LIGHT Issue 1 by light4ph

ISSUE 1

How might we recreate public health as art, letters, stories, & poetry?

@Copyright 2023 LIGHT Journal All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the editor, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Opinions expressed are the opinions of the writers and do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the publisher. LIGHT Journal is published annually. To submit entries and learn more about LIGHT, visit www.light4ph.org.

ISSN 2837-0015 (Print) ISSN 2837-0023 (Digital)

For permission requests, advertising inquiries, and other general inquiries, contact info@light4ph.org.

l e a d e r s i g n i t i n g g e n e r at i o n a l h e a l i n g & t r a n s f o r m at i o n

MASTHEAD

editors Juliet Iwelunmor Idia Thurston

creative Creative Direction

Alexis Engelhart

Layout & Design

Bianca Kipp

Illustration

Morenike Olusanya

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contributors Melba Torres

Monty Joynes

Mae Levante

Isabella Nichols

Erinn Caley

Margaret Human

Alexis Christ

Jodie Vinson

Nithya Gnanarajah

Isabel Chesney-Jordan

Sherry Comstock

Valentina Wu

Anthony Reyna

Michael Riordan

Lotanna Ezepue

Ujunwa Onyeama

Nancy Jorgensen

Vihaan Vishnubhotla

Nia Johnson

Wendy Mages

Martin Lee &

Remi Recchia

Miri Charney

Richard Lee

Iris Cross

Elena Tauros

Monica Foltz

Kara Zivin

Donna Vitucci

Christell Victoria Roach

Mark Chartier

Shiela Scott

aYo Binitie

Michaela Perkel

Haydan Brown

Outspoken Bean

Ava Beahn

Kevin Liu

Ryan J. Petteway

Rose Heflin

Siddhartha Subbella

Andrea Olatunji

partners Texas A&M University Wake Forest School of Medicine Radiant Health Magazine 4 Youth By Youth Renike Artistry Saint Louis University College for Public Health and Social Justice 3545 Lafayette Ave, St. Louis, MO 63104 @light4publichealth 4

@light4ph

illustration by Andrea Calisi

a note from the editor

Simply naming something “light” does not describe or imply it, not when light means to shine, reflect, kindle, illuminate, or brighten things dark or those that dazzle. We are learning that naming is only one stage of the process. Transformation and sustainment are other more preferable stages. The prolific author, bell hooks, would describe this as the courage “to engage in resistance that will transform our current reality.” It is in this act, the power to transform reality, that we present our inaugural LIGHT issue. We are leaders igniting generational healing and transformation. We are committed to the power creativity,

ISSUE 1

in all its forms, can have on our health and well-being. We are prepared to look back, to look forward, too, so as to see the public fully. This is an act of survival, an attempt to let the public speak, however they choose, in ways that make sense to them. Only the public can give us a clue how we can begin to see, to name, to transform, and to sustain what matters most for their health. When we started during the pandemic, we believed that if a group of individuals from diverse backgrounds came together to bring the public back into public health, then we can transform the reality within our field. Together, we clarified the public health we wanted. Together, we discussed gaps. Together, we proposed solutions. Together, we intensified engagement. Together, we united at a festival to foster connections that would enable us to live out our name. The end result is our inaugural magazine focused on how we might reimagine public health as art,

EDITOR'S NOTE

letters, stories, poetry, and whatever else the public felt was necessary to surprise us with. A solidarity between ourselves and the public was forged and continues as an ongoing dialogue with the public, one that has transformed us, one we plan to sustain for as long as our field needs leaders igniting generational healing and transformation. To be LIGHT is to work in solidarity with the public to resist all forms of racism (pg. 24–25 Letter to Congress, pg. 118–119 Infrastructure), to heal differences (pg. 19 Two Sides, pg. 76–77 In the Shadows, We Are All the Heroes), to define and sustain common concerns and interests that we share about the public’s health (pg. 54–59 A Journey to Living), to achieve full public participation in public health (pg. 28–29 DARE to Live a

LIGHT MAGAZINE

Same), to teach community (pg. 14–15 Laboratory Staff—Unseen Medical

Long, Healthy Life NOW! Diet, Appreciate, Rest & Relax, Exercise., pg. 22–23 Take Heart), to do all this with courageous perseverance for many who want more from public health (pg. 32–33 Dear Public Health). LIGHT is our way of being free (pg. 106–107 Learning to Dance), our attempt at fostering a pedagogy of hope (pg. 108–111 A Pledge to My Pedagogy), our social justice in action (pg.104–105 Dad Cuts), our attempt at restoring hope within the field (pg. 50–53 What Florence Nightingale Could Tell Us About Long Covid), our place of struggle, but also our fierce attempt at loving the public we serve (pg. 18 Through the Rose Colored Glass), all while bringing in anyone, ordinary people, who have been waiting for so long a time to soar; keep soaring.

illustration by Andrea Calisi

TABLE OF CONTENTS

contents

surprise us

14 Laboratory Staff—Unseen Medical Heroes

74 There’s No Place Like Home

16 Waste Mismanagement

76 In the Shadows We Are All the Same

17 The Feeling of Overthinking

78 Straw to My Essence

18 Through the Rose Colored Glass

80 Your Pandemic

19 Two Sides

82 Decades Later

letters

summer camp

22 Take Heart

86 Envisioning Youth Health I

24 Letter to Congress

87 Envisioning Youth Health II

26 Dear Passed-Out Man

88 An Elegy to My Fire

28 DARE to Live a Long, Healthy Life NOW!

90 An Ode to My Mind

32 Dear Public Health

92 Dear Pre-Covid Me 94 I Remember

poetry

96 Ode to the Future

36 Fingerprint

98 My Aunt

38 Twenty Twenty-Two at Eighteen

100 Moon Musings

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art

40 My Fireflies in a Jar 42 Hitting the Nail on the Head

light festival

44 Screaming

104 Dad Cuts 106 Learning to Dance

stories

108 A Pledge to My Pedagogy

48 Safe Here

114 From Chaos to LIGHT

50 What Florence Nightingale Could Tell Us

116 I Am the Found Treasure

54 A Journey to Living

118 Infrastructure

60 Like One Fish Chasing the Other

120 What Do I Bring?

66 The Harm in Healing

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BELL HOOKS

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HOOKS, B. (2014). TEACHING TO TRANSGRESS . ROUTLEDGE, P 34

Section 1

14 Laboratory Staff—Unseen Medical Heroes 16 Waste Mismanagement 17 The Feeling of Overthinking 18 Through the Rose Colored Glass 19 Two Sides

SECTION

LIGHT MAGAZINE

illustration by Jeremy Green

TITLE

SECTION 1

Laboratory Staff— Unseen Medical Heroes

ISSUE 1

submission and images by Melba Torres

ART

LIGHT MAGAZINE

Laboratory workers are unseen heroes fighting past, present, and future pandemics. We are laboratory medicine professionals who inform and advise clinicians on which test to use and how to interpret them. But because our work is inside laboratories, we are hardly seen. The press does not focus on the process of testing–it is not as talked about as other aspects of the COVID-19 pandemic. I'm using art to celebrate and recognize the important role that laboratory professionals play in public health.

LABORATORY STAFF — UNSEEN MEDICAL HEROES

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Waste Mismanagement submission and images by Isabella Nichols

ISSUE 1

The art piece I have created demonstrates the public health issue of waste management both literally and figuratively. To make the center of the piece, I used 100% of waste I have cultivated, including aluminum cans, pop tabs, wires, circuit boards, and a plastic bottle. In the literal sense, this monster is destroying a painting of a gloomy city. I imagine this city to be a reality if the waste management issues are not addressed soon enough. The monster is made up of any trash that could be found in a landfill but, more importantly, could have been recycled. Though the art is a simple concept, it addresses a figurative monster of waste collected over years of improperly treated landfills.

WASTE MISMANAGEMENT

ART

The Feeling of Overthinking submission and image by Alexis Crist

My art piece gives an example of what someone might picture overthinking to be. To me, this art piece helps to give light on how someone suffers from overthinking. Just because a person is surrounded by these positive affirmations doesn't mean that the overthinker believes them. Overthinking can plague anyone's life, at any time, even a positive one. My art piece gives the viewer a better understanding of what overthinking looks like and how it may affect someone's life. Overall, I want my art piece to help people have a better understanding of overthinking and realize they should be kinder to people when speaking.

THE FEELING OF OVERTHINKING

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Through the Rose Colored Glass submission and image by Isabel Chesney-Jordan

Outside of the glasses/this perspective, you see the reality individuals were facing and what was really happening. People are not practicing social distancing and are, instead, putting their loved ones at risk. They are spreading COVID-19, and you can see the arguments and disruption their actions are creating.

ISSUE 1

People reacted to the pandemic through “rose colored glasses.” They only saw what they wanted to believe to bring a more positive light to the world altering event. Inside the vision of the glasses, people are following the guidelines and social distancing. They are getting vaccinated and facetiming instead of seeing their friends face-to-face.

THROUGH THE ROSE COLORED GLASS

ART

Two Sides

submission and image by Anthony Reyna

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This image depicts what it’s like experiencing overstimulation for a person living with autism. The man in the middle is my brother. I took inspiration from what my sister and brother, who both have autism, said that makes them uncomfortable like loud noises, social queues, physical touch, and large crowds. The other side is more fluent and shows that the things they

do impact them positively, whether it becomes an obsession with animals or music. Knowing this information helps piece together how some people in our society on the spectrum react to certain things. As a group, we can identify what’s happening to either stop what is triggering them or help them enjoy what they like doing even when it seems unorthodox.

TWO SIDES

Section 2 22 Take Heart

28 DARE to Live a Long, Healthy

24 Letter to Congress

Life NOW! Diet, Appreciate,

26 Dear Passed-Out Man in the

Rest & Relax, Exercise.

Urgent Care Waiting Room

32 Dear Public Health

collage by Bianca Kipp

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SECTION 2

Take Heart 22

coll

age

by B ianc

ipp

submission by Ujunwa Onyeama

LETTERS

Fast forward several years later and only two of his seven children remain. My father—Mohay

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Perhaps I should have chosen a title more upbeat —was the last one to pass, a year ago. The story and less morbid. I could, but it’s probably best is the same for most of them—heart disease that I don’t—you know, for authenticity's sake. with modifiable risk factors. Top of the list— smoking. Still, the murmurs about enemies I've heard those two words—take and juju persisted. heart—more times than I can remember in the past year. Personally, I consider magic and, more specifically, juju as an excuse to avoid searching for a valid There are not many reasons for peo- explanation. It’s easier to blame that than to emple to say these words to you. It's usually bark on a medical journey of genome sequencing heard when people are trying to comfort or genetic testing for familial cardiomyopathy. you after a tree falls through your window or when you lose a loved one. In my case, This situation mirrors the harsh realities of a it was the latter—feels like I drew the short lackadaisical public health system. The curstraw, huh; I would have preferred the tree! rent public health scene in my country, Nigeria, essentially looks something along the lines of Now, let's go back to the beginning. This isn't "Doctors treat, but God heals." There’s not a lot as far back as “Let there be light,” or “the Big of space for public health. Bang.” We’re only going as far back as 1998. The year I wish my family had embraced the In my father’s case, I wish there was somepublic health movement. Full disclosure—I was one I could blame. Off the top of my head, only a little over a year old then, so I was defi- I think Big Pharma? Cigarette companies? nitely not thinking about public health or much The vaping and e-cigarette clan or even the of anything back then. Still, can’t a girl dream? juju mongers of our time? Although, maybe he should have taken more responsibility for When my grandfather died at the age of 50, he his health and dropped the narrative of just wasn’t exactly in tip-top health. He was 40 lbs being a social smoker. overweight and a chain smoker. The cause of death was cardiac arrest. However, we live in There are many Mohays walking around, sub-Saharan Africa, the part that is big on voo- maybe not in the cigarette and heart disease doo and juju stories. Never mind that we have sense, but in some way. If there’s one thing I’ve state-of-the-art facilities, airports, international learned, it’s that everyone has a part to play trade, and even microwave popcorn. Still, the in their health. A bit of advice—make a constory was that “his enemies did him in.” scious decision for your health. Because I am partial to people with heart conditions, I say, take heart.

TAKE HEART

SECTION 2

Letter to Congress submission by Nia Johnson

ISSUE 1

Dear Congress, I have literally heard pregnant Black women tell me they are scared to deliver because they have heard that Black mothers are more likely to die giving birth than white mothers. They’ve heard horror stories of women’s concerns not being taken seriously leading to pregnancy complications. And they’re not wrong. In this country [the United States], Black women are 3x more likely to die from pregnancy than white women. These racial disparities persist among income and education levels. In fact, Black women with some college education had higher pregnancy-related mortality ratios than every other racial group with less than a high school diploma.These facts are heart wrenching. Why is it so dangerous for Black women to give birth? Bringing life into this world is supposed to be a joyous time, but these statistics and stories of women not being heard in the delivery room bring fear. There could be many explanations for this, from the structural causes that make it difficult for pregnant women to receive consistent care, to racism that causes stress and negative effects on the body, to providers not listening to pregnant women’s concerns. These issues run so deep; it’s hard to know where we even begin. One thing we do know is that doulas have been shown to combat disparities in maternal health. Doulas are trained professionals that provide emotional support, encouragement, and empowerment to women before, during, and after birth. Research shows that women who had doulas were more likely to have improved health outcomes for themselves and babies including lower rates of c-sections and fewer low-birth weight babies. So it seems like we already have a solution. The problem? There is no federal mandate for Medicaid to pay for doula care. While maternal health disparities do not discriminate against income level, low-income women are most at-risk for poor birth outcomes. While affluent Black mothers may be able to afford the priceless emotional support from a doula, a low-income mother could not. If Medicaid provided coverage for doula services, then more women would be afforded the opportunity to have doulas, meaning more women would be afforded the opportunity to live and have healthier births. Looking at the problem at large is quite intimidating. What can we do? Professional doulas have already proven to be a solution. What we can do is make sure that their services are accessible for all. What you can do is pass legislation to reduce fear of birth for Black women in this country. Looking forward to change, A Black Woman 24

LETTER TO CONGRESS

illustration by Madelyn Hernandez

Dear Passed-Out Man in the Urgent Care Waiting Room

illustration by William Sabb

submission by Remi Recchia

LETTERS

Dear Passed-Out Man in the Urgent Care Waiting Room,

You are sitting on an uncomfortable chair, mouth gaping open, eyes shut fast. I know better than to ask if you’re dreaming. Two policemen accompany you. They’re smirking slightly—have they brought you in before? Have they memorized your wife’s cell phone number? Excuse me, ma’am, they’ll drawl, too familiar with her voice to sugarcoat the reason behind the call, "We have your husband here at Methodist Hospital again. Yep. Drunk as a skunk. We’ll wait with him until you come get him. Yep. You bet." An imagined tip of the hat.

My research tells me that one in twelve men are like us: that one in twelve men won’t stop, and then, when we finally want to, can’t stop. One in twelve men gets carried off into the stream of addiction. One in twelve wives stops staying up. She turns the porch light off after eleven.

LIGHT MAGAZINE

You’re not snoring. I’m surprised. I used to snore when I was like you. My wife says my breathing quietened when I got sober.

I wonder how many more nights you’ll spend like this before waking up. Will your wife divorce you? Will your children disown you? Premature wrinkles caress your eyes; your skin is already yellowed. I can’t tell how old you are. I try not to stare as I exit the waiting room—my own problem benign enough to be discharged—but I can’t help looking back. I’m an Orpheus, and you’re my Eurydice. I just want to share the sun.

Yours, A Previously Passed-Out Man

DEAR PASSED-OUT MAN

SECTION 2

DARE to Live a Long, Healthy Life NOW! Diet, Appreciate, Rest & Relax, Exercise. submission by Iris Cross

Dear Citizens:

ISSUE 1

It’s the first of June already! Soon it’ll be the start of a new year, a time when we often try to bury old, unfavorable habits and replace them with new, wholesome ones. We need to sit up and note the sound advice the Health Ministry has been offering because it can’t be business as usual. Enough is enough!

a health statistic. An online survey published on June 14, 2016, shows that we are more concerned about crime (48%), traffic (27%), and corruption (27%) than healthcare (18%). The health situation doesn’t evoke the same fear, anxiety, and concern in us as does crime. And it should, since we’re more likely to die early from a CNCD than a criminal act. The Dynamites are exploding in our country chances of being robbed of our good health [Trinidad and Tobago]. They’re ripping or dying from a lifestyle disease are far greater families apart, tearing through communities, than being attacked, robbed, or murdered by a and wreaking havoc with our economy. I’m knife-wielding, gun-toting criminal. talking about Chronic Non-Communicable Diseases (CNCDs), commonly called lifestyle “Something‘s got to kill you. You can’t live forever.” diseases. I’m writing to ask if you’ll partner That’s true. Nothing is certain but death and with me to defuse this dynamite bomb because taxes. Why make it easy for the Grim Reaper to I can’t do it on my own. take us away? These diseases, in most cases, are preventable, if we’d only make adjustments to our Have you checked health headlines lately? In lifestyle. Still, death is only half the story. CNCDs one word: Alarming! We’ve lost many citizens bring much discomfort, suffering, and heartache to cancer, diabetes, stroke, heart attack, and to the entire family long before we take our final kidney disease. I’m sure you’ve had a relative, breath. Who wants to live such a compromised friend, neighbor, colleague, or acquaintance life, if we can indeed call it “living”? who has died prematurely (not yet 70 yrs) from these so-called lifestyle diseases. Were it not for We must learn to take better care of our health. this menace, they might still be alive, contributing In partnering with me, our mission (should you positively to our society, and enriching our lives in DARE to accept it) is to live a long, healthy their inimitable way. life—starting NOW. It’s never too late. To do this, all you need is your Passport to Good I understand most of us are more concerned Health Logbook plus a heaping spoonful of with national security and becoming a crime determination. Won’t you come on board and statistic than with national health and becoming start the journey with me? Sincerely, Fellow citizen and partner in health Here’s to Good Health!

DARE TO LIVE A LONG, HEALTHY LIFE NOW!

illustration by Madelyn Hernandez

Your turn: How might you DARE to live a long and healthy life NOW? Use the space below to journal your thoughts.

Dear Public Health submission by Kara Zivin

LETTERS

More work remains to eliminate barriers to accessing high-quality, affordable care, such as addressing stigma, increasing availability of mental health providers, and decreasing both

LIGHT MAGAZINE

illustration by Malik Burch

As the daughter of a physician-scientist, I ab- cost-sharing requirements and persistent racial sorbed tales of my father’s patient care experi- disparities in disease detection and treatment. ences and research studies designed to reduce population suffering. From my father’s perspective on health care reform, I perceived a need to make an economic Unlike his colleagues who focused on whether argument for improving public mental health. national health insurance would decrease This case would illustrate that businesses lose clinician salaries, he taught me that we make billions of dollars annually from lost work choices about how to allocate care, either productivity from untreated or ineffectively explicitly or implicitly. managed mental illness. But I loathed justifying treatment for mental health conditions; we do In that context, I aimed to evaluate the impact not make parallel arguments about paying for of policies on community mental health. I treating heart disease or cancer. can still see myself standing at a payphone in July 1999 after my first day of an introductory For years, I did not say publicly that my mental health policy course at the Harvard School health fueled my professional objectives. Yet a of Public Health, where I announced I would severe case of depression, anxiety, and insomnia pursue a career in public health. flattened me during my pregnancy, which reshaped my perspective. After becoming a I enrolled in a master’s degree program, PhD, mother, I cowered in shame and guilt for years, postdoctoral fellowship, and became a professor. yet knew I could not remain silent. I secured federal, state, and foundation funding, published nearly 200 peer-reviewed I sought to make meaning from my experiences publications, and testified before Congress. as a patient through personal narrative My work addresses intended and unintended and to link them to public health change. consequences of policies on access, quality, and Audiences became interested in my work, not costs of care, and the impact on clinicians of based on statistics, but when hearing that I meeting needs of older adults, military Veterans, nearly succumbed to suicide and survived. I and pregnant and postpartum individuals. used my expertise and privilege to address taboo subjects, such as mental illness during In my lifetime, we have experienced profound pregnancy and systemic racism that fuels changes in US healthcare delivery that improved maternal morbidity and mortality. access to prevention and treatment for mental health and substance use conditions through laws My last communication with my father before such as the Mental Health Parity and Addiction his unexpected death in 2018 included sharing Equity Act of 2008 and the Patient Protection that I received a grant to address unmet mental and Affordable Care Act of 2010. health needs of pregnant and postpartum people. He would appreciate my commitment to you, Dear Public Health, to providing data and story to address a multigenerational public health challenge.

DEAR PUBLIC HEALTH

Section 3

36 Fingerprint 38 Twenty Twenty-Two at Eighteen 40 My Fireflies In A Jar 42 Hitting the Nail on the Head 44 Screaming

collage by Bianca Kipp

Fingerprint submission by Mark Chartier

In this dream, I’m 10 years old again, lying next to my grandmother, the person in a position of trust. I’m on her left, naked. Her body budges, shunting the covers, speaking in confessions, voyeuristic phrases, the avatar of her hand, obtund, jaundiced with Formaldehyde cocoons my private part while I lie there in a state of inertia she continues adjusting boob-ing into my back. She clucks in my ear, “You’re my affliction.” I’m sandwiched by phallic flies every one, an itch infidel of fault, as she sprouts seven limbs from her side, mummied hands each one tarantula-ing me, criminalizing my body, as they lather my soul’s skin. Her abdomen opens, to swallow me like a piece of candy gungy, sugared to inclemency, encumbering me to her gravity.

I’m reaching through the walls, screaming through my dream, Daddy! Daddy! I’m in the outside now, an epilogue of panic. The reuptake and antagonism of neurotransmitters as I rinse through the puddle of the prescription pills that have become my own pretty fiction, that the haunt and the harm can be comic stripped ornamenting my least restrictive impairment, a false pathology adjunct to her carnal denervation. She is no longer ash in the “sinus of God” to me. She is a lesson panhandling paraphernalia for an appetite that someday the little-boy me who woke up in the middle of the night with enuresis soaking my Superman PJ’s will index the cold whispers’ say, You are not your trauma; You are not your disabilities. Purpose yourself. The cogent argument that every injury, every recovery like a fingerprint of assimilating the white noise of her middle-night touch to my nail-biting, hand-to-mouth addiction of hope.

FINGERPRINT

illustration by Morenike Olusanya

is idiosyncratic

SECTION 3

Twenty Twenty -Two

at Eighteen

ISSUE 1

submission by Michaela Perkel

The womb of the earth is ticking A clock? A bomb? The planet is pregnant, celebrate Her baby is rotten They say to tell a big story You tell a small one instead A shining apple Beneath her red skin crawl a million tiny worms Feasting Ticking away at their tasty home I interviewed a worm once, as she ate You are killing it, I told her, from the inside out The stem will break soon, It’s a far way to fall from the branch of an apple tree She did not seem to mind The sound of a billion tiny mouths crunching a billion tiny bites The others won’t stop eating Why should she? Soon they will succumb to gravity’s embrace Tragedy Is an apple small enough? Can you hear the ticking? The earth is pregnant, I told you Parasites are children too Can you see what you are doing? The ticking.

POETRY

TWENTY TWENTY-TWO AT EIGHTEEN

LIGHT MAGAZINE

illustration by Morenike Olusanya

Let me phrase it another way When the stem breaks We will all fall. Don’t go, the poem is not over, a change of pace A lost worm begs for your attention She says, I belong with rock art Dancing in a cave Orange light flickering Tavern rock walls thrumming I belong with the heat The sweat of a horse charging beneath me Green flying overhead The shock of icy water is where I belong As my body submerges, round mirror clear My soul is yearning. The fish do not flee when I dive in But not here Here Here we are choked by concrete Our minds are drilled into by the tick Tick tick Of the clocks that move us like puppets I am terrified Surrounded Suffocated It is so far from how we are meant to exist Why have we created this? Why have you created this? Why is a world imposed Where my friends are on pills to keep them here Barely out of childhood before wanting to die We are killing more than just the polar bears Crisis of the soul Why did we make this? The apple is falling Tick tick tick Soon it will hit the ground.

submission by Ava Beahn

My greatest fears once were Super tall heights Bugs in my sight When the darkness sat with no lights Monsters under the bed The things heard and stories that I read Never thought it would be the voice inside my head. Fears now come from Having to give information from my core Purchasing things in stores Being asked to present a little more Laughter behind my back Back feeling as if it will be attacked

POETRY

Attacked by everyone around me, all in a pack on track to attack. The questions of, “Why are you so shy?” “You look like you are about to cry.” “Why do you never reply?” Throat closing up, and pulled like a rope, tight Body tries to push the words out, trying to get words out of my soul right But there’s nothing there, nothing in site Fear of failure and judgment has erased the fight. Nerves pounding, playing ball games in my brain Unable to tell if it’s sweat or tears dripping down my face Why does this happen, oh, I feel so insane My fireflies are very much awake Fragile hands begin to shake

LIGHT MAGAZINE

My brain and soul beginning to bruise and pain

Shake seeming to cause a quake Face turns into a bright red ache All eyes on me if I make even the slightest mistake. I wish to keep my fireflies in a glass jar A jar that is distanced and afar Under a dark sheet of cloth of debris Fireflies lighting up, but only for certain to see Wanting to be free But unable to find the right key illustration by Morenike Olusanya

Flutter when someone comes along But I push the flutters down to where they “belong” So next time you see me around, or in class Remember that I struggle to let my fireflies out of the glass.

MY FIREFLIES IN A JAR

Hitting the Nail on the Head submission by Rose Heflin

POETRY

He was always saying, “You hit the nail on the head, kid!” through his gold tooth, fire in his belly laugh, so often I was left to wonder if the poor nail was permanently concussed. Slowly, though, he stopped talking and started muttering to himself about times long ago, as though they were yesterday, confused, all the while, about the present.

LIGHT MAGAZINE

in classic construction idioms

Eventually, he stopped talking, period, and I stopped wondering about nails as he started to wander off, opting to worry about him instead of hardware. Someone once said that illustration by Morenike Olusanya

dementia is a cruel fate for both the sufferer and their loved ones. They certainly hit the nail on the head.

HITTING THE NAIL ON THE HEAD

SECTION 3

submi

ssion b

y Mo

nty J oyne s

ISSUE 1

There is starvation. Starvation, I tell you, and hunger absolute for destitute souls that remain foreign to our neighborhood. There is bone deep pain. Pain, I tell you, quivering in the dark of far away places my family cannot name or even conceive.

We are overwhelmed. Overwhelmed, I tell you, by waves of disbelief cresting in denial that flood our vocal chords and choke us into silence. There is screaming. Screaming, I tell you, that reaches no ears.

SCREAMING

illustration by Morenike Olusanya

We are beyond hope. Hope is lost, I tell you, for any salvation that we can deliver to people we don’t know or less imagine.

Section 4

48 Safe Here 50 What Florence Nightingale

Could Tell Us About Long Covid

54 A Journey to Living 60 Like One Fish Chasing the Other 66 The Harm in Healing

SECTION 4

Safe Here submission by Erinn Caley

ISSUE 1

She looked at me with earnest hazel eyes above the glowing moon-shells of her little girl cheeks, and said, “Mama, I wish we could be immortal together.”

Fast and silent, this small spot can move out and then down, down, past my epidermis, rooting into the dermis and then the layers beneath, splintering orderly cells into chaos, and then Two weeks later, I was diagnosed with melanoma. sending that chaos out into lymph nodes, from which it may find many new homes. I noticed a small spot on a mole I’ve had Melanoma can become life-threatening all my life, one of hundreds. I don’t even in as little as six weeks. see them usually, as I’ve always been marked by these pinpricks of erratic And now, mere days and an eternity constellations. But that Saturday morning, later, a vicious line of stitches extends a mole on my thigh was bleeding in the six inches down my thigh, hugged by middle. Did I catch this on something? I green and purple bruising. The removal can’t have shaved this off; I rarely shave was surreal, gray walls and a kind nurse in the winter. A few days later, there was a who liked my earrings, dozens of cotton hard black bit in the center. Was it a scab? balls soaked with my blood, the office Or something more sinister? I woke from playlist swinging through calming and a dream that night in a cold sweat, with a clearly medically appropriate gems like sudden vision of me dying, of leaving my "Margaritaville" and "Sexual Healing" daughter motherless. while I tried not to hyperventilate. The doctor who wielded the scalpel seemed cautiously optimistic that they removed all of the cancer, but in a week or so, I’ll know more. They’ll snip out these sutures and excise another mole, this time on the other leg. And on and But ten days later, when the stitches were on, until they’ve got everything. They removed, I was given the results: two were will chart each little star on the sky of my precancerous (dysplastic nevi with severe to skin and decide which contain the seeds moderate atypia) and one was melanoma. of chaos. And my soft, pale form will be The most deadly form of skin cancer. marked by these creamy spider scars.

illustration by Bianca Kipp

I requested an appointment, and three moles were biopsied. The doctor said they were probably nothing, but he’d take samples if I wanted. Nothing much to worry about, right?

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It is jarring to look down at these small brown spots and feel my body at war with herself. What walls could ever keep me safe when my very skin is a threat?

my abdomen, and to my trembling chest, to whisper, “You are good. I will not hurt you. You're safe here.”

And I have learned to trust this body of mine, to embrace and honor her, too. This body of mine has changed many I have learned to use kind times. She has rounded and sagged, she has drawn in pain and metabolized it words to and about her... and made of it something clean and comforting, something that can fold you in close to me, no sharp edges. Warm. And I have learned to trust this body of mine, to embrace and honor her, too. I have learned to use kind words to and about her, not just in front of my child, but in front of the mirror. I do not try to shrink myself anymore. Not my voice or my needs or my thighs. This is how much space I need. I have learned to press my hands to the stretch marks on

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I am finding it a troubling thing to look at the When I was younger, I looked at this body moles on my skin and see them as separate of mine with such a critical eye—this bit from me, each one described grimly by too big, these others too small or pale or my dermatologist as “an opportunity for curly. Everything was wrong, and I could cancer.” I have to breathe deep and choose only be worthy if I tirelessly reshaped her. not to turn my back on this body I have fought so hard to reclaim. But now, when I meet the wide eyes of my eight-year-old, my breath catches at the I remember once listening to the words miracle of her skin and her crooked teeth, of an old man whose body was failing. He and it breaks my heart to think she might said, “You have to treat your body like it’s ever look at her own form with shame. So a fragile lover that you adore.” I have promised myself to teach her how to love her own body and to do that by We can't make ourselves immortal, no loving mine, as is. matter how much we might wish it. And we cannot keep the chaos from sneaking When she says something about the size of in unbidden. But we can do this. We can my body, I smile and say, “Isn’t it wonderful how bodies are all different? And all bodies are good bodies. I love how soft my body is, how good it is at hugging you.”

try to love what we have—the life that is ours to tend and the ones we get to hold close—with as much tenderness and fierceness as we can. We can breathe. A little deeper for our terrifying fragility. So I gently clean the sutures, spread ointment on the ridges, and cover them with bandages. I relax the hardness around my eyes that wants to scan myself with suspicion again. One hand soft on my leg, one soft over my heart. You’re safe here. You’re safe here.

SAFE HERE

What Florence Nightingale Could Tell Us About Long Covid

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submission by Jodie Vinson

As the world celebrated the 200th birthday of Florence Nightingale in May 2020—even as the Nightingale Museum in London shut its doors to the pandemic, and a new emergency hospital took her name—a flurry of articles revealed our debt to the nurse as a pioneer in public health. Nightingale, we learned, was more than a pale face illuminated by lantern light, one hand raised against the darkness, the other poised to wipe a brow.

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After convincing her father to allow her to study mathematics, Nightingale brought her statistical knowledge to bear on the conditions she encountered on the Crimean War front—where 16,323 of the war’s 21,097 deaths were caused by disease rather than bullets. Nightingale published her research in coxcombs, prismatic pinwheels of data that brought into clear relief the correlation between sanitation and mortality. It’s not difficult to trace a line from her dynamic diagrams to the graphs that communicated Covid rates around the globe in 2020, and which, a year later, tracked the rise and then panning off of vaccinations. As we continued to learn about the virus, we learned more about Nightingale. When Covid-19 was discovered to be transmitted through the air, Nightingale was again conjured, as an advocate for well-ventilated hospitals, designed with a window in each room. Her ideas were based on now-outdated theories, such as miasma—the belief that diseases were caused by noxious fumes, and as germ theory took hold in the late 19th century, Nightingale’s airy pavilions would be replaced by hospitals that made room for labs. But her keen observations remain relevant today, as, faced with the threat of airborne transmission, public venues examine HVAC systems, restaurants spill on to sidewalks, state governments adopt slogans like “Take It Outside.” illustration by Bianca Kipp

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While Nightingale has been receiving long overdue attention, aspects of her life have been left out of the limelight. In school I never learned that, in addition to soothing brows, it was Nightingale’s statistical data and postwar push for reform that saved lives. I was never taught that her opinion was sought by architects around the world—that the king of Portugal asked her advice on a hospital he wished built in honor of his wife. But I was also never told that much of her advocacy work was done from her sickbed. That, upon returning from Crimea, Nightingale would be bedridden with a mysterious, chronic illness for the next 30 years.

14-day prognosis, Nightingale’s ordeal may sound familiar. The up to 2.5 million patients the CDC estimates suffer from Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, or those searching for answers to Post-Treatment Lyme Disease, will understand how a brief encounter with a virus or bacteria—a spike in fever, a sudden bout of illness—can trigger years of debilitating symptoms.

To the millions of patients whose symptoms following a Covid infection have lingered well beyond the initial

Those who contracted Covid in early 2020, and who continue to experience its consequences, will recognize this

But in Nightingale’s time, and in the decades that followed her death in 1910, little was understood about her condition. Her doctors called it neurasthenia—an obsolete term for a nervous disorder—and A few days after her 35th birthday, in assigned bedrest. Her biographers May of 1855, Nightingale collapsed speculated that Nightingale’s malady with what her doctor called the worst was psychological—that she was case of Crimean fever he’d encountered. overcome with guilt over the lives lost While she survived the acute illness, in Crimea, citing the repeated scrawls when Nightingale returned home, her of “never forget” across the nurse’s family barely recognized her. In 1857 blotting paper, or alleged that she she’d relapse, and the ensuing decades faked her illness to gain distance from would bring recurring symptoms aggravating relationships with her such as fatigue, heart palpitations, mother and sister, or to give herself depression, and sciatica. more time to write.

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dismissal of Nightingale’s long illness. Since the advent of germ theory, medicine has relied on labs over patient testimony. Many struggling with Covid’s long-term effects—such as dysregulation of the autonomic nervous system, chest pain, brain fog and overwhelming bouts of fatigue, symptoms that can’t be seen on X-ray, scan or slide—have, like Nightingale, faced doctors’ disbelief. Despite the CDC’s belated acknowledgement of Post-Acute Sequalae of Sars-CoV-2, some still do.

The stories we’ve been told about Nightingale prefer the savior narrative over that of staid statistician, the tale of a compassionate nurse over the

Just as the Crimean War took thousands more lives than such a crisis warranted, the millions of deaths attributed to Covid-19 were preventable losses we should never forget. In their wake, there is work to do, even if many must do it from our sick beds. Devastated by the pandemic, our medical system has a chance to be rebuilt better than before, to emerge wiser and more compassionate from this crisis. Those experiencing the long-term fall out of a Covid-19 infection may not get answers for some time. But if, while we wait for science to catch up with our experience, stories like Nightingale’s continue to draw attention to a system intended to heal but which itself is in need of much mending, there is hope for us all to begin our recovery.

WHAT FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE COULD TELL US

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In 1995 an article in the British Medical Journal would posthumously link Nightingale’s long illness to chronic brucellosis—a zoonotic disease often transmitted through goats’ milk. Her symptoms, David Young argues in the report, were consistent with cases in which the causal agent, a bacteria called Brucella melitensis, had been cultured from the blood. But because the study of the tdisease was contemporary with her illness, Nightingale never received the benefit of diagnosis, treatment, or even a physician’s belief.

invalid’s complaint. But when we gloss over the nuances of the famous nurse’s life, we trade invaluable lessons in public health for inspirational icon. While many of Nightingale’s unsung achievements have begun to be recognized as relevant in our current health crisis, her chronic illness has been overlooked. And yet the story of her strange malady, and its treatment at the hands of her doctors, reveals a lesson in public health we have yet to learn: the value of patient testimony.

A Journey to Living submission by Sherry Comstock

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I don’t condone attaching labels to people, especially “normal”. However, that is how many clients described the life they wanted. I’ve changed Abigail’s name and other identifying features.

A JOURNEY TO LIVING

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illustrations by Jana Renée "A Journey to Living 1"

When I first started seeing Abigail, her para- musty smell permeates the apartment. The noia prevented her from interacting with trash can is overflowing. A stack of books sits many individuals. Her voices repeatedly on the floor by the couch. told her, “You’re not good enough,” or “You can’t trust them.” She was about sixty-seven “Thanks for seeing me. Sorry I woke you. and very thin. Early on, I asked her what she I’ve got your shot.” wanted her life to look like. She told me, “I want a normal life. I don’t want people to While preparing her injection, I menthink of me as the old lady schizophrenic. I tion information about some of the newer want to have friends and go to church again.” long-acting injectable antipsychotic medications again. I have concerns about the risk Abigail lived in a small group of apartments of side effects from her current medication set up for individuals with mental illness. A and hope she’ll agree to a change. Abigail resident coordinator arranged shopping doesn’t want to take more pills. trips, supervised the complex and was a support when needed. It was a quiet community “My primary gives me enough of them. I renestled among single-family homes. member we talked about them before. Which do you think would be best?” In the beginning, our visits often went like this. I knock loudly on the door and admire “Both of the ones we spoke about would be the potted flowers on the porch as I wait. excellent. One is better at not causing weight The blinds are tightly closed at 1230 in the gain in most people. Why don’t I schedule a afternoon. After waiting a few minutes, I meeting with the psychiatrist?” knock again. Abigail tilts her head to peer at me around the door; she’s only opened it “Okay. Just tell me when he’s coming.” a small crack. “I will.” “Oh, it’s you! Come in. I was taking a nap.” After I’ve given the injection, I sit beside her Abigail opens the door a little more, enough at the table, so I can supervise as she sets up for me to get inside. Cautiously, she looks her pill box for the next week. Abigail breezes around the door and into the courtyard be- through this with no problems. She informs fore closing it. Even as she walks, Abigail me she would like to have a male friend but draws herself inward, as if she’s trying to is anxious about talking to people. We discuss make herself small. With disheveled hair and safe places to meet people: her neighbors rumpled clothing, she looks like she’s been in here in the apartment complex, church, or bed for several days. All the lights are off. A the senior center she goes to once a week.

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We also talk about nutrition and ways to prepare healthy meals because she’s scared to use the stove. As we talk, her eyes dart all around the room as if she’s looking for something in the corners. We agree to meet every two weeks and work on meal preparation. As I get ready to leave, she tells me she wants to work out a system to keep her home neater. I told her it’s something we can work on together.

sleep so I wouldn’t hear them. Talking with my therapist helps, too.”

She smiles as she steps back to let me enter the apartment.

We talk about consent and her not feeling pressured into having an intimate relationship. I give her a few condoms and let her know I regularly keep some in my nursing bag.

During the health screening, Abigail tells me she’s been seeing someone for several months and is thinking about having an intimate relationship with him. Even now with a sensitive topic, Abigail makes good eye contact. His name is Michael. She giggles, “He’s about seven years younger than I am.” He lives nearA year later, at my visit for her annual health by. They met while he was visiting one of her screening, I knock on the door and wait a few neighbors. We talk about how aging bodies minutes. Besides the plants I’m accustomed to can affect sexual activity and the risk of sexulooking at, there are two chairs and a small ta- ally transmitted illnesses. ble on the porch. The blinds are open. Abigail opens the door and is standing taller. She’s “Yes, I remember a girlfriend told me about difstyled her hair, and she’s wearing a casual top ferent lubricants you can get at the drugstore.” and skirt. An impish grin covers her face. “At least I don’t have to worry about being pregnant. But “Oh, I’m glad it’s you!” I’ll use the condoms.”

“I knew y’all would come today because it’s on my calendar. I wasn’t sure it would be you.” “I’m glad I get to see you today. Do you have time for your health screening?”

“I’ll see you in a couple of weeks for your injection.” “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

“Oh, sure. Did you like the porch? I’ve been sitting out there a lot.” Over the next few years, I continue to visit Abigail two or three times a month. The streaks “The porch looks great. So does your apart- of silver in her dark hair have grown wider, but ment. You’ve been working hard.” the short bob she adopted was constantly neat. She walks in her neighborhood and has a few “I’ve been using the schedule we worked out. I other friends. She’s more comfortable in the don’t feel so overwhelmed, doing some clean- kitchen and her weight is more appropriate. ing each day. That and the mindfulness to keep the voices down makes it easier. It was tough Most of the time, she makes her own doctors’ when they were so negative. I just wanted to appointments and arranges transportation.

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My visits with her are to give her monthly injection, do her annual health screening and provide affirmation on her progress. She remains happy in her relationship with Michael and has met his family. Regularly, she tells me about the latest mystery she has read.

feelings. She puts the suicide prevention number on her calendar and promises to call us for support as she needs it. We agree the team would step up the frequency of our visits.

“It is hard. I don’t know what to do. He talks “Oh, I don't really know. Why didn’t he call me?” about life not being worthwhile.” She’s sobbing now. “Continue to be there for him. That’s important. Encourage him to talk to his doctor. Do “Maybe he was trying to protect you?” you still feel safe with him?” We don’t talk much at first. Abigail cries on “Oh yes, he has never talked about hurting oth- my shoulder as we sit on the couch. I pat her er people. I just wish I could make it better.” back and let her cry it out.

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A few weeks later, her boyfriend took his life. Abigail wasn’t with him. His family came by During a late winter visit, Abigail tells me Mi- to tell her. She called our crisis line the evechael is having more symptoms and having trou- ning she found out. ble adjusting to his new medications. He is not one of our clients. She is worried about him. “I’m okay right now, but I’d like a visit tomorrow. Michael died today. There’s a friend from “We used to meditate when we got together, church with me.” but it doesn’t seem to help now. Michael says the voices never shut up, and his medication Abigail is on the porch as I park the car. She puts him to sleep. So, he won’t take them. He waves, tries to smile and her face crumples. feels there’s no answer.” “Just come on in,” she calls out and goes into her apartment. I follow not far behind. “This must be so difficult to be on the outside, trying to support someone. How are you doing?” “I’m so sorry, Abigail. How are you?”

“You understand, he has to do this himself. Let “Sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like that.” him know you care. How about you? Stress increases symptoms sometimes.” “It’s okay. Crying is good for us sometimes. Better to express what we’re feeling than force “No. I’m doing good. The voices stay in the ourselves to be in control all the time.” background like they do most of the time now. I know how to deal with that. As much as I “When his brother told me, I couldn’t believe want to help him, I have to take care of myself.” it at first. I was so furious with Michael. How could he do this? I’m still kinda mad. I could We talk a while longer as she processes her have helped or got him to see someone.”

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“It’s okay to be angry. You feel he stopped you from helping him.”

After we talk a while, I call the doctor so he could talk with her as well. They agree not to make any treatment changes right now. Abigail would tell us if she had any increase in symptoms. She agreed it would be better to grieve “Yeah, my pastor called, and we won’t have without her feelings being numbed by medica- in-person services for a while. One of our contion. Abigail met regularly with her therapist. gregation members is in the hospital. I’ll miss church, but I’ll read my Bible. He hopes we can The rise in COVID-19 cases in North Caro- have outdoor sermons, eventually.” lina transform the way my office sees clients. We begin doing telehealth visits when possi- Abigail was among the first of my clients to get ble. For some, this works well. Abigail’s un- her COVID-19 vaccine when they became availcomfortable if she can’t see you while you’re able. She scheduled the appointment for vaccitalking. She also prefers to talk indoors, as she nation and arranged transportation. It was clear was always concerned someone might listen she was ready for outpatient care. She agreed. to the conversation, not so much paranoia as a need for privacy. On my last visit with her, we go over the details of her upcoming consultation with her At least twice a week, I visit Abigail in per- new mental health provider. I notice she still son. My personal protective equipment, face displays the photograph Michael’s family had mask, face shield and isolation gown didn’t given her recently. As she speaks of him, her disturb her like I thought it would. Her first voice conveys happiness tinged with sadness. reaction is to laugh and then express concern for my comfort. “We were great together. He was the better cook. So, he cooked, and I cleaned up. Some“Aren’t you uncomfortable wearing that? Is the times we’d just sit and read. I’m glad I met him virus that bad?” when I did.” “It gets a little hot sometimes. We don’t un- After going over some paperwork, we head derstand how fast or easily the virus spreads. toward the door. Some people can get extremely sick, and some die. Since I have to be closer than the “Keep taking care of yourself.” rest of the team during my visits, I wear all this. I don’t want anyone to get sick.” “I will. It’s part of being normal.”

"A Journey to Living 2"

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“Yes. It’s only a day, and I miss him so much.”

She’s receptive to wearing a face covering, staying six feet apart when she’s out in public and washing her hands frequently. I leave her a mask and explain she should be careful to keep it clean until we could get more into the office. I stress scientists are working to develop a vaccine, but until then, it would be better to avoid crowds.

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To keep on breathing—it’s all she wanted. When my wife Stella was diagnosed with breast cancer, she first turned to her trusted medical practitioners. Without exception, they formed a compassionate and skilled team that provided needed guidance. Like many who are struck by sickness, Stella soon became a student of her illness. The more Stella found out about her cancer, the more she wanted to know about it.

Somebody in one of our support groups suggested that both of us should try qigong, the 4000-year-old Chinese health practice that involved body movement, breathing and meditation. We learned about the ancient concept of Qi—the life force—and we executed complicated movements with imagined boars, snakes and panthers. Before long, I noticed that our daily morning routine helped start the day. It was especially noticeable in Stella who seemed to gain more resolve and even more energy.

Stella was much more diligent and dedicated than I was. Too often, I performed the morning ritual without full commitment. I was a worried husband and my wife’s primary carer, so my mind was often on other things. I did Stella wanted to know why she got cancer not have the discipline that Stella had in the first place. Stella had been healthy, as she carefully replicated each ancient had never smoked, and had watched her form and so elegantly conducted each diet meticulously. Stella thought if she movement. I often miscounted, skipped could isolate the reasons why she got ahead, or shuffled reluctantly on my sick, she could address them. She was flat feet. Any glitch in Stella’s lab work frustrated to learn that medical science could disrupt my focus, but such a does not fully understand all the reasons negative report would prompt even more why the regulation of cells sometimes concentration in Stella. I would watch breaks down. Over time, why she got her her from the corner of my eye and note cancer didn’t matter as much as how to her grace and seamless transition from vanquish it. Stella knew that modern one position to the other. I watched Stella medicine provided life-saving treatments, as she summoned up age-old strokes of but she also knew it didn’t hold all the life, repeated by millions for centuries,

LIKE ONE FISH CHASING THE OTHER

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High school science had already taught her that our cells—millions and millions of them—are replaced continually and are meant to be precisely in sync. New cells are only made as needed. No more. No less. There is a natural equilibrium, only noticeable when something goes wrong. If conditions are wrong enough, a cancer cell can develop, grow and spread.

answers. So, Stella explored other ways of looking at health and healing.

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and duplicated by Stella right before me. Some silent, internal rhythm of old souls seemed to accompany her like dance music. Stella danced so well. “Traditional” Chinese medical beliefs claim that we are much more than the sum of our parts. Our numerous physical components can be named and studied of course, but they can only be understood in relation

other things and to the universe as a whole. Nothing exists on its own, but only in relationship to something else. As it is with objects in the natural world, so it is with people. Historically, the Chinese character for Yin symbolizes the dark or shaded side of a slope Yang, in contrast, is the sunny side. These concepts are opposite, but they are interdependent and, according to the Chinese, they embrace the entirety of existence.

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Our numerous One of my favorite souvenirs comes physical components from our time in Singapore, when teaching there and can be named and wewherewereStella’sbothbreast cancer was first discovered. An antique from old China, studied of course, the bookcase is more like an enclosed cabinet about the size of a clothes dryer but they can only be and is intricately carved with gold guild. The hefty wooden item was used understood in relation to house school books and teaching materials. It had been constructed so to our whole being. one could slide a pole through two to our whole being. A well person, old Chinese principles suggest, is a person in harmony and without symptoms of disorder. Sickness can emerge from any imbalance— physical, mental, or spiritual. Chinese medical tenets are bound historically by the concepts of Yin and Yang, labels that describe how virtually everything—every single thing—functions in relationship to

carved spaces on top before the whole thing was hoisted onto somebody’s shoulders for transport. When I look at it, I imagine some young teacher assigning two of his stronger pupils the job of carrying this portable store of knowledge up a hill or under a tree so the lesson could begin. The front panel of the bookcase is the real focus of attention. In the center of the panel is an engraved

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and lacquered painted circle, about nine inches in diameter. Within the circle are the starkly defined symbols of Yin and Yang in black and white. I stare at this a lot and think of Stella— who passed away in 2009. Apart from conjuring a thousand memories, when I gaze at the symbol of Yin and Yang, I know I am staring at something challenging, but profound.

the dot is always there. Be patient. You will see that good can arise from bad. MICHAEL What are you trying to tell me,

Stella? STELLA You know what I am saying. MICHAEL OK. The white dot is the Yang

within the Yin. There’s no completely dark side. You want me to see the white dot.

If Stella were still here with me, she would explain it better:

STELLA Look for it, Michael. It’s all there…

STELLA Everything you said is right so

MICHAEL Like one fish chasing the other… LIGHT MAGAZINE

far, but you haven’t really talked about the significance of the symbol in relation to the two fish. (Stella begins to draw something in the air with her index finger.) The circle, for example, represents the whole universe. And half is Yin—that’s the black part—and half is Yang—white. Sometimes other contrasting colors are used.

STELLA Like one fish chasing the other…

A framed sepia-tinted photo of Stella hangs on a wall in my study. She is sitting in an old wooden fishing boat as it nears her girlhood village on Croatia’s Dalmatian coast. The picture includes the village skyline that seems to float in the middle of MICHAEL Wait—did you say “fish?” the frame in high contrast. Ripples of STELLA I’m getting to that. See the curved the Adriatic Sea gather towards the shapes within the circle? Now imagine they bottom like a wrinkled blanket. You are two fish trying to catch each other. And can tell there was a little breeze. I love this black dot? (Stella uses her finger to make the photograph because there is no the point.) The black dot symbolizes the mistaking Stella’s silhouette and the perpetual presence of Yin within the Yang— hint of a smile in her profile as she like an opposite speck or seed. The ancients gazes back. Adjacent to the photo, is knew that nothing is absolutely pure. Hence, a framed poem I wrote for her one the dot. When something bad happens, there day while she was doing her Qigong, can be good within it as well. But you have to her prayerful meditations, and her look closely. You might not always see it, but breathing exercises:

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Breath Breathe Inhale the world as it is— Scents of lavender or smoke Sea salt or gunpowder. Take it all in at once, Cleanse it with hopeful purpose, ISSUE 1

Before letting go With a gentle sigh Breathe In the rhythm of God’s intent In the strength Of your deepest power Let all life rush in at once Like a cool wind to a parched soul

LIKE ONE FISH CHASING THE OTHER

collages by Dionte Walker

Breathe

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The Harm in Healing

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submission by Nancy Jorgensen

A nurse pushed my husband’s gurney while I trailed behind. She paused at the kissing corner so I could say good luck before his hip replacement. As I touched my lips to his, I envisioned us in a few weeks, taking long walks. I pictured Joel swinging a five-iron. I imagined him mounting his bike.

¶ I found Joel’s room and gently pushed the door. Over the last ten years, he had a few minor procedures—hernia repair, colonoscopy—from which he rebounded quickly. Today, I hardly recognized him. His head lay heavy, eyes focused nowhere. Wrinkles puckered his forehead and skin drooped from his neck.

While he was in the operating room, I read a book in the waiting area, confident the surgeon who replaced Joel’s right hip would competently repair his left. After two hours, the surgeon, in green scrubs and disposable shoe covers, shook my hand. “Your husband is fine. A nurse will call when he’s in his room.”

“How do you feel?” I said. Beads of moisture boiled on his forehead. “My stomach’s upset.” The transport nurse applied a blood pressure cuff and inserted a thermometer. “He should be monitored,” she said and pushed a call button.

After an hour, a volunteer called me to the phone. “This is recovery,” a nurse said. “Your husband’s blood pressure is low, so we’re keeping him until we get that up a bit.” Odd, since he tended toward high blood pressure. After another hour, the scent of grilled cheese reminded me half a day had gone by.

A floor nurse entered, squirting antibacterial into her palm. The two whispered, but I heard hypotension, shock, diaphoresis. Medical staff pulled into the room like a stream of ambulances, one red flashing light after another: two ICU doctors, two physician’s assistants, more nurses. I backed away so they could circle Joel’s bed. Something in my throat tasted sour.

Finally, the nurse called again. Medication had raised Joel’s blood pressure, and he was “What hurts?” The doctor held his stethoscope transferred to a room. to Joel’s chest. 66

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“My back. And stomach,” Joel said.

“The doctor will explain. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

The doctor focused on Joel’s face while he palpated his abdomen. “Any nausea?” My own reared up. “Chest pain?” I thought of all of my father-in-law’s many heart attacks.

While ICU nurses worked, Joel’s doctor explained: when he retracted the muscle spreader, it must have nicked an unnamed vessel. Slowly, blood pooled i n the back of Joel’s abdomen—a retroperitoneal bleed. Although I couldn’t predict the effects of this event, I understood its gravity. I had promised to call our daughters after surgery, so I slouched against a wall and whispered into my phone. “Elizabeth?”

“Difficulty breathing?” I sat down to stop my knees from shaking.

“How’s Dad? Everything go okay?” Elizabeth hates hospitals, so I had encouraged her to go in to work this day. “I don’t have a lot of information.”

The doctors whispered and then a nurse unlocked the bed’s brake, steered it to the hall, and sprinted “Should I be there?” to the elevator. I gripped the armrest of my chair, as though to brace myself for a hit. “Yes. Can you call Gwen?” Our younger daughter lived across the country, two thousand Emmy, the physician’s assistant, introduced miles away. herself. “Come with me. I’ll take you to ICU.” “I’ll be there soon.” “ICU? Should I be worried now?” When Elizabeth arrived, we called my brother, “No.” Joel’s family, a few friends. “Something went wrong in surgery,” we said. I knew she must be lying. The first night, I slept at the hospital, but then ¶ Emmy and I stood behind floor-to-ceiling Elizabeth convinced me I would rest better glass watching nurses attach cords and cuffs and at home. I didn’t. Each morning, my hands oxygen. Everywhere, machines beeped. The quivered when I shampooed my hair. My air smelled sterile, with the bite of antiseptic. stomach said no to a half-cup of yogurt. A rapid beating echoed in my throat and ears. A team in white hurried past, carrying coolers, and Emmy explained the protocol A few days in ICU became a week. Joel’s kidneys for a massive blood transfusion. “Are you shut down, so nurses strung tubes from his neck sure I shouldn’t be worried?” I said. to a dialysis machine.

THE HARM IN HEALING

LIGHT MAGAZINE

Joel squeezed his face into a strange expression. He poured sweat through his bald head. “I’m freezing,” he said.

SECTION 4

¶ For years, I believed there were things worse than death. The click of a ventilator, the chills of dialysis, the cramp of an obstructed colon, the stench of dying muscle. But Joel’s His belly swelled, so they sedated him. body refused to give up. It seemed absurd that the only help he received came from His breathing faltered, so they intubated him. those who caused the damage.

ISSUE 1

His left leg developed compartment syndrome, so doctors sliced it open in three places to relieve the pressure.

My feet wanted to run, but I kept them After three weeks in ICU, two physicians in the room to hear morning rounds, stood at the central desk, discussing Joel’s read consent forms, ask questions, leg, arguing about amputation. agree to treatments. Two days earlier, I had met with the Every morning, Elizabeth went to chaplain. “You have choices,” she work and texted: Let me know how Dad said. “Are you convinced he’s in is today. After work, she sat with me the best place?” and cried. As I drove home, thoughts Gwen got on a plane to join us, but first tumbled: medical options, Joel’s she sent a Washington Post article from May trust, my responsibility. I rehearsed 2016. It said medical error in hospitals what I would say. was the third-leading cause of death in the United States—only heart disease and I stepped in the door, dialed ICU. I was cancer claimed more lives. The reporter a kid again, confronting the teacher who quoted Martin Makary of Johns Hopkins made a mistake on my grade. “I want my University School of Medicine: “It boils husband transferred to the larger hospital.” down to people dying from the care that My words sounded wobbly, but I kept they receive rather than the disease for talking. “He needs a bigger team.” which they are seeking care.” Makary estimated deaths from medical error I was surprised when the physician average nearly 700 a day—about didn’t argue. “We can make the transfer 9.5% of all US deaths. tomorrow,” he said.

Joel had a hip replacement so he could walk, bike, and golf, painfree. That very procedure put him on life support. I thought of the rows of ICU rooms and wondered how many others were dying by medical mistake?

I lay on the couch that night, fully dressed, body alert. The next morning, I signed transfer papers and, fourteen hours later, followed the paramedics through dark streets, then up the elevator to Joel’s room where they reconnected him to a new set of plugs.

STORIES

Joel said, “They won’t cut my leg off, will they?” from bedpan to commode. He pushed a walker for thirty feet. I reassured him, then wrote my phone number on the whiteboard. “Will you call During his final week of hospitalization, me,” I asked the nurse, “if anything happens?” he said, “I had a terrible night,” and told me of shakes, sweating, blurred vision. A ¶ In this larger hospital, limb salvage nurse had found him in a fetal position, specialists removed more dead leg confused. She tested his blood sugar and tissue. But after several procedures, the then sprinted for glucose tablets. Records orthopedist sounded impatient. “He has confirmed she had used the wrong syringe and administered too much insulin.

bigger problems than his leg. You should be worried about kidney failure and his obstructed colon.” Soon after, a surgeon diverted Joel’s colon to a stoma bag. And every three days, a technician circulated his blood through dialysis. ¶ For a second time, Gwen returned. Other family arrived too. Joel’s sister Chrissy, his brother Kenny, his niece Megan. I wondered how smaller families survived. Joel has nine siblings, and a ton of nieces and nephews. What about the woman in the next room? She sat every day, alone, next to her husband’s bed. It took three months, but Joel eventually sat on the edge of his mattress. He graduated

commonplace? Questions prodded me, so I searched until I found an explanation on the Merck Manual website: “When people are in the hospital, errors in care can occur. In the hospital, care is complicated, the environment is stressful, and many different people and systems have to work together... Errors may include the following: Giving people the wrong drug, the wrong dose, or a drug they are allergic to…”

LIGHT MAGAZINE

I thought of the rows of Once again, medical error had threatened ICU rooms and wondered Joel’s life. The effects were temporary, but wondered, what if no one had caught how many others were Ihypoglycemia before it turned lethal? dying by medical mistake? Were we just unlucky? Or were these errors

I went back to the Washington Post article where physician Frederick van Pelt spoke about injuries from medical error: “Some estimates would put this number at 40 times the death rate.” I remembered a conversation I had with the hospitalist, just days before. At the time, I thought she spoke in metaphor, but now her words made sense: “He’s almost ready

THE HARM IN HEALING

SECTION 4

Perhaps Joel saved himself too. He had puffed his incentive spirometer, shuffled his walker, marched in place, Joel returned home with two battery- stretched elastic bands, and squeezed operated wound vacs on his leg, a rubber balls. stoma bag on his stomach, and a brace on his foot. He slept in our first- Throughout the experience, we both floor dining room, where I had placed lost much. I once relied on the medthe bed. He ate bland meals and ical system for routine advice, pharpracticed therapy exercises. maceutical recommendations, and invasive procedures. Now, I held the Gradually, he walked to the porch, the profession suspect. I questioned every sidewalk, one block, two, five. suggestion, every prescription, every diagnosis. I postponed checkups, After eight months, his leg wounds screenings, and appointments, just to healed, his kidneys recovered, and his avoid the risk of error. colostomy was scheduled for reversal. He played darts in a tavern and swung But we gained a bit too. I now trust a golf club in the backyard. But he myself to advocate, question authorsometimes lost his balance, lay awake at ity, be decisive. And life taught us to night with neuropathy, and complained say yes more often—to dinner, a conabout his restricted diet. cert, a family card party, an evening with friends, a week-long visit with Surgery should have made him more our grandson. active, pain-free, and fit, but he ended up one of thousands injured or killed One day, after Joel returned home, each year by health care. he suggested we go out for lunch. A café waitress seated us on the patio. I questioned my decision to trust Joel’s I sipped an ale, Joel a lite beer, while recovery to the same system that damaged we looked through the menu. The him. But what choice did I have? sun warmed our backs. Small birds ventured close to peck at crumbs. I believe credit also goes to our family. They weren’t remarkable birds, just To Elizabeth, who posted pictures of everyday sparrows and robins. Their us laughing, petting her dog, playing beaks nibbled what was available, sports. To Gwen, who flew cross- having little choice in what the world country to hold Joel’s hand—and offered. They had no way to know if mine. To Joel’s brothers and sisters what they ate would sustain them—or and nieces and nephews. possibly injure or kill them.

THE HARM IN HEALING

illustrations by Laura Meggers

ISSUE 1

for discharge. Let’s get him out of here before this hospital kills him.”

SECTION

LIGHT MAGAZINE

Section 5

74 There's No Place Like Home 76 In the Shadows We Are All the Same 78 Straw to My Essence 80 Your Pandemic 82 Decades Later

illustration by Andrea Calisi

SECTION 5

There’s No Place Like Home submission by Wendy Mages

I put on my mask and head into the store. It’s been well over 100 days since the pandemic brought New York to a halt, and although we may not like them, we’ve all gotten used to the COVID protocols: wearing masks, social distancing, and following the blue arrows on the floor to avoid crowding in the grocery aisles.

ISSUE 1

I start my shopping in the produce department. The scarcities of the first few weeks are behind us. Although Clorox wipes and Lysol spray are still as rare as a hummingbird in winter, the shelves are well stocked with almost everything else. I quickly fill my cart with all of the fruits and vegetables on my list and head toward the aisles filled with dry goods and paper products when I stop dead in my tracks. I’m confused, disoriented. I stare at the floor, not knowing what to do. The woman rounding the corner behind me stops her cart to avoid a collision and to maintain the requisite 6 feet of social distancing. “They’re gone,” I say through my mask. She looks at me puzzled. “The arrows on the floor; they’re gone!” We both stare at the floor. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I cannot tell which way I’m supposed to go. “Does this mean I can just go any way I want?” I ask. “Can I even go up and down the same aisle?” “You can go any way you want, but just don’t go all crazy on us!” she replies.

There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There is no place like home!

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

collage by Bianca Kipp

As I venture down the first aisle, I feel as if I’ve clicked my ruby slippers and found myself back at the home I know and love but never really appreciated.

SURPRISE US

submission and image by Miri Charney

LIGHT MAGAZINE

In the Shadows We Are All the Same Living with a disability is not easy. Some people do not even see this population as human or a productive member of society; they do not think they have feelings or emotions and I feel this. I feel "In the Shadows We Are All the Same" really shows that no matter who we are, what we look like, disability or not: in the shadows, we are all the same!

IN THE SHADOWS WE ARE ALL THE SAME

SECTION 5

Straw to My Essence submission by Elana Tauros Five thousand spells are settled in my head Thoughts blazing in order of the seasons they would look great in the picture book of Charles Walker

ISSUE 1

Experimented with ikigai and zen but sorrow drenched my blood If I could paint my melancholy it would be cherry dark rebellious but not exhibitionist rouge red Misery entertains me with coffee and a cigarette while tears drop down reflection of surroundings on my cheeks, a stained glass which was absent for years

Conscious body paralysis Observer to unpredictable weather and a witness once the world has lifted the heavy curtain and showed it’s beautiful and wicked design

illustration by Laura Meggers

World—a plastic straw to my essence, to vanish Sucked out dry to my last song shuts down in my throat tangled up words in stickiness of fear like flies in the cobweb

SURPRISE US

LIGHT MAGAZINE

STRAW TO MY ESSENCE

SECTION 5

Your Pandemic

Your sister dies during the pandemic— not because of it, but still unexpectedly. Tell the truth, do we ever expect death? In a time of no church services, no family gatherings, no congregating to cry, you weep alone, robbed of saying goodbye or honoring her or finding comfort in the death-dealing ways you’ve been taught. First in your family to be cremated, so there’s no gravesite, no later place to attend, from which to draw solace, no ground-square to stand on and spin your better memories of her. A yearlong pandemic, unlikely to ebb, flaunting flare-ups and spikes. You keep your grief hidden inside the bigger world grieving. Weeks of rain and ice. The heat clatters on and whooshes off. Wrap in lap robes your legs and feet accept. Sweaters and scarves on the couch, where you huddle and wish for light and warmth, but are rebuffed. The world will do, or it won’t. Some are dead; many have died. Not only your loved one. But that’s what you fret over, your circumscribed, re-drawn earth. Stretch your arms to either side, spin as you did as a child, in joy then, but now to demarcate your safe space. Barely breathe, except in loneliness. The world’s pack of humans must wait to meet their fellow women and men with masked embrace. Rely on following that crowd’s instinct, to rid you of your fear, fear that needles your mind because you didn’t love your sister enough.

You found her difficult. She expected catering to; she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do things for herself. She utterly expected you to give her rides, bring her to gatherings, buy her groceries, do her laundry, take her to the doctor when she finally began seeing doctors. For years she had no medical insurance, no medical care. Her demands could erode what good will you might have directed there. Your sister’s difficulties, her neuroses: shop-aholic, hoarder, reading fanatic. When her eyes began failing, she used a magnifying glass with real books until the Kindle allowed gigantic text sizes. Reading was an escape, shopping another--the few highs to bless her. Why did she evolve into one who expected the world to provide, resisted thinking about tomorrow and how to pay for it? She, the grasshopper, unconcerned over rainy days because, look at the blue sky overhead! Or maybe her every-day was rainy, from which she averted her face. You didn’t learn her fears, concerns, wants, her deep wants, her soul-wants because she didn’t speak them, and you didn’t ask. When she lost her job, your sister had withdrawn and then spent her 401K, every bit. She thought Dad, with whom she lived, would survive until she might

illustration by Laura Meggers

ISSUE 1

submission by Donna Vitucci

SURPRISE US

access Social Security. When he died, you sold his property at a loss. Even if you had gifted her the house, she couldn’t afford taxes and utilities to remain there. She applied for early Social Security, at a reduced rate, to rent a small one bedroom apartment.

worm bending around her absence. Black thoughts plague you. Your heart skips, literally, and not in that joyous way assigned to the young. You are sad and trying to outrun sadness. You exhaust yourself; sleep eludes you.

YOUR PANDEMIC

LIGHT MAGAZINE

Come August, her birthday, she ever You located a free clinic, got her started always five years your senior, and ever on appointments and medicines and always worlds yawned between you. eye procedures. She couldn’t do this for Where WAS she while you grew up? herself. Why not? Don’t call her lazy, When she turned sixteen, she worked but reluctant. She preferred blindness a job, but before that, where? You (literal blindness!) over seeing her lack attended high school, she went off to of savings, income, health care. She university. She graduated and returned, expected the world to provide, to pick but your college was out of state. Then up and carry her. She had no medical you married, eluding her again. You coverage, no doctor. She’d never had a never truly knew her. pap smear or a mammogram, never saw a gynecologist. By the time Dad died, Did she acknowledge: this is death? Did diabetic retinopathy clouded her sight. she think it in the moment and know Never before then diagnosed or treated the fear honed so sharp it skewers? for diabetes, nor for any condition. Her The soul-fear you never talk of, fear lifetime overweight-ness destroyed her you distance with distraction, or antiknees. She struggled into and out of a car. anxiety meds, in your very most rattling moments? Was she gripped? Likelihood When summer’s done, what will you say? of her trembling over last lost life That it seemed hotter and more humid rattles your gum-ball brain. She pinions than any other. That the mosquitoes were your world more now than when she worse than ever. That there were fewer lived. For others your grief could be a butterflies. That the tomato crop was caution, if you managed shaping words abundant and then immediately flagged, around what she should have done for faded, shriveled. That the zinnias started prevention, for cure, what you didn’t late but remained to the very last. dare broach or insist, out of kindness to her and out of your own unease. All that You’re daily reminded of death, both the good-intentioned silence washes you greater and the small close death. Your now, stoppers your ears, pastes your eyes sister is gone; in her place struggles the shut. Now you sport the blindness.

SECTION 5

Decades Later submission by Shiela Scott

ISSUE 1

I am writing you today to let you know that the tears that flowed profusely still affect me. The pain I thought I left buried has burned years in my life and hurt decades of growth. I know the brokenness wasn’t inflicted on me by you directly, so it can’t be your fault if the pain never heals. But I had to let you know that you are one of the reasons I planned to plant seeds of love and not hate. When I first heard the news of your loss, the connectivity of others echoed cries cracked my heart, and their tears drew emotions out of my soul. The heartbreak left me unable to stand on my own. As the call of healing released itself from the others who shared the pain, I stood there knowing that I may never heal from such a tragedy. As the brokenhearted tears dropped from ones familiar with you, your looks, personality, and life, I stepped off the porch, pushed by hatred and forced down dwelling pain. My only thought was never to put myself in a place of being another’s compassionate charity. See the sound of your pain broke my heart, the volume of their heartbreak brought tears, but their verbal response expressed the secrets they held onto so tight, the families pain. Distant, I took a step down off the porch that I didn’t own. I spaced myself away from the pain that had marked the concrete and slipped into the reality that I wasn’t that close to you 82

and probably never will be. I was forced to realize my love isn’t their love. Drifting into life, I tried my best to recognize my emotions. It was important to know what affected me. What hurt me? What healed me? What will affect the land? Is it a necessity? Sometimes the answer is the same. Love hurt me, healed me, affects the land and is a necessity. But why yours? A stranger who hurt from a distance and knew nothing of my tears hurt me. Not my mother, father, dog, or rescue cat, a stranger. Was I ever going to meet this distant cousin who knows nothing of my bloodline nor my tears? I seriously doubted it. A few years passed and puberty set in. My connection to you allowed me to connect with you. Yes, finally I saw you and the family secret: saw your rare skin blended with the light of the sun, which lit up your eyes and smile. Shocked at having the chance to hear you, I recorded your voice in my head and re-played it like a favorite song that I dedicated myself to learning the lyrics to. The burdened of tears felt free until I was left with partial portions of the emotions expressed. I had yet to tell you how I felt, why I felt that way, and reasons his presence meant everything to me. Instead, I was left with the drifting emotion I had when I stepped down off the porch away from my first heartbreak.

painting by Jeremy Green

Profound Greetings First Heartbreak,

SURPRISE US

I realized I had yet to heal from the cracking in my chest that broke so long ago. Days went by and other emotions were felt but nothing like my first heartbreak; that will forever remain in my memory. I summoned healing from the past and called you. I tried to place our relationship in a logical thought, “Kids cry when others cry.” That didn’t work because of the aspirations I had before you and the wants, desires and needs I learned of after you changed. I had a new found respect for humanities, for longevity, connectivity, and love. You are the definition of dedication, vows, promises, and freedom. LIGHT MAGAZINE

When you experienced loss, I found myself losing something, too: my stable thought in emotions, respect, definition of self, and promises for tomorrow. I thought of myself as too young to feel this pain. But who invites heartbreak to come? Who even knows when it’s set to arrive? I wanted you to know that I have grown past the days of unwanted teardrops on a porch, loving a stranger's worth, and dishonoring value of my selfpresence. I know you didn’t do this to me, but situations change, and love heals each direction. Thank you for the experience! I forgive you for breaking me. I hope the situation that brought the tears healed you, too. Loving Self Again, Shiela Denise Scott DECADES LATER

SECTION

n Sectio

86 Envisioning Youth Health I 87 Envisioning Youth Health II 88 An Elegy to My Fire 90 An Ode to My Mind 92 Dear Pre-Covid Me 94 I Remember 96 Ode to the Future 98 My Aunt 100 Moon Musings

illustration by Laura Meggers

SECTION 5

ISSUE 1

vision board by Haydan Brown

We asked students to create a vision board based on how they "Envision Youth Health." Here is what they created! 86

SUMMER CAMP

vision board by Kevin Liu

LIGHT MAGAZINE 87

SECTION 5

ISSUE 1

submission by Siddhartha Subbella We saved you once but not twice, One day you were there but now you're not. Time and time again do I miss you, You were my drive My burn. My fuel. When I came back, I knew you were gone, Your once lively presence gone from your spot, There you had spent many days, Until you were taken— Poked and maimed— I miss you because you were my drive. My burn. My fuel. That day many tears were wept, The day when sadly, you left.

LIGHT MAGAZINE

Brenda Ciardiello 2022 Fade into you Watercolor, soap, collage on yupo

SUMMER CAMP

AN ELEGY TO MY FIRE

SUMMER CAMP

An Ode to My Mind submission by Mae Levante

I laugh way too much at un-funny stuff Like the way a frog jumps– I have too many thoughts That my brain sometimes has to stop.

Words start flowing in every space That I can’t find a way to say Yet I’m lucky For having no blank space.

I like my mind– Just how I don’t mind stories with typos Or how I mix up names that I wish I didn’t have to remember–

Everyone is beautiful to me. Every face a mystery to be seen. Every smile, Something loud to be heard.

I’m fantasized by the way the wind blows Or how soft pens feel on paper. And I’m an okay author And I wish people liked me more.

I like reading and hot tea And the feeling of no one around me. Both give me time to think About the worlds that exist within me.

And I like roses and pretty fields And pressing flowers in books. Now, I’m a creative– A creator with a mind.

My mind doesn’t like touch Or tight hugs with my mom. I never get sick Or get anything less than it.

My brain is set in a pretty way Instead of joy there is love. I can’t write But that’s all that’s in my mind.

LIGHT MAGAZINE

My brain is set in a different way Instead of sadness, there is hate. I don’t scream– But that’s all that’s in my brain.

collage by Dionte Walker

There’s a lot of music in my head Something I hope never ends. My thoughts run And they don’t stop all that much.

AN ODE TO MY MIND

SECTION 5

Dear Pre-Covid Me submission by Margaret Human

Dear Pre-Covid Me, There’s so much you don’t know. You don’t know how the first mask you’ll ever wear will feel. You’re sure Mom’s right–Covid won’t reach STL; none of us will get it. You think you’re safe.

The feel of your first mask is horrible. It feels like a face prison. You’ll want to rip it off when your warm breath hits your face, and you’ll feel like you can’t breathe. Online learning is mind-numbingly boring. You want to tear your hair out from the simple work your teacher assigns, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you turn in the last assignment of the day. Soon, the top bunk on the far left of the basement at the farm will begin to feel more like home than the bed in your real room. The farm will be more familiar than your house and your street. D&D with your parents and siblings will replace playing with Helen, Emma, and Katelyn in the evenings in the field. Climbing trees and walking creeks will be how you pass the time, not climbing on the play structure and walking to the Reid’s. Zoom school allows you to zone out. You’ll know it’s a blessing when you return to inperson school in October, but the masks are not.

collage by Bianca Kipp

ISSUE 1

Boy, are you wrong.

SUMMER CAMP

You’re excited to learn about Christopher Columbus being prosecuted in Social Studies, but you can’t celebrate Christmas with your grandparents if you don’t quarantine the last week of your first semester, so you have to learn about him on Zoom.

you, but despite this, sixth grade is wonderful. You’ll have two crushes in rapid succession, try out for the school musical but mess up, go bowling on the last day, and spend three glorious months free. Nearly.

You graduate fifth grade with a poem you wrote yourself and go home to pack to visit Mom’s family for the first time since you were nine.

In November, you get your first shot and in December, your second. But despite this, you’ll get Omicron in January. Your throat will hurt on the second day of second semester, a Thursday, and on Sunday, you’ll test positive. Then your sister will join DEAR PRE-COVID ME

LIGHT MAGAZINE

You’ll spend June walking to and from the high school to transition to accelerated math for grade 7, July visiting Nana’s and then at home, and the beginning of August, here, You enjoy the familiar sights of at LIGHT Creative Writing Camp home for the last time, get in the car, at SLU. and leave. Your meander across the United States is hard because you’ve I wish I had a time machine, so I could got nothing to do, but finally, you give you this letter, pre-Covid me. I pull through. wish I could warn you of what it’s like to be quarantined in your room with Grandpa’s funeral will be weird only Ellie for company. I wish I could because you never got to say goodbye. warn you about Mom’s haircuts and Your cousins are all different. You can how loud the world feels after hiding laugh at Rhiannon’s fake Russian from it for a year and more. accent and her jokes, but you’re more distant than you remember. But even though all of this will feel unbearable, there will still be triumphs. You head home and try to enjoy Ride along with this rollercoaster; look your summer, but nerves for sixth on the bright side. grade-middle school, if you can believe it, hinders your ability to let Without Covid, would I have go and let loose. discovered my favorite show? Without Covid, would I have had my first real crush? Hard to say, but I don’t think so. Sincerely, Mid-Covid You

SECTION 5

I Remember submission by Nithya Gnanarajah

I remember clicking join on my very first Zoom. I remember hating the tightness of the mask around my ears. I remember the strong, strong smell of hand sanitizer.

ISSUE 1

I remember walking into the classroom and noticing that the desks were all 6 feet apart. I remember every morning when I arrived at school, they would hold a thermometer up to my forehead and check my temperature. I remember that when I first heard about COVID, I didn’t think it would be a big deal. I remember going outside to eat lunch every day at school. I remember the pressure for a vaccine before it came out.

Se n g a p illustrat

auren ion by L

And maybe, despite all the hardships that came with it, it’s the thing that connects us.

hone

I know Covid has taken a toll on all of us. I remember it. We all do.

mic? pande 9 1 be D I ance to e COV h h c t f a r o o rg) f nning ht4ph.o e begi g i h l t @ o m g! us (inf er fro HT blo o b t G I t m i L e d e in th u rem nd sen do yo edia or elow a m b l a i m c e What n po ur so d on o our ow feature Write y

collage by Bianca Kipp ISSUE 1 SECTION 5

SUMMER CAMP

submission by Valentina Wu Oh how excited I am– For COVID to finally end! I am sick of this– COVID has got to go. It started back in 2019 And it is already 2022. It’s been 3 years— COVID has had its time.

I hope I can start living normally again Without having to worry about getting sick. Even though we have removed masks Life is still different from 2019.

LIGHT MAGAZINE

Maybe it will be like the flu And become a daily life thing. Or maybe, (hopefully) it will go Completely away.

COVID has its 4th variant I hope it’s the last. I just hope we can live normally Just like the past.

SUMMER CAMP

My Aunt submission by Lotanna Ezepue

My aunt comes through the doorway late at night. She slips off her shoes and turns on the light. I walk down the stairs as sleepy My aunt looks up and smiles at me. She tosses her hat on the chair. I pick up the mop over there.

LIGHT MAGAZINE

as can be.

My parents come in Both wearing a grin. They gently ruffle my hair. The kettle sits quietly in the kitchen. Dad puts on a baseball game just as someone’s pitching. My aunt places her lantern on the floor. Then illustration by Abigail Elkins

she closes the door.

MY AUNT

SECTION 5

ISSUE 1

submission by Vihaan Vishnubhotla

I walk into the room as I ran across the moon. My room had some junk, enough to fill the moon. The moon is the sun when it gets a little scared. The moon turns into a liar as when life gets tired. The moon is a distanced illusion in the darkness when you aren’t markless. When life gets hard and you aren’t working, the moon finds a chance for lurking.

pastel by Bianca Kipp

Stones and scares, sticks and glares. “Innocent” moon comes closer for the kill. I see myself losing life with each step closer.

100

Thump, Thump I heard that, you know? And once they close in the moon turns red.

Section 7

104 Dad Cuts 106 Learning to Dance 108 A Pledge to My Pedagogy 114 From Chaos to LIGHT 116 I Am the Found Treasure illustration by Andrea Calisi

118 Infrastructure 120 What Do I Bring?

ISSUE 1

SECTION 7

submission and image by The Other Ones By Lee Martin Lee, MEd and Richard Lee, PhD

Diggy and Poonam are spending the afternoon listening to records (Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life). Diggy recounts a recent visit to the barber and shares a discovery at a neighboring establishment. The two point out the ridiculousness of Beer Yoga as Poonam notes how it is something that only white people could “get away with without mockery.” What underlies the four panels is an unspoken shift from being an Ally to becoming an Accomplice. And part of that shift requires conversation and discovery.

104

DAD CUTS

SECTION 7

Learning to Dance

ISSUE 1

submission and image by Monica Foltz

106

It began to look like an opportunity but for most parts felt so far from that... until I was deep on my knees in ‘the work’, in the healing Nothing would have pushed me here other than the echoes of my own actions mixed with fate A combination that forced me to be still to pause the chaos of my life to just be The being showed me something honest Forcing me to reflect on me “seeing me” for the first time in a long time And, not in a way that I made way for but in a way that made me surrender Surrender like clean air in the lungs it was here a soulful, lively, boom-boom tears-on-cheeks, "i'm alive" kind of passion was reborn I stood face-to-face with dark, yet kind storms of my soul gazing deep into my own eyes I plead with the storms to sway with me until the sway turned into a dance A dance of change & thirst & surge & growth I let the dance reform my soul letting intuition lead me Telling me when to slow down, to rest And when to let the momentum carry me like a beautiful spring storm bringing forth flowers of my soul.

FESTIVAL

LIGHT MAGAZINE

LEARNING TO DANCE

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A Pledge to My Pedagogy submission by Christell Victoria Roach

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If you ask me to teach you how to write, I will first remind you that you were raised on stories. You stuttered yourself into being like we all do—tripping over letters raised like bodies on the page. I will remind you how your grandmother cooked with her hands and measured palms of flour— she had you pour until she used the power of the tongue to stop you. We come from an oral tradition. We come from a people whose mouths filled with water but there was no drowning. We come from a people who made mountains dance and parted rivers with the power of words. We come from a people who walked and flew back to Africa because we said they did. Oh, don’t you see it? Our ancestors’ immortality is in the breath we recycle. When we speak they are alive—when we call them by name they are flying. LIGHT MAGAZINE

They call this the case of the Flying Africans: whole groups of enslaved peoples would jump from heights or into waters, believing the journey would bring them to the motherland— believing the afterlife would be better living than a life of bondage. Don’t ask me if I believe that they made it. Because we are still talking about them, and so, every word is a foot atop the ocean, a bicep made into wing—I’ve made it back to Africa, to lay my ancestors to rest. Poetry carried me. They say in the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God? We come from a people stripped to breasts and buttocks and the click of the tongue or a soulful bellow buried in the belly. They carried God in their mouths. They were so familiar with God they had hundreds of names for every member of the trinity. We come from a people baptized in bondage. We come from mothers who breathed life into babies, like any god, pressing prayer to the baby’s tongue, filling their mouths with the babel of ancestors. Isn’t every birth a genesis?—the birth of a word—?the creation of a god? And if we are created in God’s image, then we, too, must also create, and we, too, must also be gods’. I mean this in the possessive. A PLEDGE TO MY PEDAGOGY

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I am my mother’s daughter. She is my motherland. I carry her likeness. I talk and walk like her, and some say I look most like my mother when I close my eyes and sing. I write poems because my mother sang them. I always heard Our language echoing through the halls of my home. This is my tradition. A tradition of self-taught artists who studied sound, who mimicked their way into mastery. Who wrote what they know. This is a tradition of Witness. I can only teach you how I have learned. And so, If you ask me to teach you how to write, I will show you my lineage:

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People who made English their holy language when their native tongues were outlawed. They prayed in a foreign language, in a foreign land, and little did they know— the preachers would become poets. They would rhyme and song and jive their sorrow songs into sonnets. They would catalog the days, making a diary of the language that colonized their mouths. Alain Locke once said the Negro Artist is the “true American” artist, and as an educator I understand what he means. This is not a challenge or meant to rustle feathers, but it acknowledges a tradition of resiliency— we come from no cannon,

So when they robbed us of our language, thinking English would place an ocean between us and the names that did not translatewe played with poetry until it started to look, sound, and feel like us. We took the mockery out of minstrelsy when we and showed our bruises in the Blues, we wrote fiction so good we thought it memoir— We told lies and truths with the same tune, and we talked and we listened, and we wrote and we witnessed. This is the American Literary Tradition I teach. This is poetry: this is storytelling in a tradition of witness. 110

illustrations by Morenike Olusanya

we come from no tradition of reading and literature. But we come from a place where people age into stories, where stories raise you and guide you like the spirit. We come from a storied tradition, committed to memory—

A pledge to storytelling: How might you use storytelling in public health? Brainstorm in the space below.

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From Chaos to LIGHT ISSUE 1

submission and image by aYo Binitie

An expressive drawing where the subjective almost completely controls the mark making actions. It is meditation in art. There is total trust in the automatism of mind drawing and the shaping of form from the lines, marks and shapes.

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FESTIVAL

LIGHT MAGAZINE

FROM CHAOS TO LIGHT

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FESTIVAL

I Am the Found Treasure submission by Outspoken Bean

I guess it was big enough For our signals not to cross intersect

Broken engagements are not The lack of a double tap on a screen Rather a screen shattered In fact - we both were left to each other's devices

For me I have to grapple toward knowing that all that I have invested Has came to a point where divesting is the best path forward

I hate how a mustard seed sized Disagreement Moved a mountain To wedge between us

After two broken engagements I would be lying if I said I’m not searching For approval

the molehill that Our relationship Chose to die on

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I don’t understand how I was seeing us less than When there was so much of my heart at hand

that recycling and throwing away is still a form of removal I must keep in mind that I’m not trash to find But, I am the found treasure

illustration by Jana Renée

I AM THE FOUND TREASURE

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a bridge over troubled water always ices before road, and sometimes in spring, Black Ice thaws beneath old maple, spreads wider, quietly refreezes cracking the cartilage enjoining sides— you decide of what: residue, remains this day forward will always smell like dollar stores, wet mural paint and pre-

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rolls that burn us into slumbers, still, no knock-off ear plugs could ever block the sound of tires clutching for something other than ice on a bridge made of glass; after all, these aren't actual “accidents” according to epidemiologists, these are probabilities that mostly make the word “probably” sound like we don't know the difference between asphalt and our backs: bending against their design—

fast ‘til our fingers snap toward Saturn, exposed bone catching sunlight just right to blind passerby into believing that it's the driver that failed; and engineers rejoice

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INFRASTRUCTURE

painting by Ashley Browne

that we lay us down, point our shoulder blades toward god, flex our triceps and hold

What Do I Bring? submission by Andrea Olatunji

FESTIVAL

We should all go through life with a tone of the It only dawned on me a few years ago the power introduction of an Alcoholics Anonymous meet- of entering every room with my answer to the ing. “Hello. My name is Andrea. I bring a positive question: what do i bring? If I don’t, I end up lens. I have been bringing it for 46 years!” blending in to be like everyone else, or worse, shrink to be less than I am or impersonate anWhat do you bring? other person based on what the room needs. Walking through life with a strong knowledge of what you bring is powerful and a game changer. I was recently preparing a women’s event. I asked this simple question…. Crickets.

What do you bring? Magnify that! Bring it to every space.

LIGHT MAGAZINE

illustration by Morenike Olusanya

Some people know for sure what they don’t bring. That is a good thought process, but I discover I am discovering the unique answer for everyone is pouring all of your energy on what you bring is a their superpowers as it is so exploratory to the jour- confidence builder. ney to self. Take the time to inquire within yourself… In every space you enter, what do you bring? The source of unhealthy competition is not really owning what you bring! Knowing what you bring What comes naturally for you? To you? helps you to walk in confidently knowing that you are not competing against the lady that is on stage. Every human alive brings something to the room! You know what you bring, and you bring it. You are more open to learn when you know your lane. As a mother of 4, I am very well aware that each You admire someone that shines in the lane and child brings their own gift; the fastest way to frus- you are inspired to read what they are reading, so tration is comparing the gift of one child against you can sharpen your edges. the other. My first born is organized with her space, time, and thought. My son–the only boy in the mix The game of life is not a competition; it’s a stage is an intellect; quiet is his preferred language. Ask to present what you bring. Someone else is going him a question when the space is calm and peace- to be on the receiving end of what you bring to be ful; his mind tells a story like a genius, but the envi- able to bring what they bring. ronment must be conducive. My middle daughter feels everything. She is passionate and is very flex- An old philosopher once wrote a profound quesible in her expression; organization and expecta- tion, “Then Jesus asked them, ‘Would anyone tions restrict her. She is best when allowed to im- light a lamp and then put it under a basket or provise and decide for herself. My baby is by far the under a bed? Of course not! A lamp is placed on most communicative; she expresses her thoughts a stand, where its light will shine.’ so freely. She thrives on energy. She speaks louder as she gets happier. She knows a lot, and she wants What you bring is the light! Shine it in every room to share a lot; she is my mini-me. you enter… but first you must discover it! Thoughtfully, Andrea Olatunji

WHAT DO I BRING?

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Ask yourself: What do I bring?

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AUDRE LORDE

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LORDE, A. (1992). A BURST OF LIGHT . WOMEN'S PRESS (CA), P 119

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artist credits Laura Meggers Cover, p.66–71, 79, 80–81, 84–85, 124–125, 127 laurameggers.com

Morenike Olusanya p.36–37, 38, 40–41, 42, 45, 108, 111, 120 @iamrenike

Andrea Calisi p.5, 8, 10–11, 72–73 102–103 @andreacalisi68

Jana Renee p.54, 59, 116 @thejanarenee

Jeremy Green p.12–13, 83 Bianca Kipp p.21, 22, 35, 46–47, 48–49, 50, 75, 92–93, 96-97, 101 biancakipp.com Madelyn Hernandez p.25, 29 @madelynhernandezart William Sabb p.26 @ayoo_sabb Malik Burch p.32 @artjunt

Dionte Walker p.60, 65, 90 @sir_goldwatch Brenda Ciardiello p.89 brendaciardiello.com Lauren Sengaphone p.94 @lalapicassa Abigail Faye p.98 @abigail._.faye Ashley Browne p.119 @asimonepaintedit

social media icons by Freepik p. 4