers, shortstops, second basemen, and catchers. Some of us didn’t 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 don’t cry. A few of us didn’t talk to you for a week until our mothers coaxed us into apologizing. Reagan, I’m only telling you this so you don’t 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 everything—dancing, cheerleading, softball, and singing—while 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,addinghowyouandMomwerealwaysonourbacksaboutgrades.Someofusjokinglycomplainedabout 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.

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, “You’re beautiful.”

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 didn’t 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.

We are not our college professors’ 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 Roderick’s 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 isn’t 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, it’s subversive.”

But when we tell you about Professor Roderick’s praise and our recent “A” 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 didn’t 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 don’t leave your mouth are subservient and demure. You don’t 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 Roderick’s 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.

“I’m not going to lie, I don’t like how you look.”

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.

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 you’re 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, “You remind me of my father” 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 can’t do this anymore. We have hurt them too much and so, in our faux apathy, we push the knife deeper one last time declaring, “My father left me, so this is no different.”

Sometimes they stay with us out of fear; they don’t want to mirror their fathers. They want to be dependable and loving fathers, something they too lacked in their childhood. They don’t want to force their sons to join sports teams as a way to live vicariously through them. They don’t 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 don’t 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 “hateable”. Our binary thinking shields us from reality, a truth in昀؀nitely more painful that some of us cannot yet swallow; they just don’t care. We aren’t 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 therapist’s insistence, papa, we cannot cast you away from our hearts.

“After

the Masked Ball”

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

what’s 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 I’ll jump for joy

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 didn’t even call I should really stop 昀؀shing with a trawl still young and naïve is it the boys who deceive, lost in make believe, or a self-ful昀؀lling prophecy that leaves my fairytale to unweave.

Daniel Jacobson

“you’re that ‘nothing’ when people ask me what I’m 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 “nothing” 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. You’re 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 “nothing.” You’re the silent poetry.

thinking about”

Daisy Gomez

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 can’t even think of a word to end this stanza, so now it sounds really awkward and I’m 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, that’s funny!

You can’t even think of a good word to rhyme with funny.

What is poetry anyway? Isn’t it just a bunch of words that sound good together even if it’s just…

“The hare is hopping, Why don’t we go shopping!?”

Poetry is supposed to be simple, easy, and meaningful but How can that be?

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 can’t 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

Clicking for a shot of your beauty

Orange, Red Rust

These colors are showing your weakening

Slump

Clinging for life

You’ll be back soon

GONE

There’s 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

Golden Hour

Arianna Xu

The days get longer when I am with you Nothing I’ve known ever prepared me for this

The slanting rays of the setting sun illuminates your features

I begin to think the sun has created you in its likeness

(it is the golden hour)

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 haven’t heard before and don’t dare to dream

I’ve 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

(at least on my own)

Khushi Gupta

Lithium-7

Sonia Tyburczy

what was, what wasn’t and what could have been. a bleeding heart’s last beat as the world goes thump, thump and falls senselessly into darkness once again.

to exist, for a moment in your embrace— a love born of longing for an end to emptiness. now, alone again, a drop of ichor rolls down the red giant’s face and falls senselessly into darkness once again.

burning brie昀؀y light swirling threads tangling pulling down a whisper, what was, what wasn’t and what could have been.

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 wouldn’t 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.

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, we’ve 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 you’re intertwined in my mind

Now tell me

On which day did you teach me that living can be so warm

So kind

Daisy Gomez

Conversation 17

Arianna Xu

Am I?

I feel like I’m pretending to be something someone I’m not someone dead

For months, I’ve been forcing the past into the future, making time nauseous vomiting up things that should remain as memory I’m pulling out time’s intestines from the mouth I’m messing with it

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

I’m glad to see you are… some remnant of who you used to be

Is time sentient?

Time is nauseous. Maybe aren’t you tired? you are controlled by something so in tan gi ble ? Don’t you want to take back your life?

I’m pulling out time’s intestines from the mouth There is blood on my hands

Brayan Guaman-Camas

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 man’s world the same whose gripping hands stripped away

the very essence this woman now scours for found in lost pieces I’m missing from the girl, wishing

Khushi Gupta

Elma Radoncic

These Gilded Souls

Starring Jesse Kabongo as NickCarraway

Zeynep Acka

Mondays

Naomi Guerrier

She never hated Mondays. But this week, she learned that the sickening feeling she’d been getting for years had actually clogged up her father’s 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. She’d 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. She’d spend hours thinking that something had to be wrong with her father. That he didn’t 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 didn’t 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. She’d 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, she’d get the guts to sloppily fold up his shirts and sweaters again, obviously misplacing them while making a mental note of which ones she’d 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 doesn’t 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 can’t 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?

Loner

Leila Junious

loner wishing for a friendship wishing wanting somebody to call my lover I want to be set free Loner Why can’t 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

Eric Gonzalez

Note: (/full stops ‘ . ’ /qms ‘ ? ’ /blanks ‘ ’) are intended to represent a few particular meanings. It is recommended to not follow those 3 punctuations for reading tempo.

His Self, He’s 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.

It’s 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

It’s 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.

Carol Chen

When We Love

Naomi Guerrier

We’re 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 soil’s become jealous of our connection

I think I found my soul in you

We’re lost somewhere deep in the wilderness

Coupled with plants and trees

Earth’s most natural born protectors feast on our love

They tug at our edges

Claw at our skin

Somewhere, they’ve used us to balance the dirt

Another has decomposed peacefully, simply because our care surrounds them

We whisper sweet everythings into each other’s bloodstreams

You sink into my veins

My body is 昀؀nally walking

Carefree and deliberately

I’ve 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

We’ve built each other

Houses and minds start to seem the same

I am molded by your presence

Watch me bloom with each touch

We’ve found peace in the dust covered corners

Now timelessly fond of each other

Carefully devoted to one another

I could live off of what we’ve become

And I want to live off of what we are to be

Khushi Gupta

blinding love

Kyna Preap

I catch him staring at me as if he’s 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 can’t be, It won’t be, It’s too risky.

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

With his sparkling eyes and kind personality, I can’t 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.

‘ALONG THY VELVET CORPSE, BARE THE FANGS OF MERCY’

Michelle Mei

“ 1 “

Marcille has begun twaddling at dusk, moaning amidst her sleep only to scramble awake in the crack of morning’s rise. Jonathan could not humour the sleeping bugs either– 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 doors– that was our rule. Don’t ponder, only hearken forth the truth. For that, you shall be liberated.

“ 1.5 “

1849, 30 days

Aye! It was surely under my control. I told Marcille that she wouldn’t 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 don’t 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 shack– 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!

1849, quarter past noon

It is not my fault, I was simply doing my duty. It is not my fault. -0

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

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 shattered– 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 one’s 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 beast– no, not even. It is much more sinister; it is surely a monster.

“ 3 “

O, night heed my cries

O, night it was foretold!

O, night salvation arrives,

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

“ 4 “

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 property’s previous owner had met death tragically– the murmurs of the town say that the poor fellow would cry out after the chickens fell into sleep– 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 chamber– 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 his–’Marcille, marcille!’ 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.

“ 5 “

The banging! The banging– it won’t 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 blood– 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.

“ 6 “

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.

These Gilded Souls

Starring Hannah Czerwinski as Daisy Buchanan

Zeynep Acka

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.

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 ofthe21stcenturyman’ssexualpreferences,regardless of his position as the gravitational pull around which we orbit. Despite this, every decade or two we polish it toachrome昀؀nishandholditupforalltomarvel.Those who grew up in the 90’s – where a woman’s thighs were to be sending alimony payments across state lines and a size six celebrity was a scandal proportionate to Watergate– 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 thesewaresasapathtoachievingtheir昀؀awlessimages.

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 one’s 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 manufacturedimageliveson,detachedfromrealityand 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

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 “tradwife” 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 “lows” of 20th century world history, such racial hierarchies may be familiar), and encouraging others to “looksmax,” 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 – and walk out the front door without fear of judgment. Simple, right?

Now, on paper this may seem like a readily achievableexistence.Itshouldnotbeanactofde昀؀ance. Inpractice,everypressureIhavedetailedisanobstacle, 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.

2nd

Hey Jude

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 father’s 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 “Hey Jude”. The title glowed at me as if it was meant to be played.

“Who’s Jude?” I wondered, then hit play. I listened and was enthralled by Paul’s 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 bondingwasavalueengravedinmymindsincemy昀؀rst birthday, not a time we were ever apart. “Let’s thank God for the privilege of being together today”, my father always uttered, and indeed we were reminded to be grateful, its easy to forget a moment when it’s 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 didn’t 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.

“Are you sure?” 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.

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 messyroomandtoldmetocleanup,ashewalkedtothe front door, my vision tunneled on him and time slowed down. He adjusted his hat making sure it wouldn’t 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.

“Where is dad?” I asked.

“He’s coming soon,” she said while she was putting my dad’s wallet and phone on the kitchen table.

“Did you order pizza?” she asked me.

“Yeah, dad told me to order for us,” 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.

“This is new”, 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 hadn’t come back yet. I sat down on the couch next to my mom and holding my baby brother on my lap.

Therewasalookonmymother’sface.OneIhad 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. “What happened?”. 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.

“Is he okay now? What did the doctors say?”, I asked with a weight pulling down on my heart but with calmness, ready to reassure my mother that he would be okay.

“They did what they could… but your dad isn’t coming back.”, she replied. An exhale followed as if a weight had been lifted off her. The tears in her eyes 昀؀nallymanagedtoescapeandpoureddownhercheeks. I was stripped of emotions, thoughts, and feelings, disbelief overwhelmed me. There was no conceivable reaction I could convey.

“Is this a prank? Am I dreaming? This is not reality. There surely must be a twist. I’ll have to tell people I have no father. What do I do? What do I say?

Do I cry?”, there was a maze I had to travel through in my mind to reach an appropriate reaction. For a couple seconds I didn’t cry, I didn’t 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?

Mybrotherwastherightageforthistohappen. 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.

Myfatherusedtoshopforsupplies,bethehead 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 could’ve shattered. For nights on end, I heard her wailing in the hallway, calling out my father’s 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 couldn’t 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 arm’s length, so I grabbed them. Scrolling through my collection I saw my favorite song, “Hey Jude” by The Beatles. The experience of listening to this song never changed, I was enthralled by Paul’s 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.

“Hey Jude… the movement you need is on your shoulder”, Pau gently sung.

Strange words, ones I never really grasped but didn’t 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 wasn’t about understanding. Maybe it was just about feeling something shift, even if only slightly, like a reminder or a nudge that didn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“Let’s thank God for the privilege of being together today”, I said.

CHANTS, PINTS, & SCAMS: FOOTBALL THE

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 onlyhadoneinmind.Everypassengerthatcrammedthetrain 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.

The train slowed and our station was announced. The crowd—the push rather—trampled what had been a quaint, quiet station only moments earlier. I didn’t know where the stadium was— hell I didn’t even have a ticket. It didn’t matter that I didn’t 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 they’d entered; it was time to make their arrival felt by all.

South! South! South! South London! rang through the streets. Fans were spawning everywhere, and with their growth came the spawning of more cops…and 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 Devils— 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 reputation—most Premier League supporters do for that matter. A few decades ago, football hooliganism was a calamitous problem in Europe. It was not uncommon

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-80s—the ban was issued by the team itself. Since then, the wreckage caused by football hooligans has diminished—no one has been throwing knives at their rivals lately—but the potential for something mutinous to break out is on everyone’s mind and is never ruled out.

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.

It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to jump on the train for the match—I hadn’t planned for it really, but I couldn’t spend another night dead stoned in a London pub. My night prior had ended in one of London’s many Prince of Wales pubs on the northern end. There I can remember giggling in the smallest bathroom I’d ever been in with two elderly British lads, but I can’t 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 pillow—still 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 good—probably secretly drunken off their fathers’ supply. I even saw a fox cross the street in the midst of all the chaos—that’s not a lie or hallucination—a 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 skinny—we’ll call him Bones. His friend was very short and very plump—we’ll call him Pudge. Bones shouted something about having tickets, so I approached.

Bones offered a price in pounds, and my American-dollaraccustomedbraindidaninaccurateconversion.Itwaspricey, 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.

THE BRITISH WAY. 3rd

“You’re not trying to scam me, are you?” I asked him. Stupid question.

“No, no, I don’t want in, you can have it,” Bones replied. We completed the transaction, and I took off for the gate.

I was quickly frisked by security to ensure I didn’t 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 fervor… and one or two pints. My next thought was: I made that way too easy for Bones. He thinks I’m some stupid yank.

I sprinted around the stadium scouring for my wanker scammer. I don’t 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 couldn’t deny it, it was addicting, it was provocative. I didn’t know what I’d 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, “Yo, you sold me a fake ticket,” I was close to Pudge, looking down on him with every ounce of intimidation I could muster from my unintimidating stature. “Give me the real one or I’ll make a scene. You told me this wasn’t any shady shit.” 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 didn’t 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.

“I’m not trying to fookin’ scam ya, mate!” He exclaimed.

“Maybe not you, but your buddy sure as hell was! Where is he?” Pudge didn’t know. “Give me the fucking ticket I paid for!” I barked.

I felt sorry for Pudge, but I was not about to lose many of my few remaining Pounds to Bones’ easy scheme. Pudge began to realize I’d 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 couldn’t run—I’d easily catch this out-of-prime hooligan. He was exactly that: an out-of-prime hooligan. And I was a wannabe hooligan—a new hooligan who didn’t know how to comprehend the energy of the atmosphere. This wasn’t anything like American football. I could see him weighing his options. Twenty years ago, this man would’ve 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. SelhurstStadiumeruptedlikeI’veneverseenastadiumerupt 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 couldn’t 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. AsIleftinsearchofapillow,Istumbledpastasmall,scrawny man wearing a Tottenham jersey. His body swayed down the sidewalk—unable to hold a straight line.

He sang his loyalty into the cold—now quiet—midnight air: Tottenham till I die!

There’sapuzzlingferitytoEnglishfootball.It’sabewildering 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.

QAFWhat is Encounters Magazine?

Encounters Magazine is Baruch College’s undergraduate student-run literary and arts magazine. We release two publications each year: a small zine in collaboration with Mishkin Gallery, Baruch’s 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.

Art:

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

• Photography, graphic design, etc.

• Name your pieces

• No more than 25 pieces

• No .jpeg

• .png only

Writing:

• Short stories, poetry, etc.

• Fiction and non昀؀ction

• Name your pieces

• .doc form only

• Max of 2,500 words

• No 昀؀le limit

Feature Submissions:

• 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)

Letter toStaff

Dear Encounters Magazine,

Perseverance in the face of adversity has been a recurring motif for us this year, and I’d 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 – 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.

I’d 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 Lin’s 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 we’ve 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. Here’s to many more years 昀؀lled with bold publications, events, and contributors.

Sincerely,