Untold Magazine | Fall 2023

Letter from

Thank you so much for taking the time to read our magazine! We have put in a lot of time and energy to create something memorable for all of you. This semester’s theme is “Belongings,” because all of us belong somewhere. We all have belongings that make us feel at home. This issue is also super important because it is the last issue of Untold I’ll ever be a part of— Untold made me feel like I belong.

Thank you for taking the time to read Untold and I hope you enjoy it as much as we do!

Table of Contents ***

return to owner

Hodo Mohamed ...p 4

Ruminations of an Old Friend

Josh Sedarski ...p 6

Captain’s Log

Sophie Rapacz ...p 7

The Thing Once Hidden

Abbie Sundich ...p 8

Least Favorite Synonym

Kivi Weeks ...p 10

Gig Day

Max Ridenour ...p 12

in a room of cis people

Cameron Stockwell ...p 16

The Fool

Jinda Lon ...p 18

Shape Shifting

Montana Miller ...p 19

It feels nice to belong, y’know?

Aiden Lewald ...p 14

Finding Home

Paloma Gomez ...p 20

return to owner

1, somali dictionary

grandmother’s name signed, mother’s name a dedicated line, my name unwritten– the inheritor pieces together broken sentences in her supposed mother tongue, sitting next to her mother who needs an interpreter. how could this belonging be relinquished by an owner who cannot even read it– a daughter who understands but cannot speak; who hears but cannot respond?

“she needs a second dose of english,” but i am practically drowning in it, cup overflowing, giving my mom the remnants of the lessons. clinging onto illustrations, searching page by page for the words to explain this feeling,

staring in silence, silence has meaning.

2, tea

pestle-crushing cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, kettle boiling, singing, i can hear them calling: conversations hang in the air, warmth, the smell pulling individuals into community, comforting those who remember– i grasp onto whispers of a land that senses a familiar face but a stranger’s name.

Hodo Mohamed

3, face mask staring at the mirror into eyes that have been passed down– that had seen the red sea and stars dance, weaving mountains greeting the blanketing sky, the faces of grandfathers i never got to meet, a home that has been called home for generations, but all I do is lather and stare,

qasil and honey, step-by-step, repetition, secondhand actions done by a pretender who wants to be real, who dares–

4, lineage –to try and claim names upon names, my lineage spelled out within eight– but all i could do was smile at my eighth great-grandfather, a barrier greater than time between us. holding my grandmother’s dictionary, i would gently place it in his hands, hoping that silence could miraculously speak.

5, _______

how many used memories, broken sentences, and mistranslated proverbs can i hold in my head to deliver to the ones who come after me– can i truly tell them about a place, a time, i have never existed in, but have lived in all my life?

Ruminations of an Old Friend Josh Sedarski

Awash with the effervescence of first breath, your senses activate: A silky blanket cools your skin, a warm embrace comforts your shrill cries. You and I meet shortly after; I preside over your nursery as a golem over a Great treasure. My earthen-colored tufts of fur gleam with pride in their station. I stand on rounded fours, always your zealous knight defending your dreams.

–

I’m so much bigger in your imagination; a howling creature sweeping away your enemies, A beast of burden carrying your wonder atop my back. One day I think you will leave me Behind, but here and now we play together among the wildflowers of the meadow; Your image shines in the dark glass beads of my eyes.

–

While neither of us is immune to the ravages of time, your tenderness stays The decay of my aging flesh, brought upon me by the boundless amity of youth. Each scar, each tear a treasure; my thinning fabric which sheds my fur, a mark of pride.

What a gift it’s been! All these long years spent at your side in every adventure, Whether to faraway lands with magic forests and epic quests, or sitting on our backs

In the cool summer grass listening to the wind dance in the trees; the memories A comfort to me as I fade in your memory.

–

Though it’s been a long time since you’ve needed me, I am always at your guard. From dusty storage boxes sealed far away in your closet or the vaults of your memory, I project my shade to defend you in the darkness. Even as you drift far away in an ocean of troubles–your castle under siege by the Folly of age–all I ask is for you to think of me, and to dream.

Captain's Log

Sophie Rapacz

The Thing Once Hidden

Abbie Sundich Onc

The thing once hidden has a purpose It does, completely, absolutely have one I tell myself,

Again And Again

As reassurance, yes.

It’s sturdy, more so than any horse.

Though I cannot ride a horse, or any noble steed.

In terms of society’s expectations, I can’t Thrive, can’t breathe

Can’t do sports...

Can’t function without poppin’ that sweet burning pill that Calms my heart rate

And my Hyper-active, constantly sweating Flesh

And I still scream

Because the doors are too heavy, like thundering domes

And the elevator breaks every Tuesday afternoon

And I can’t hold a plate without my hands puffin’ up like Spongebob.

But I look “normal” so

Who sees me screaming and clutching my head

Buried under the covers in my apartment

But despite all that

The thing once hidden is still there, ever present at the edges of my vision

Well, to be frank

It’s more than one

It’s three actually, a trio.

One of the things once hidden is completely black, an obsidian stick

Pulled from a dusty bin at Goodwill

The grip is too slippery.

The second is splattered with autumn tinted cats

But I don’t like the curve of the handle.

I call it the second thing but I actually ordered it first.

The third is the best, I think.

It’s purple, my favorite color, and peppered with flowers

It has a grip on the bottom, and Doesn’t curve at all.

I like to say it has the best of both worlds.

I call these things once hidden because I hid them in my room I took them with me

From house to house, apartment to apartment, street to street Gripped steadily onto them in the middle of the night with trembling wrists.

But I was scared.

“You’re so young” I often hear. My ears burn and rattle. I can’t escape eyes. Or doctors who rattle and prattle about “anxious women”

But the things once hidden are no longer hidden. It’s funny to think it was bingo that did it, and a desire for stability I grabbed the purple staff, felt the smoothness of the handle

Considered how it could support me.

I started walking.

artist statement:

Least Favorite Synonym

“Thanks to Mikaela Winters,@timetravel _ mkaelaoninstagram,forhelpingto inspire this piece. We were discussing synonymsforvaginaandIbroughtupthe term ‘special fower, ’ and she responded “EWW.I am noman’sgarden. ”Andthus my work was born.

I highlyrecommendgoingandlookingat Mikaela’s artwork. ”

Kivi Weeks

Gig Day Max Ridenour

It begins in a basement.

February has just started. The “spring” semester has shuddered to life, and I have recently returned from my first and only trip overseas. The slow pulse of Minnesotan midwinter seems, by comparison, dull. And so I keep my social satellite dish aimed at the sky, seeking things to do. A poster circulates through Instagram screenshots, advertising a collection of three band names against a background of dizzy digital spirals. The name of a house venue is given- when I message the account that shared the poster, they respond with an address, copied and pasted neatly, distributed only to those who are deemed trustworthy community members. I mentally note the event details, and ask a small group of trusted friends if they would care to accompany me.

And so the night comes, and I scan in the dark down the frigid block until I find the one house that has a clot of people amassed outside the front door, emitting plumes of breath. I find my place in the amorphous line and we begin to file in. We shed our winter gear; our coats are wrapped around our waists, slung over our shoulders. My friends await downstairs. As I make my way to the basement, I notice that the party has clearly started for much of the present company. Smokes are traded through blushing hands on the front porch or out in the yard, an exchange of temporary chill for a lasting bodily warmth. I shuffle downstairs and the first thumps of the kick drum begin to ring out, signaling the show’s imminent commencement. I toss my folded jacket next to the boiler, which I am crammed up against, and duck to avoid the low ceiling. Inside, energy jumps between bodies, shuddering. The cold has condensed us into gleaming beings of pure heat, gathered in mockery of the harsh and dragging season. Slowly, the energy shifts towards the front. Music is beginning to take form.

The first group is a patchwork of memorable appearances: the guitarist’s low-hanging earrings sway, suspended beneath his buzzcut, as the singer’s face contorts to accommodate the notes that are flowing into the microphone like plasma. The drummer is shrouded behind a plume of somehow pristine, snow-blond hair, and the bassist (who I later learn is a Hamline alum) smiles and plucks away slyly at their strings, contributing deep tones to the jangling melody.

I am immediately and religiously transfixed.

The band plays four songs– the only four songs they have written at the time– and we’re all left stunned in a mirage of sweat, string lights, and auditory sublimation.

The night continues in this manner. Two more acts follow suit, lacing frantic, thrashing punk with melodic incantations. I eventually leave the show transformed; sweaty, sore, and beaming with glee, my hair gnarled and matted, my clothes drenched. On the way out, I exchange the few damp dollars left in my wallet for a band sticker. I later come to see the person with whom I made the exchange, who exhaled a “thank you” from behind an exertion-warmed smile, as a bastion of personable positivity for Twin Cities queer punks, and I will come to view them as an enormous creative inspiration, all in due time. For now, and perhaps most essentially, we are simply two people joined in the same scrappy joy.

What has happened in this basement on this night was nothing short of a miracle, a show of endurance against the blinding winter and the constant institutional phlegm that tries to drag us under and keep us apart. It was a night of transcendental warmth and energy. I still feel warm every time I walk past that house.

Music in all its forms is certainly not a new passion of mine, and this wasn’t my first house show. However, it served as the first domino in a rapidly tumbling chain that sent me bowling headfirst into my city’s local music scene, both as a fan and participant. The effect was comparable to peering into a new dimension, witnessing a teeming world of fluorescent life that has always existed around you but has suddenly made itself visible, and knowing without a doubt that this ecstatic world is where you were meant to be all along.

I’d consider myself a visual artist first and foremost. “Musician” is a label that I’m still breaking in, and it only really began to enter my mind when I started learning to play the drums towards the end of high school. My dad is a drummer, and so I’ve been within two floors of a kit for most of my life, but that world was a mystical inaccessible zone to me for the majority of that time. I’d simply sit back and let myself be enchanted by the dynamism of the rhythm, the physicality of the sound that would bounce through the floors and rattle around my ribcage.

Once I started spending my afternoons teaching myself basic grooves, my more musically-inclined friends and I soon began to form into what could loosely be considered a “band.” We’d meet up after school and hammer on our instruments, sometimes managing to piece fragmented melodies together, learning to synchronize our sound. Our nameless assembly gradually gained definition until it was bluntly cut short, along with my senior year, by multiple forms of global reckoning. From then on, I practiced drums alone in the basement, humming the missing melodies.

A huge slew of life changes followed suit. I moved away for college, and even as Covid case frequencies began to ebb, the discombobulated schedules and life directions of my friends meant jam sessions in the basement of my childhood home became extremely few and far between. What it eventually took was a rental house, a set of drums I could call my own, and the induction of a new bandmate through a chance concert encounter to finally get the ball rolling again.

We found ourselves in a basement once more. As if imbued with the surely hazardous mildew that haunted the concrete, our sound began to erupt in a strain of sprawling, cacophonous noise, stringing into echoing and gibbering melodies that picked up more mass every time we gathered. Honoring our band’s original subterranean point of conception, our name came from a road sign which hung just outside the laundry room that held our high-school-era assemblage of instruments: “Speed Limit 5.”

A few months later, winter’s teeth finally begin to relent. It is April, a month of forgiveness, and the band has been meaningfully coagulating in the dank sublime underneath my home. Our first gig is in the books.

Unlike my younger self’s visions of strained emails between managers and venues, it’s an extremely DIY matter. I reach out to a group of artists who I have some form of personal connection with, plan a date, distribute a flier far and wide, and the pieces fall into place. Our ragtag event is hosted under a plastic tent, in the backyard of a Minneapolis punk matriarch and longtime family friend.

The whole night is ritualistic. Some thin spiritual veil simmers in the air, as the crowd’s attention is severed from the gentle croons of the first act and is instead transfixed on a dying squirrel suspended from a tree overhead. Its front legs grasp with fiery vigor to reach for an ever-higher branch, as its back legs dangle uselessly. Throughout each of the four acts, which gradually darken in sonic composition with the setting of the sun, our attention is constantly split between the stage and the naked branches. At the start of our new cycle, we are reminded of another’s end.

Light drizzle begins to fall. The fate of the evening is temporarily threatened, but then the precipitation relents, and all is well. In a sudden moment of truth, our band is up next.

The crowd’s chatter dims into a murmur. The backyard is maroon, cut by onyx night. I fumble to plug in a lamp, retrieved from indoors, in an attempt to shed some light on our gangly, hirsute forms. Each of our foreheads is marked with a watery number 5, scrawled by the finger of the evening’s final performer who dons signature ghoulish face paint for every show. Our hearts thrum in accordance with the feedback. We introduce ourselves, announce our debut to the night, and then words fail– there is only music.

There is no electricity like the act of a first performance. The songs just explode their way out, our four dynamite beats, bouncing across the taut heads of the toms and ricocheting across the cymbals’ gleam to go sparkling into the crowd, compounding, entering so many sets of ears.

Each head nod, each flow of a moving human form, felt to me as much of a raw satisfaction as drawing a breath. I was entirely my body, just muscle and motion, my personhood contained in each kick and crash.

It’s impossible to take back what happened that night. In an instant, my whole life was swept up into a secret realm of underground joy. My months started to fill up with shows, and I began to dabble between multiple projects, wanting only to add my noise and my presence to the writhing creativity of Twin Cities DIY music. Here, artistic efforts echo and expand, a huge superorganism, a moshpit-adjacent mess of limbs endlessly feeling and being and doing. Even in the face of terror, when seven people were shot in a moment of unthinking hatred while attending a backyard show over the summer, we work to mend and support one another, to fight for collective prosperity in a world that tries to tear us from each other. In the past year I have screamed my heart out, crawled across the floor, thrown my hair into my face and my body into human knots, and truly felt a new and vivid form of belonging more than I ever have before.

It feels nice to belong,

y'know? Aiden Lewald

artist statement

:

I have been transitioning for almost six years now. Sometime in late January will mark that anniversary, which is crazy to think about. Coming out at thirteen meant that I spent most of my formative years comparing myself to the men around me, and honestly, nineteen-year-old me still does.

Yet, I have never been more confident in myself.

Maybe it is the fact that I’ve been medically transitioning for almost two years, or the fact that my skin is clearer than it has ever been, or it could even be that I’m finally becoming comfortable in my style and finally dressing how I have always wanted to, but I am the happiest I have ever been.

This piece is a physical representation of these emotions. I was my model for the main piece, while the background pieces were taken from various online models and movie stills that gave me a sense of gender envy. Of course, I am not a pessimist and I like to see the good in things, but even I cannot help the jealousy and anger that arises in me when I find myself watching men who fit society’s perception of masculinity.

I wanted to use this painting as an outlet for that emotion while demonstrating how, for the first time in years, I finally feel like I am beginning to fit in. I am starting to belong, not only in my own body but in the world around me. I no longer feel like I am sticking out like a sore thumb wherever I go, and instead feel like I am blending into the crowd.

in a room of cis people

Cameron Stockwell

i am the trans person in a room of cis people.

i am almost always the only trans person in a room of cis people. i am asked to speak, then told to shut up. i am asked my opinion, then told it is not valid. they think it might interest me to be reminded constantly that my rights are being taken away and that i have nowhere to escape.

i am the trans person in a room of cis people, and i am so incredibly tired of it.

i am tired of having to appease the cis mind. of having to bite my tongue. of having to remind others of my pronouns–of them never using them.

i am the trans person in a room of cis people, i am now filled with a rage i used to not feel. rage from being fetishized, rage from being ostracized, rage from being told i am not enough...

i am the trans person in a room of cis people, and i am begging, pleading to you, to please just stop.

i am the trans person in a room of cis people, and i don’t want to die, but you are killing my soul, every time i leave the house another blow. over and over, i don’t think i can take it any more.

i am the trans person in a room of cis people, i wish to be alone.

The Fool Jinda Lon

My family has always used regular playing cards to tell fortunes, and they’re so comforted in the idea that these cards confirm that they are on the right path. My grandma uses them to reassure my mother that she is making the right choice in her career, so she feels secure and no longer afraid. After reading, the sense of confidence and self-assurance my mother feels is why I love divination.

I took the Tarot of the Divine set out of the box. This deck has always been the most serious out of all my decks, I trust the cards to give me a clear answer. 3 thunks sound out as I knock the cards three times, starting at the tarot spread I found on Pinterest. My Waning Gibbous Moon reading, upright: The Star, Knight of Cups, Four of Swords, Eight of Coins, Knight of Wands. Reversed: Eight of Swords. To sum up the reading, I’m scared. This is my first work to ever be featured in something big. A literary magazine where a bunch of my peers will be able to see my work and that’s terrifying. This piece will go through editing, but I will be seen through many eyes and experiences.

The solution I must find is laid out in the Eight of Coins. I need to find my ambition and learn why I want to publish this piece, but deep down I already know. To get my foot into the publishing industry, I must start somewhere. Hamline’s literary magazine isn’t small, but the other one “Water~Stone Review” doesn’t accept undergrad stories and I’m always missing the deadline for other literary magazines. This is the best choice for me because I can add this to a writing portfolio, I can show others that they can take a chance on me.

I went to Spencer’s almost every day after school; The Rosedale Mall doesn’t have many interesting stores to go into other than Zumiez. I had been staring at the box for a while. I was wandering the aisles, weaving through 80s horror movie T-shirts, incense trays, and the...interesting collection of mugs when I stopped at the witchcraft stand. The Wizard’s Tarot, the box read. These first details caught my eye: a green wizard with long elf ears and a forked tongue, hands emitting a pink blob as it forms a blue arch with sparkles. I didn’t think much of it at first, I usually can psych myself out of an impulse purchase. But I kept thinking about the cards, using them, looking at them. I’ve always been a huge fan of card design in general. I loved looking at each artist’s interpretations of the themes of the Major and Minor arcana on each card. A few weeks later, I bought them. This was exciting because I knew that tarot was used to show people ‘the future’ but also gave people advice on how to move forward with a goal in their life.

I had read a lot of books that used tarot as a plot device. The cards would always show the main character a fate that they weren’t ready to face. They would have to make a plan to overcome the obstacles awaiting them in the next story arc. I wanted to use them because I needed to get out of my head.

I am an over-thinker, I spiral into depressive episodes that last for days, wondering why I can’t find a routine for daily life or why I can’t push myself into working on my passion projects. I needed to know how to start the journey when I already had the end goal in mind.

When I use tarot it’s like my mind clears up. I can open my brain to so many more possibilities and how to apply them to different situations. When you look at the spread, and the cards inside the prompts; You can start to see the path forward. The cards are vague, but you can interpret their meaning based on what’s in front of you. Changing my behaviors through tarot is another type of therapy for me. I can check in with myself and ask if I’ve hit my goals for self-improvement. It’s a time of reflection. This may sound like a self-help book come to life, but this method works for me because I practice trusting myself to know what is best for me. When I think about the Waning Gibbous Moon reading and which cards I pay attention to the most, this feeling comes from my intuition. I am taking the right steps forward to achieving my goal of being a published author.

I want to end this by assuring the skeptics about the validity of tarot cards. They tell a good story; it’s not going to be completely true. The most common way to read the cards is a simple spread, choice one and two, and then the final outcome of those two choices. Tarot cards get rid of any doubt you have against any roadblock in your problem. When you shuffle the deck, every guidebook on how to read tarot says you are implementing your will into the cards–fueling the latent magic inside. They’re yours to connect with because they are now an extension of you, but really the cards are just tools to confirm a path to action. Whether it’s trying to reassure yourself during a stressful exam season or what is to come this month, you will always have an answer. Personally, I don’t 100% believe in the magic of the cards. I think of them as a guidepost to where you are supposed to be right now. It’s not about whether everything will be true, it’s how you follow your path into your community of choice.

I used to think that belonging meant fitting in…

…but doing that only made me lonelier and unhappier than ever before.

…but rather showing who I was…

…meant molding myself into a preconceived notion of what it means to be accepted…

It wasn’t until then that I realized belonging isn’t about fitting in…

…and fitting with others who accepted me for it.

Shape Shifting Montana Miller

Finding Home

Each and every one of us on this planet starts out with things that once belonged to other people. One day when we pass from this world, those things will be passed on to the next generation. The ones left here will have borrowed things from us. The world will continue to turn and evolve, forever changing, but there will always be a part of us that lives on. Just like we all have things that used to belong to someone on our family tree regardless of whether you are part of a chosen or a given family. All of us have inherited things. Some of us inherit a wild side, others have been gifted compassion and kindness to be passed on and taught to those not yet on this earth. And because the world can be a harsh place and mankind deeply flawed, it is inevitable that among the things we possess will be wounds, traumas.

This crazy patchwork of things combined with the parts that are solely us is what helps guide us through the complicated messy world we live in. It will lead us in and out of the lives of others. I would like to think that along the way we will make memories and heal scrapes and bruises. I hope the people we meet on our journey will leave us kinder and wiser. That the turbulent moments will last a short time and sweeter ones will follow. I wish that every door we open, and every house we step into feels like home, full of warmth, love, and endless laughter; I pray that every single home we outgrow brings us one step closer to where we truly feel like we belong.

Paloma Gomez

I will only ask for one thing... I ask that when we pack up all our things, we are kind to ourselves. Moving can be stressful. It is okay to feel overwhelmed and unprepared, and so I would like to propose a guideline of sorts to help:

1) Carefully bubble wrap fond memories and gently set them in a place for safekeeping, so that you may be able to look back on them someday.

2) If we have learned all we can from the past hurts, it is time to throw them out with the trash; they have served their purpose.

3) Make sure to pack up your beliefs and values. Clearly label the box and set it in the passenger’s seat for easy access.

3a) It is okay if they don’t resemble the ones you started out with. You have grown and learned. They have changed with you.

4) Be gentle with your heart.

5) Traumas need to be handled with extreme tenderness. If you are not yet ready to leave them behind, carefully store them in a box until the time comes that you are ready to tend to them.

And lastly

5a) Don’t forget to tend to them one day. You deserve peace.

6) Moving can be bittersweet, so take your time saying goodbye. It is okay to feel sad but don’t let that be the reason you stay somewhere that doesn’t feel like home anymore.

The things we inherit, collect, buy, trade, and throw away... They are all an important part of who we are and finding where we belong. All part of finding a place to call home, where we are surrounded by love and accepted for who we are. The lessons we learn and the love we borrowed and the things we chose to keep, let’s keep paying those forward. We all deserve a place to call home.

List of Staff

Kimia Kowsari Editor in Chief

Max Ridenour Design Chief

Alex Sirek Print Manager

Michael Horton Web Design Manager

Chloe Kucera Print Assistant

Bri Permuth Design Assistant

Maria Garcia Media and Events Coordinator

Catheryn Jennings Faculty Advisor

List of Contributors

Kivi.Weeks Max.Ridenour

Aiden.Lewald Cameron.Stockwell

Jinda.Lon Montana.Miller

Fall 2023 IssueBelongings