Untold Magazine | Fall 2022

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear Readers, Thank you for taking the time to look through our beautiful maga zine! We have spent a lot of time trying to make it as perfect as possible. The Untold team is beyond proud of our theme for the semester. We chose to use the theme of passions because we think the Hamline community is so special. Everyone comes from different places and ideas, and everyone has a different experience here. No one person thinks or believes the same and we wanted to explore that. What are the passions of the Hamline campus and how do people express them? What types of things do we celebrate and fall back on? On top of that, the Untold team wants to express our gratitude and respect to our wonderful and amazing advisor, Jen England. Jen is the backbone of our magazine. Although she is leaving this semester, she will forever be a part of the Untold team, inspiring and guiding passions for all of us.

-Kimia Kowsari and Joanna Johnson

thirsty Haley Klahsen

you only want me when your life is still. i want you as the sink flows over, wetting the floor and leaking into the next room.

i know that if i keep giving, my cup will become dry like yours. then, we will just be two people: you, you, and me, me. you left asking for more, me convinced yours is missing.

so, i will split my contents now and go. someone else can show me love that flows freely. that way, my halfway will be our empty.

Recycling the Waste System at Hamline

Maddie Urness

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. That’s what has, or at least should have been, taught since elementary school, but not as many people may know the benefits of a similar waste disposal system called composting. Composting is essentially organic recycling, and it is much more important than you may think. You see, our landfills are filled with things that don’t need to be in there, things that could be recycled or composted. Trash is messy and full of toxins and if it’s mixed with recyclables, they can not be recycled. Same thing for compost- if it’s contaminated with trash, it can no longer be composted effectively. The point of compost is to get rid of food waste or items that will deteriorate naturally… plastic does not deteriorate ever. There are over 7 billion tons of plastic on the earth right now. 100% of that plastic has been on this earth since it was made. (UN Enironment Programme) This means that if there is plastic in compost, it will be in there forever. Since these two systems of waste elimination are now compromised into trash, everything is just taking up space in the landfill.

The compost bins at Hamline University are just trash bins in disguise. Of course there are some people who aren't going to know how to compost correctly, but here at Hamline, it can be encouraged to do it wrong at times. We have a great start, it’s good that we even have a bin for compost, but I have noticed two major problems. First, once the landfill option gets too full, the workers in Anderson have historically said to just toss trash no matter what it includes into the compost or recycle bin until they are able to replace an empty trash. Well then what is the point of having the eco-friendly options in the first place? “At this point, [the compost bins] don’t even matter anymore because everyone just throws everything into the same bins”, says Jessa Schroetter, junior here at Hamline. People not caring is what defeats the purpose of compost and recycling because once trash is in the bin it just becomes another trash can.

The other big issue I have noticed is that there are only three places to throw away compost, and they are all on the second floor of Anderson. This raises the question- why aren’t there more places to compost across campus? Junior Ethan Hermann says “I know the majority of what I throw away is food, and without the option to compost in the dorms, part of me feels complacent in unsustainable waste management.” In every dorm hall, there are bins to throw your trash and recycling, but not compost.

It’s good that Hamline’s not doing nothing. They have the option to compost, which is more than most places offer, but we can do more, and positive change can only happen if we try. More compost options -not just on the second floor of Anderson- more information and encouragement about recycling and composting and even just caring a little bit more than they do right now. Our efforts in waste management should not be a waste of time.

The Race Between Arms and Lungs

Aubrey Chavarria

Ragged, the way my lungs are reaching, grasping at air with every breath I take. However, they cannot beat the turnover and reach of my hands, hitting the top of the water. Pulling, ripping the water at seams that cannot exist, fluid dynamics being destroyed at my fingertips. Arms and lungs in a race, a race to see who is stronger–the hammering demand to breathe or the need to feel something. At this rate, the need to feel is winning.

The thrumming I feel vibrates through everything it can reach, like an old car stereo when it’s turned up too high. It moves from my chest, down my arms, and into my fingertips, electricity shooting out, shaking when lifted from the water at the wall. The beat one I can set a pace to, why would I ever need a tempo trainer squawking an artificial beat when I have my own heartbeat to use.

Quiet begins to set in, all I can hear is the sloshing of the water around me and my heartbeat echoing in my eardrums. My own heavy breathing unheard, the voices of my coaches tuned out, the pool being the only thing I can hear. It’s peaceful. Similar to how when the noises fade as you lull yourself to sleep. Or how every thing stops in those times that become everlasting moments. The way the tide recedes from the shore leaving behind wet sand as a reminder that it was there. The world outside doesn’t matter. It’s only me, the pool, and the clock, even with 20 other people at practice.

Bliss follows soon after, the sloshing allows my brain to focus on what I’m doing. Pull, kick, pull, kick, turn, on repeat for the next two hours. My heartbeat only grows louder in my ears as we go, my face burning brighter and brighter each interval drop and with every round of the set. Nothing feels like this– the adrenaline that courses through you. The harder you push yourself, the further you want to push yourself.

The black tiled line at the bottom only becomes longer each length you go, never-ending as the amount of yards that turn into miles begin to blur. All you know is how you feel: unstoppable and on top of the world. When you lift yourself out of the pool, limbs shaking, unable to stand, you swallow air and water like they’re the best things you’ve ever tasted. You feel accomplished, the pain sinks into numbness with time and repetition. High fives,fist bumps with teammates, and chit chat about the hell you all just put yourself through for hours is finally intelligible as the heartbeat recedes from your ears.

Standing after sitting is the worst pain you can feel. A hot shower is the only thing that stops your muscles from giving out on you. Layering to brave the Minnesota winter is truly a new battle in and of itself. But you’re going to come back the next day, and the next, and all those to follow until late February.

Flaking skin and chlorine burns from eight days of swimming multiple times a day in three different pools. Suits that look like they can fit on a large doll, shoved onto your body by three other people to experience floating on water like a kickboard. Resistance to going under as if you're a beach ball that hit you in the face on the beach, or at the public pool as a child.

Nothing can beat it, that adrenaline, the rush of knowing that your body can beat barriers you thought were solid concrete walls. The injuries, long hours, eyelashes freezing on the way to class, and all the other levels of hell that come with swimming can’t stop you. When the pool not only becomes refuge, but home.

Birds of a Feather

Mac Wittkopf

passed down poetry

passed down poetry

Hodo

Mohammad

hand-me-down strings attached to my fingers, tugging, i believe that through the caged bars of paper, i recognize a hand reaching out through the suitcase of my dad’s belongings; he claims he can see my own handwriting passed down, a desperate plea to stay safe, my grandfather’s writing–once a poet, each letter carries the cries of a people: the hands tire of passed-down pain, poetry. it envelops me, tinted orange roofs, cardamom, cinnamon, a family tree, each branch a sentence, each leaf a poem’s title, pieces of the people’s struggles covered in three stanzas or less, the bullets break the morning calm, the poet wakes to a birds’ song, pages cannot contain what has been passed down by word of mouth, evening news segments cannot condense lives down to soundbites, the death toll mounts–commercials end in periods, a brief moment before the news starts up, the hands tire of writing passed-down deafening silence. wrapped in green and gold diracs, the names of bride and groom delivered through the poetry of the woman who sits, while her sisters dance art into the hearts of the crowd; and traveled by the rocks thrown at those who colonized, ululation and protest demonstrations, injustices, and the warmth of the sun; their hands, as well as ours, tire of passed-down troubled minds, the dedication generations-long, each time a different cause, a similar kind.

hand-me-down strings attached to my fingers, tugging, i believe that through the caged bars of paper, i recognize a hand reaching out through the suitcase of my dad’s belongings; he claims he can see my own handwriting passed down, a desperate plea to stay safe, my grandfather’s writing–once a poet, each letter carries the cries of a people: the hands tire of passed-down pain, poetry.

it envelops me, tinted orange roofs, cardamom, cinnamon, a family tree, each branch a sentence, each leaf a poem’s title, pieces of the people’s struggles covered in three stanzas or less, the bullets break the morning calm, the poet wakes to a birds’ song, pages cannot contain what has been passed down by word of mouth, evening news segments cannot condense lives down to soundbites, the death toll mounts–commercials end in periods, a brief moment before the news starts up, the hands tire of writing passed-down deafening silence. wrapped in green and gold diracs, the names of bride and groom delivered through the poetry of the woman who sits, while her sisters dance art into the hearts of the crowd; and traveled by the rocks thrown at those who colonized, ululation and protest demonstrations, injustices, and the warmth of the sun; their hands, as well as ours, tire of passed-down troubled minds, the dedication generations-long, each time a different cause, a similar kind.

Hodo Mohamed

the qasil leaves, crushed into powder, never laid eyes on, honey, turmeric, light, passed down by my mom; along a coastline, my feet have never left footprints on; are painted into my memory, album, of faces I may never see. calling out for reunification with the seas, dust, silence, collecting, Ceerigaabo, calling out to those who once stepped along its’ trails, laughter engraved in its’ memory, speak, about who has passed and enjoyed the companionship of the clothes of those in its’ presence a greeting, passed-down poetry, unclear, mourning.

my face recognizes the qasil leaves, crushed into powder, from trees, I have never laid eyes on, honey, turmeric, mixed in the morning light, passed down by my mom; the rush of running along a coastline, my feet have never left footprints on; these scenes are painted into my memory, by a poet, a photo album,

of faces I may never see. if the ruins of Merca, calling out for reunification with the seas, feels the heaviness of dust, silence, collecting, if the mountains in Ceerigaabo, calling out to those who once stepped along its’ trails, remembers, echoes of laughter engraved in its’ memory, if the dabqaad could speak, about who has passed and enjoyed the companionship of the burning incense, the clothes of those in its’ presence a greeting, then the hands send passed-down poetry, the instructions unclear, to a nation of poets in mourning.

delivered to the next generations in bundles, poem.

if it all could be delivered to the next generations in bundles, may it be in peace, in the stanzas of a poem.

Burial Shroud For Later

Burial Shroud For Later

L. Dhein

L. Dhein

Livy Dhein

L. Dhein

A shroud burial is a body disposition option that allows for a high level of personal expression and involvement. The shroud can be handmade and decorated by the loved ones of the deceased, or even the deceased themselves before death. I wanted to create a shroud that could be used in an eco-friendly burial and also displays how deathcare can be celebrated as an act of carrying out the deceased's wishes in a way that reflects who they were. This shroud is organic unbleached fabric which I decorated to reflect my preferences, interests and values. I wanted to make a piece revolving around death that would encour age viewers to look at end of life planning as an act of both preparedness and self expression. I believe that an important step in a more culturally positive relationship with death is acknowledgement and education, and I especially encourage people to learn about green body disposition options such as natural organic reduction, aquamation and shroud burial!

A shroud burial is a body disposition option that allows for a high level of personal expression and can be handmade and decorated by the loved ones of the deceased, or even the deceased themselves create a shroud that could be used in an eco-friendly burial and also displays how deathcare can be carrying out the deceased's wishes in a way that reflects who they were. This shroud is organic unbleached decorated to reflect my preferences, interests and values. I wanted to make a piece revolving around age viewers to look at end of life planning as an act of both preparedness and self expression. I believe in a more culturally positive relationship with death is acknowledgement and education, and I especially learn about green body disposition options such as natural organic reduction, aquamation and shroud

Dis/phoria

Olympe Kasten

This isn't my skin.

I mean in the technical sense it is digitally or reality or neither or both or irregardlessly attached to my muscles that are attached to my bones that my brain rests within and my consciousness lives somewhere inside but it does not feel like my own maybe a tattoo would help I don't claim ownership over much of my body I tend to claim ownership on the parts I like when the dysphoria gets bad these are most definitely my eyes this is most definite ly my beauty mark and those are most probably my eyebrows the rest is off to the wayside misidentified as my own by the erroneous code that keeps my consciousness in a physical place it is mine by decree of life or law or both but I don't particularly listen to those things it's been like this for a while some great cosmic 0 that should have been a 1 or maybe a 1 that should have been a 0 and I can only pick up where the code leaves off

The first edit is scary the second one hurts the third is shaky and unsure the fourth is expert the fifth bleeds too much the sixth bleeds not enough should I be bleeding at all my nose is bleeding my skin is softer I have a larger chest the seventh is the most painful so far the eighth I fuck up its bad I have to start over the eighth is a waste of a spike but that's fine I have more I wont run out I can keep going this body will be mine it will not win I will subject and direct and alter and primp and preen and press and inject and inject and inject and inject and inj

Inject.

I cannot remem ber what it ever felt like to be in control of my body the sound of a gun cocking in an unlit parking garage the vertigo of a drop with no bottom a cosmic slight given voice the feeling of being three feet to the left and two seconds ahead my code fragmenting and corrupting and disintegrating and love and lust and leers at my own body and code and self and space and I am not normal but who is

If I were to be the other the natural the smooth the long the desirable the unholy and undeniable the contradictions that connect and conquer and i am running out of time and I am enough and I am walking nay sprinting towards a direction in which has no end not towards a direction or a place or a goal or a finish line but to a concept a construct

A con.

Digital realms are escapes are offshoots are disguises are fleeting and firm and fickle and if you could know what I feel like it might make more sense but you do not and cannot and might not and do if it were easy to explain why it may have been easier to just walk instead of sprint but here I am a marathon runner in my own head an Olympic sprinter in the world of code not that I am allowed to be an Olympic sprinter they say my form my body my self my code gives me advantage and gain and power and robs others but if that is the case why do I still sit here in wait as my rights are stripped around me and power is only power if the powerful deem it desirable and I will become desirable to become powerful

People ask why and I look and I stare and I think and I speak but not in any way that makes sense to them nor in any way that they can identify with or any way that anyone who is not like me will see or read or hear or feel and rambling is not helping but I am here and I am now and my god that has to be worth something

Right?

There are others there are friends there are those who seek to help who seek to repair erroneous code who seek to strip back and provide space and look and listen and watch and there are those who are silent in their grief that they got it wrong there is too many people and not enough and yet I sit and remain among them

Translate transhu manist transit trans gender transpose transsexual transport transfemme transfer and I cannot list more but there are more and my job is to know more and tell you more and explain to you more and explain every time how much I am in need of a transistor or a transmitter or why so many synthetic terms are trans maybe that's why I am too

Am I at all?

I can only sprint and move and watch and look and listen and craft and mold and shape and become and in becoming I am creating and sharing and moving and its so scary but so fun and so inspiring and so disheartening and so normal and so uneasy and when was the last time i saw myself in the mirror and did not smile or see the smile in those around me and does that mean that I am running in the right direction

Why did god or nature or chance or chaos

create wheat but not bread fruit but not wine for any reason other than to allow us to join in the act of creation I read that somewhere it was shown to me I found it I searched for it it found me

I cannot remember where or when or how or why but it has stuck with me since

A tattoo sounds nice.

Sound of Music

My bones thrummed with excitement as my black boots thumped against the stairs of First Avenue.

The opener had just finished her set and the crowd disbanded from the main floor, going to get drinks or merch or to chatter mindlessly until the next performer came on. My brother and I took this chance to make our way from the second floor to the main standing area where we found a front row spot. I had never been in the front row of a concert before.

I was by far one of the smallest and youngest people in the venue as many people towered over me like buildings but I didn’t care much as I finally was going to see one of my favorite performers of my young adult life. I ignored the obviously drunken women next to me and bounced on the heels of my feet. My eyes trailed to my phone every few minutes, watching as the time ticked by slowly. It was like watching sand fall through an hour glass, each grain building up my excitement until I was for sure I would burst.

Then the curtain lifted.

I started screaming before my brain could even catch up with what was happening. Claps and stomps of feet echoed through the building and sent vibrations through my soul.

“Holy shit!” My brother said next to me as the band made their way onto the stage, “He’s never played with a band before! It’s always been solo”

My heart pounded in my ribcage, this was going to be fucking amazing.

With the first strum of the banjo I felt like I was dreaming as the singer's low baritone voice filled the room through the speakers. My alto-tenor voice did its best to follow along and I was able to hit most of the notes but it didn’t much matter as all I could do was stare up in amazement at the singer. Each song sent me deeper and deeper into a fuzzy headspace. I barely noticed it when the woman next to me spilled part of her drink on my shoulder or when my brother put his hand on my head to rub it in sibling affection. I’m not religious but this felt like heaven.

During a slow song, my eyes closed and I swayed back and forth to the beat. I could feel tears fill my eyes as the lyrics touched my soul. The music was so loud I felt like I was underwater. Floating in a pool of warm vibrations.

And suddenly it was like I was in a small basement again.

People were packed in like sardines with us all trying to get a good view of the stage that was level to the floor. I stood alone with my fingers typing frantically at my phone.

“OH MY GOSH, WILL WOOD JUST WAVED AT ME”

I texted my group of friends.

I had been dreaming about going to this concert for months and finally it was here. I bopped my head along with the opener and gave him a ‘thank you’ as he walked past me to get to what I assumed was the green room. A few moments later, the room filled with applause and cheers as we all watched a scraggly man with a ukulele make his way up to the stage. My brain buzzed with excitement as a huge grin spread across my face.

The artist spoke playfully to us as an audience and laughter bubbled in the room, making it feel more relaxed and chill. When the music started up, I sang alone easily, reminding myself of the months that I spent listening to his albums on repeat. I wanted to know every word so that if by some one in a million chance, the man I was watching with such admiration, would be impressed.

Between songs, we were shown a vulnerable part of not only the musician but also the music that he created. Tears filled my eyes in understanding as he talked about his mental health issues which led to his alcohol and drug problems. He reminded me that he is still human, just like everyone else.

I left these experiences feeling refreshed and new.

Michael Horton

Breaking the Loop

Kivi Weeks

During the worst parts of my life, I became stuck in loops of apathy. I would sit at my desk, playing video games and not writing or painting, not hanging out with my friends. And I did everything in my power to avoid thinking about the fact that I wasn’t happy.

I am someone who cannot exist without the trimmings of activity. When I’m happy, I try new things every day and revel in being a jack of all trades. In the parts of my life in which I’ve been the least happy, I wasn’t trying new things, and I wasn't exercising old skills either. I just kept going through the motions of life, because that was all I could do. Most of those times occured before I went to therapy, so I didn’t really have the self-knowledge to make sense of what I was feeling. I could tell I was unhappy, but not why. And without a why, I couldn’t start fixing it.

When I attempt to break out of these loops, I learn something that I’ve learned many times before, and I learn it again every time I escape the cycle: that I need to be doing things to be happy. I am someone that needs to constantly have my hands busy, always have a project on my desk. For me, the opposite of sadness is passion. Sickness is the rejection of creation. My self-love has become the pursuit of some new art or craft.

In a lot of ways I am lucky. My drive to create things has started making a life for me. And life always comes with a price tag. For a while, that price was paid by my parents, and they fed my creative exploits with their wallets and approval. But as I got older, my pursuits got more expen sive, and I started needing to foot the bill myself. Some of my creative impulses are strong enough to be money-positive, which is unusual in the scheme of things.

However, I’m not sure if that really makes me “lucky.” On the face of it, being paid for something creative isn’t the usual outcome for most people. The majority of artists in this world didn’t get rich painting one picture at a time. Sure there are a few artists who do make it to mansion and Ferrari territory, but they’re the outliers. But, for every successful artist out there, there are a hundred more who had to set aside their passion so they didn’t starve.

I’m grateful to even have creativity and passion and that they help me find happiness. But I often worry that I’ll end up being one of those hundreds of artists who give it up, living day to day like the zombie I was when I was still drowning in my apathy.

My mom has this saying she likes. It goes; “Science and math make life possible. Art makes life worth living.” I grew up hearing this. It is something I believe with my heart and soul. But whether or not it’s sustainable to think this way in our current culture isn’t clear to me. It’s not fair to the many artists that so few can succeed. And it’s at least a little selfish for me to hope I am one of the successful ones, although I think it’s something all of us hope for.

In truth, I think everyone deserves to be able to sustain themselves on whatever makes them happy. I think the solution will require a lot of work— social change is never easy, but it’s possible and it is wonderful. And I think it’s worth doing. I think it’s worth allowing people to survive off their passions.

Bird Nose Guy

Kivi Weeks

Eyes Turned Skyward

Josh Sedarski

The childlike wonder I fear I’ve lost is violently revived within me as I turn my head to the heavens.

There, I see your face pervading my field of view, riding the four winds just to be everywhere.

Your divinity showers down in a torrential deluge that I think I might drown in.

I couldn’t say I am afraid of this outcome; I would gladly consign myself to a life spent cheating death if it meant I could bask in your glow just a little longer.

My incarnation lusts to know you; it longs to be reunited in celestial bliss.

What was, must be again soon, lest I should ever descend my gaze into a sunset of apathy.

Though the wind bites with a rage I defy it to cling to your burning radiance. The warmth of my joy sustains me in my fool’s crusade.

When I eventually succumb to my corporeal limits, my soul renews its covenant, my solemn vow: that we should know each other and no silence should ever cause us to forget.

A Passionate Approach

Alexis Letang

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“What makes you happy?”

“What are you passionate about?”

These are big questions that in some way shape or form are asked to high schoolers whose brains are not fully developed. When you apply to college, everyone says that you don’t have to know what you want to do. In some cases, that is true. However, there is no denying the pressure to know what you want to do. When students, teachers, professors, parents, distant relatives who you haven’t seen since you were in diapers, ask about future plans, and hear the response, “I don’t know,” there is this uncomfortable moment. Then they say, “Oh, that’s okay. You have time.” Rarely, if ever, does that feel genuine.

As most people do, I have gone through many different ideas for what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a psychiatrist at the age of eight. I was really into pretending to be a spy. I wanted to be a singer. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a chef. I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to be an author. I wanted to be a journalist. Now, I am all grown up. I know what I want. . .to study. I have ideas and thoughts about what I want to and could be. I think that’s a healthy place to be.

I think that while there is no one size fits all approach to figuring out what you want to do with your life, there has been this process society has deemed the best way to do so. That is:

Pick your career

Pick a major that will help you get to said career. Graduate with a degree in that major. Get a job.

While for some careers such as doctors and lawyers that require a specific kind of school in order to be in that profession, there is a different approach that I believe may be more effective.

Children typically decide on what they want to be based on whatever they are really into at the time. If a child really likes dinosaurs, they will say that they want to learn about dinosaurs or that they want to be a dinosaur. If a child really likes horses, they may say that they want to be a cowgirl or cowboy. If they like to swim, they may say that they want to be a swimmer or a mermaid. While all having varying levels of achievability, all of these goals are driven by a singular passion. Why should this way of thinking be limited to a child?

When we get to college, we are asked to pick a major, not a career, even though the end goal is a career. What if we went about the college process as a child goes about picking what they want to be when they grow up? What if we approached college like this:

Step 1: Answer these questions:

What do you want out of life? Don’t jump to a career just yet. Think about your life outside of work. You’re a person with your own desires. You most likely do not simply want to work. You may want time to spend with your loved ones. You may want to travel. You may want to have a family. You may want to help others. We all want something. What is it that you want? What makes you happy?

This is relatively simple to comprehend, but difficult to answer. Again, don’t think about careers yet. Just think about what makes you happy. What are you passionate about?

What is something that you always tend to gravitate towards? Do you always find a creative or artsy way to present information? Do you typically opt for writing? Is there a certain lens or perspective that you seem to focus on everytime you are able to do so? Think of the things that you could talk about for hours. Think about the activities you do and what they have in common. Think about everything in your life that you have a burning passion for.

Step 2: Pick a major that allows you to explore your answers.

You figured out that you tend to lean towards science-y topics, now you’re looking at majors related to that. You figured out that you have a desire to create, now you’re exploring majors that would allow for that. You like being in charge or being the lead, now you’re looking at majors that will help you do that effectively. Your major, while not every aspect of it will be enjoyable, will keep you interested. It may help your motivation overall because even if it is hard, at least it is something you are genuinely interested in.

Step 3: Find a career that fits with your major and what you want out of life.

This step is relatively self-explanatory. You can finally start thinking about a career. Do research. Ask people questions. Use the internet. Find a career that interests you and will allow you to get what you want out of life.

This process is not perfect, but I think it is something to at least think about. I think that oftentimes in society we focus on what we want the end goal to look like rather than thinking about the steps that will get us there.

I think everyone should embrace their inner child a bit more when it comes to thinking about life.

Mosaico Comunitaria

Mosaico Communitara

Crystal Camacho

Crystal Camacho

I have always been a firm believer that we are all walking eachother home. Growing up, my Mother always told me how important it is to love and take care of one another. We were Catholic, which meant every Sunday in our household was a little chaotic, but I am also a firm believer that chaotic can be good. Sunday mornings began with music, Papi would be somewhere singing, Ma was in the kitchen cooking, usually something like eggs, rice and beans. My siblings and I are rushing to clean the house, hoping to have enough time to get ready and dressed up. We have to look our best for the lord, Amen!

I have always been a firm believer that we are all walking eachother home. Growing up, my Mother always told me how important it is to love and take care of one another. We were Catholic, which meant every Sunday in our household was a little chaotic, but

In my mind, my friends were always brothers and sisters from another life. I knew that deep down, we were far more connected than we could ever know and understand. I carry parts of each of my childhood friendships with me and they have become a part of who I am now, 343 miles away from them.

I am also a firm believer that chaotic can be good. Sunday mornings began with music, Papi would be somewhere singing, Ma was in the kitchen cooking, usually something like eggs, rice and beans. My siblings and I are rushing to clean the house, hoping to have enough time to get ready and dressed up. We have to look our best for the lord, Amen!

I remember when I moved away from home to come to college, I was so scared about the ways I would change.

In our household, we spoke spanish; in fact up until I was about 8, I just assumed everyone in the WORLD spoke Spanish. My community is a beautifully vibrant one. A warm, beautifully seasoned one.

In our household, we spoke spanish; in fact up until I was about 8, I just assumed everyone in the WORLD spoke Spanish. My community is a beautifully vibrant one. A warm, beautifully seasoned one.

I was worried about making new friends, and honestly I was worried that I wouldn’t find people I had common ground with. Would there be other queer hispanics? Would there be someone else who grew up in a trailer park? What if I didn’t find friends who spoke spanish? Would others be open about having immigrant parents? These were some of the questions revolving around my identity that I was really worried about when I came to Hamline in the fall of 2018.

In my mind, my friends were always sisters from another life. I knew were far more connected than we understand. I carry parts of each friendships with me and they have who I am now, 343 miles away from I remember when I moved away college, I was so scared about the I was worried about making new was worried that I wouldn’t find ground with. Would there be other Would there be someone else who park? What if I didn’t find friends Would others be open about having These were some of the questions identity that I was really worried Hamline in the fall of 2018.

There is something so beautiful about growing up as a child of immigrant parents. We are the beautiful children that defy what many work hard against; but I think we are the very image of the American Dream (if you believe in that kind of thing). I grew up in trailer parks, and it gave me some of the best memories of my childhood. I grew up in a community where there were other children my age, and many of us had more things in common about our upbringing than differ ences. We spent our days riding our bikes, racing through the park, rolling down the hills in the back, playing dress up. We would make our favorite dishes like tacos, pozole and even desserts like flan out of dirt, grass and whatever other odds and ends we could find. We all loved music, and spent time having singing contests and on the best days, we would even dance. Through all this, my love of music, food and community grew far beyond measure. I am so grateful to have grown up in a community where I could talk to all my neighbors, and play with all the kids who lived in the park with us. I remember experiencing some of the best, and some of the worst days together, in community.

There is something so beautiful about growing up as a child of immigrant parents. We are the beautiful children that defy what many work hard against; but I think we are the very image of the American Dream (if you believe in that kind of thing). I grew up in trailer parks, and it gave me some of the best memories of my childhood. I grew up in a community where there were other children my age, and many of us had more things in common about our upbringing than differ ences. We spent our days riding our bikes, racing through the park, rolling down the hills in the back, playing dress up. We would make our favorite dishes like tacos, pozole and even desserts like flan out of dirt, grass and whatever other odds and ends we could find. We all loved music, and spent time having singing contests and on the best days, we would even dance. Through all this, my love of music, food and community grew far beyond measure. I am so grateful to have grown up in a community where I could talk to all my neighbors, and play with all the kids who lived in the park with us. I remember experiencing some of the best, and some of the worst days together, in community.

Fast forward to present day; and my community here at Hamline has grown beautifully. I have learned so much about myself throughout my time here, and for that I am eternally grateful. Hamline gave me a community where queerness was not only accepted, but celebrated. I did indeed meet other Latine queers, I have met other children of immigrants, and we have all bonded and laughed over our shared experiences. I have made it my mission to just be someone here that others feel seen by.

Fast forward to present day; and Hamline has grown beautifully. I about myself throughout my time am eternally grateful. Hamline gave where queerness was not only accepted, did indeed meet other Latine queers, children of immigrants, and we have laughed over our shared experiences. mission to just be someone here

the legacy I want to leave, I just maybe a little more, that we connected than we realize. I am a loving people first. I believe in loving, and boldly! I can’t think of anything current society, than just loving and community, and the people in it. We experienced so much within the deserve love and grace, and quite Our communities need it. realize it, we have all been shaped and those in it. We all carry parts them, and thus carry parts of them your community is also an act of these are the communities that lift us most. Your friends are your communi family is your community. The people are our community. There is no define what a community is, or what it that for yourself, and you get to favorite things about this world is picking up new little habits, from the people we love; from our friends taught me how to ride a bike, broken hearts, shared their favorite discover parts of myself that I waiting to be found. We are all single person we have ever loved; even heartbeat. We carry recipes, jokes, favorite superstitions, favorite movies, party more from the various people we laugh, every hug, every “aha!” moment. the top of your lungs. Laughs that peeing yourself, or both! Every tamales, my Papi’s cafecito. Every “i’m sorry”, every tear you dried for someone dried for you. Every that was placed by my little sister. me guitar. The goosebumps I feel the A Capella Choir. Every orienta beautiful, ugly, silly moments have mosaic that I am. We have all been mosaics that make us who we are. anything more beautiful than that. So, heartbeat, I will continue to love my beautiful people in it, as we all little closer to home.

When I think about the legacy I want to leave, I just want others to believe maybe a little more, that we really all are more connected than we realize. I am a firm believer in loving people first. I believe in loving, and loving openly, and boldly! I can’t think of anything more radical in our current society, than just loving and caring for your community, and the people in it. We have all collectively experienced so much within the past few years. We all deserve love and grace, and quite frankly we all need it. Our communities need it. Whether or not you realize it, we have all been shaped by our communities, and those in it. We all carry parts of ourselves within them, and thus carry parts of them within us. Caring for your community is also an act of self-care, because these are the communities that lift us when we need it most. Your friends are your communi ty. Your chosen family is your community. The people and the places we love are our community. There is no one-right way to define what a community is, or what it isn’t, you get to decide that for yourself, and you get to apply the rules.

One of my absolute favorite things about this world is that we are constantly picking up new little habits, phrases, and quirks from the people we love; from our communities. My friends taught me how to ride a bike, they mended my broken hearts, shared their favorite books, and helped me discover parts of myself that I didn’t know were waiting to be found. We are all mosaics of every single person we have ever loved; even if only for a heartbeat. We carry recipes, jokes, favorite songs, hairstyles, superstitions, favorite movies, party tricks, and so much more from the various people we have met. Every laugh, every hug, every “aha!” moment. Every song sang at the top of your lungs. Laughs that leave you crying or peeing yourself, or both! Every shared pie, Abuelitas tamales, my Papi’s cafecito. Every heartbreak, scream, “i’m sorry”, every tear you dried for someone else, or tear someone dried for you. Every half-assed bandaid that was placed by my little sister. My brother teaching me guitar. The goosebumps I feel when singing with the A Capella Choir. Every orienta tion. All of the beautiful, ugly, silly moments have shaped the very mosaic that I am. We have all been shaped into the very mosaics that make us who we are. I can’t think of anything more beautiful than that. So, even if only for a heartbeat, I will continue to love my community, and the beautiful people in it, as we all walk each other a little closer to home.

No, I’m Not in an Open Relationship

No, I’m Not in an Open Relationship

Jodi Mahowald

“I could never do that; I don’t like to share.” He sips his drink as he watches me, unblinking, staring at me in a way that implies I’ve somehow asked him to compromise his values in order for me to go on existing the way I am- non-monogamously. I try not to let my eyes dart nervously.

“You know what I mean,” he says flatly, uninterested. “I’m a loyal person. That just sounds like avoiding commitment.”

Jodi Mahowald

“I could never do that; I don’t like to share.” He sips his drink as he watches me, unblinking, staring at me in a way that implies I’ve somehow asked him to compromise his values in order for me to go on existing the way I am- non-monogamously. I try not to let my eyes dart nervously.

It’s late 2019. I’m sitting at a round dining table with a semi-formal place setting in the dimly-lit reception hall of my childhood friend’s wedding. I instantly feel my body stiffen at his words, not because what he’s saying is so terrible or unusual. Instead, it’s the opposite- what he’s saying was the same thing I’ve heard before a thousand times and I’m preparing myself for what I know will be a less-than-ideal response as I fruitlessly try to defend my identity.

Weddings always seem to prompt these conversa tions with the strangers and acquaintances I end up seated with. Inevitably, somebody asks me if I think my partner will propose soon or whether we have wedding plans yet (after all, we’ve been together for at least one full calendar year, which apparently in your mid-20’s is ample time for you to turn up the pressure for an engage ment to a 10). This event is no exception. Somehow the topic has come up, and, in the spirit of openness and self-disclosure, I’ve given the honest response that no, I’m actually not interested in marriage because I don’t identify with an institution built upon monogamy. This never goes down without a fight. Maybe that’s to be expected when you’re at a wedding, huh?

No matter how many times I hear it, this one always stings. It hurts to be judged, of course. It hurts more to be dismissed, to be told that the deep love my partner and I have for each other, now more than 3 years into our relationship, is devoid of commitment because it isn’t exclusive. I wish he knew that monogamy and faithfulness weren’t synonyms, and that love wasn’t a finite resource. But I can’t take it personally, I know.

No matter how many times stings. It hurts to be judged, to be dismissed, to be told partner and I have for each years into our relationship, because it isn’t exclusive. monogamy and faithfulness that love wasn’t a finite resource. personally, I know.

It’s late 2019. I’m sitting at a round dining table with a semi-formal place setting in the dimly-lit recep tion hall of my childhood friend’s wedding. I instantly feel my body stiffen at his words, not because what he’s saying is so terrible or unusual. Instead, it’s the opposite- what he’s saying was the same thing I’ve heard before a thousand times and I’m preparing myself for what I know will be a less-than-ideal response as I fruitlessly try to defend my identity.

I try to keep the energy flowing. “I’d actually consider myself to be a very committed person. I really value commitment in my life too, it’s just that I don’t rely on monogamy for my security. Ryan and I are best friends. We’ve supported each other through everything. Isn’t that commitment?”

I try to keep the energy flowing. consider myself to be a very really value commitment I don’t rely on monogamy I are best friends. We’ve supported through everything. Isn’t He doesn’t seem convinced. complicated. I don’t see what can just be happy with monogamy. harder?”

He doesn’t seem convinced. “It just seems overly complicated. I don’t see what the point is when you can just be happy with monogamy. Why make it harder?”

Weddings always seem to prompt these conversations with the strangers and acquaintances I end up seated with. Inevitably, somebody asks me if I think my partner will propose soon or whether we have wedding plans yet (after all, we’ve been together for at least one full calendar year, which apparently in your mid-20’s is ample time for you to turn up the pressure for an engagement to a 10). This event is no exception. Somehow the topic has come up, and, in the spirit of openness and self-disclosure, I’ve given the honest response that no, I’m actually not interested in marriage because I don’t identify with an institution built upon monogamy. This never goes down without a fight. Maybe that’s to be expected when you’re at a wedding, huh?

“Well, that’s the thing… I don’t really believe it’s ‘sharing’ at all because I don’t have any owner ship over my partner. I can’t ‘share’ what’s not mine,” I reply with a half smile, willing him to give me an inch. But he doesn’t budge.

I wish I could make him understand that it doesn’t feel like a choice for me. It’s not a relationship choice; I’m not just in an “open relationship”; I’m a non-monogamous person. We agree to disagree.

I wish I could make him feel like a choice for me. choice; I’m not just in an non-monogamous person.

It’s been 5 years total now non-monogamous, but I still talking about it, even though deeply passionate about, even genuinely love to talk about. lies in the things we hide in our core identities.

It’s been 5 years total now that I’ve been openly non-monogamous, but I still feel some discomfort talking about it, even though it’s something I’m deeply passionate about, even though it’s something I genuinely love to talk about. I think passion so often lies in the things we hide deepest within ourselves, in our core identities.

I heard about polyamory 17 years old, on one of the 2010’s reality shows I watched a beautiful, bohemian-esque with long hair and a floor-length shown hugging and kissing men and one woman- goodbye filming. They surrounded trinity. I was entranced. My “weird,” in an off-handed polyamorous woman was person I had ever seen, but myself. I pushed them aside.

I heard about polyamory for the first time in 2013, at 17 years old, on one of the many poorly-rated early 2010’s reality shows I watched with my family when a beautiful, bohemian-esque belly dancer from LA with long hair and a floor-length batik skirt was shown hugging and kissing her three partners- two men and one woman- goodbye before she left for filming. They surrounded her like a perfect holy trinity. I was entranced. My mother had called it “weird,” in an off-handed way. I felt like this polyamorous woman was quite possibly the coolest person I had ever seen, but I kept those thoughts to myself. I pushed them aside.

“Well, that’s the thing… I don’t really believe it’s ‘sharing’ at all because I

in young adulthood, between cheap apartments and bad had graduated high school. I was closeted and deeply 2016, I decided, was my time to the confines of a cishet man’s something to be used but of feeling like a stranger in relationship with a person who be- a vibrant, intelligent, who was working as a peer was instantly drawn to they told me they were polyam surprised us both with my non-reac my mind when they came out hadn’t been sure that something you could actually choose wholeheartedly. It wasn’t just for mysterious hippie women on reality people I cared for. It could beautiful, romantic coming of my life into everything I’d years of feeling alone and countless hours of asking myself and content, feeling something very wrong with me. It tense therapy sessions, and friends. It was knowing that found someone who could love something that I couldn’t give, rejection was close to follow. non-monogamous partner wasn’t the been with my current now, and the sickening feeling illusion that will soon to pass. The first several someone else, I came home and guilt I felt, even though I we had to sit with the hundred times before we other’s behavior wasn’t a pain.

3 years later, I found myself in young adulthood, hopping haphazardly between cheap apartments and bad relationships ever since I had graduated high school. I knew I was bisexual, but I was closeted and deeply insecure. The summer of 2016, I decided, was my time to explore, finally, outside of the confines of a cishet man’s judgment of my sexuality as something to be used but never embraced. I was tired of feeling like a stranger in my own relationships.

I’d ended up in a casual relationship with a person who was everything I wanted to be- a vibrant, intelligent, openly queer psych student who was working as a peer educator on LGBTQ issues. I was instantly drawn to them. On our third date, they told me they were polyam orous, and I think I surprised us both with my non-reac tion. Something clicked in my mind when they came out to me. Until that moment, I hadn’t been sure that polyamory was real, something you could actually choose for yourself and live wholeheartedly. It wasn’t just for porn, Mormons, and mysterious hippie women on reality tv. It was for people I knew, people I cared for. It could be for me too.

My relationship with Ryan is different than most in a few ways. We have separate bedrooms in the home we share. We spend more time apart, both with our own friends and partners as well as just being alone. We talk openly about things that most people would never dare to bring up with their partner. We will never marry, but we feel entirely secure in our relationship. And if we ever have children, it will be a very different dynamic that we’ll have to learn how to navigate. We don’t need to make each other the top priority or the focus of a relational hierarchy to know we are loved and valued. We take less for granted. Our commitment feels like a choice, every day, rather than a contract. We don’t need each other, but we choose each other anyway.

My relationship with Ryan is different than most in a few ways. We have separate bedrooms in the home we share. We spend more time apart, both with our own friends and partners as well as just being alone. We talk openly about things that most people would never dare to bring up with their partner. We will never marry, but we feel entirely secure in our relationship. And if we ever have children, it will be a very different dynamic that we’ll have to learn how to navigate. We don’t need to make each other the top priority or the focus of a relational hierarchy to know we are loved and valued. We take less for granted. Our commitment feels like a choice, every day, rather than a contract. We don’t need each other, but we choose each other anyway.

Something that many people don’t understand is that I never wanted and do not have an “open relationship,” one where I’m given metaphorical hall passes and my partner exists in blissful ignorance while I juggle my personal affairs and seamlessly play the role of both the adventurous, independent slut and the loyal, doting girlfriend. We are all in. We are two full-fledged non-monogamous individuals, whether we are together or not.

Something that many people don’t understand is that I never wanted and do not have an “open relationship,” one I’m given metaphorical hall passes and my partner exists in blissful ignorance while I juggle my personal affairs and seamlessly play the role of both the adventurous, independent slut and the loyal, doting girlfriend. We are all in. We are two full-fledged non-monogamous individuals, whether we are together or not.

I’ve changed so much on an individual level too.

What followed was not a beautiful, romantic coming of age story that transformed my life into everything I’d dreamed of. Instead, it was years of feeling alone and misunderstood. It was countless hours of asking myself why I can’t just be grateful and content, feeling convinced that there’s something very wrong with me. It was long journal entries, tense therapy sessions, and tearful conversations with friends. It was knowing that every time I thought I’d found someone who could love me without asking me for something that I couldn’t give, without monogamy, that rejection was close to follow. And finding a non-monogamous partner wasn’t the end-all-be-all of it either. I’ve been with my current partner, Ryan, for 6 years now, and the sickening feeling that our relationship is an illusion that will soon crumble has only just begun to pass. The first several times I had sex with someone else, I came home and sobbed in his arms over the guilt I felt, even though I knew he wasn’t angry. And we had to sit with the gnawing pain of jealousy a hundred times before we realized that controlling each other’s behavior wasn’t a sustainable way to soothe our pain.

sustainability, in a way. We both the way we were. It wasn’t non-monogamy was easy or natural; us to thrive.

I’ve changed so much on an individual level too.

Non-monogamy has taught me that I don’t need to control things to feel safe. I embrace the autonomy of the people around me, as well as the uncertain ties of life. I have a greater understanding of and appreciation for community. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people but still feel alone, and now I strive to find others who are on a journey like mine. Most of my friends are queer and non-monoga mous, and we share in each other’s joys and suffering with empathy and understanding. All my relationships feel like they are the most natural versions they can be; I don’t need to force anyone to conform to the standards of another to be close to me.

Non-monogamy has taught me that I don’t need to control things to feel safe. I embrace the autonomy of the people around me, as well as the uncertain ties of life. I have a greater understanding of and appreciation for community. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people but still feel alone, and now I strive to find others who are on a journey like mine. Most of my friends are queer and non-monoga mous, and we share in each other’s joys and suffering with empathy and understanding. All my relationships feel like they are the most natural versions they can be; I don’t need to force anyone to conform to the standards of another to be close to me.

Most of my loved ones know this aspect of my life. For some, reading this piece will be the first time they hear about it, and I’m ready for that. Because as much as I ached and agonized, both internally and externally, and as much time as I spent hating myself for feeling this way, I know now that it is not only part of my identity, but one of the topics I am most passionate about.

It all comes down to sustainability, in a way. We both knew we couldn’t keep living the way we were. It wasn’t that the transition to non-monogamy was easy or natural; it’s that it was necessary for us to thrive.

I hope people ask questions, and I hope this sparks conversa tion, because the only thing worse than denying a piece of myself is to know it and keep it a secret.

Most of my loved ones know this aspect of my life. For some, reading this piece will be the first time they hear about it, and I’m ready for that. Because as much as I ached and agonized, both internally and externally, and as much time as I spent hating myself for feeling this way, I know now that it is not only part of my identity, but one of the topics I am most passionate about.

I hope people ask questions, and I hope this sparks conversa tion, because the only thing worse than denying a piece of myself is to know it and keep it a secret.

Ferocious Healing: an exercise of finding passion

Anika Besst

My mom once told me her trick for remembering my sisters’ and my birth years was based on major events. One of ours was the O.J. Simpson Trial, another when Prince Charles and Princess Diana divorced, and for me, it was the September 11 attacks. As a kid, it made enough sense, though I didn’t know who O.J. or Princess Di was yet. It seemed like something my mom could relate to the years, a way to mark the things she wanted to hold on to.

As I have gotten older, I have seen other people doing the same, especially throughout the past three years. They have positioned their personal, intimate memories based on the monumental events occurring in seemingly faster succession. It has become a web of stories of the years and events, memories and remembrance. I think it is a way of grasping what has become so unexplainably life-changing.

People remember all kinds of things. It becomes a blend that is often messy of heartbreaking, devastating, triumphant, and joyous moments. This way of understanding the world is not an act of denying that the world can be complicated and suffocating when you look at the big picture, but rather an existential practice that allows us to stop white-knuckling the ride life puts us on. It is a way of telling and connecting stories for our own betterment. It reminds us we are not alone and instead someone who experi ences life uniquely but along side many others.

It all seemed so obvious when I was a kid and my mom explained her system to me. Cut and dry with nothing to be lost in the translation between memory and growing older.

Yet, things aren’t that comprehensible anymore. What was once a roadmap, a list of instructions is now smeared with ink from moments I want to save but can’t remem ber clearly. The associated stories have lost their plot points, main characters have retreated, burrowing into the corners of forgetfulness.

This storytelling is profound. Its power is unavoidable and ceaseless. Yet, the pages don’t want to hold the stories anymore. Maybe the memories sit in a Microsoft Excel sheet saved in some folder that I have neglected in an effort to run away from all the chaos. Or maybe the ink ran dry leaving stories half-finished or, in some cases, pages left covered in dust or warped due to tears and spilled coffee.

I think that at some point the drive to tell these stories ran out. They were too heavy to carry and to hold, and even heavier to share. So we kept them inside, not relating them to anything for fear of hearing them spoken aloud. The act of revisiting was too burdensome so I never sought them out. I stopped looking for angles. I stopped making those connections because living in the abyss of each passing day was enough.

It was somewhere along this mess I realized how easy it was to misplace myself. The stories I used to determine myself were missing. For my whole life, stories were my sinew. They connected the pieces of me. I carried the stories between my bones and muscles. Bits of guilt between my knee and femur. The humor in ribs and sternum, and the butterflies that fill the gaps in between the bones in my hand.

As the stories withdrew, the sinews faded. Bits of me that were so sure floated freely of each other. I felt like a poster faded from the sun. I was still there but only in body; the intricacies of note were bland. I was lost.

I wish I could say there was a magical moment when everything rushed back to me and my bodily tissues became replenished. However, this encyclopedia of stories could not be restored overnight. I needed to warm to stories again. To relearn the act of being connected to time and space and community all at once.

The process was messy. It hurts like pins and needles. It was raw. I knew I wanted to feel immensely small, swaddled by the ordinary stories around me every day and the breaking news that flooded my Instagram feed.

So, I opened myself to the certainty these stories once offered me. It was the stories of the hardest breakups. The best and worst coffee recounts. The late-night romance tales. Stories of dancing in the streets and what people were doing as tragic news broke on the radio. Dog adoptions and Oscar viewing parties. Valen tine’s Day cards and Halloween costume mishaps.

I discovered a wealth of random stories from strangers, mentors, family, friends and peers. Some times they were nothing to the storyteller, but they became everything to me all at once.

Ferociously, I stumbled back into myself. Stories as sinews; the past as memory.

This section was made as a tribute to our wonderful and perfect advisor, Jen England. Jen England has made Untold what it is today. We would not be here without her and unfortunately, Jen is moving onto better things. We wanted to say thank you from the bottom of our hearts. You were not only our advisor and professor, you were a true friend. Someone we could all count on in times of need and in times of joy. We will miss you beyond words, but we all know you’re going to do amazing things.

A Painting for Jen

Otto Harris

jen a caring warm hug bubbling laughter relatable share a cup of coffee spill your guts smile in understanding creative kind pleasant calm me down candy “can we talk?”

Ode to Jen Joanna Johnson

Always

Jen Michael Horton

What is Untold?

Untold Magazine tackles the underground and under-discussed stories of Hamline. Drawing inspiration from feature writing, creative nonfic tion, zines, collage, photography, and more, our publication is as eclectic as the people whose stories we are privileged to tell.

We release a new issue every Fall and Spring semester in print and online at hamlineuntold.com.

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