2020-2021 Hutt Scholarship Winners

Lake Michigan Credit Union

The Winning Essays

Table of Contents About the Hutt Scholarship.................................. 2-3 Student essays: Kaia Cooper........................................................... 4-5

Madeline Peoples.............................................24-25

Lydia Derks............................................................ 6-7

Annabelle Rickert..............................................26-27

Lynlee Derrick........................................................ 8-9

Rachel Schenck............................................... 28-29

Katie Donahue................................................. 10-11

Elaiyna Schwartzkopf....................................... 30-31

Alayah Dudley................................................... 12-13

Katelyn Turner.................................................. 32-33

Annie Garcia......................................................14-15

Livvie VanEss.................................................... 34-35

Jordan Hochman...............................................16-17

Grace VanZanten............................................. 36-37

Ashley Kluting................................................... 18-19

Reagan Voetberg.............................................. 38-39

Yzabella Lab..................................................... 20-21

Joey Whitmore.................................................. 40-41

Sydney Osterberg............................................. 22-23

Daphne Yaman................................................. 42-43 Judges: External Judging Panel........................................... 45

About the Hutt Scholarship Lake Michigan Credit Union is pleased to present the 2021 Lloyd F. Hutt Scholarship winners’ essays.

LMCU takes great pride in its ongoing support of education, and encourages students to pursue their dreams. This scholarship program provides financial resources to help make those dreams a reality.

Established in 1990, this scholarship program recognizes and honors the contributions of our founder, Lloyd F. Hutt. Applications were submitted from 17 states, including Michigan and Florida. We are proud to have provided over $460,000 in scholarships to 272 deserving students over the years.

Each year, a topic is selected to serve as the central essay theme. High school seniors are invited to develop and write an essay based on that theme.

An independent panel of judges was assembled to review all submissions. Each essay was evaluated for content and passion. Essays were assessed in a blind process in which the identities of all authors were concealed. Judges had no knowledge of entrants’ grades, accomplishments or school district.

The essays that follow were selected as our 2021 Hutt recipients, and each student author will receive a $2,000 check to be used toward their higher education needs. The following essays appear as they were submitted by the student, without edits.

This year’s essay topic:

Describe one day in your life from the past year.

MARCH 12, 2020

March 12, 2020, was a normal day.

I woke up at 6:30, grumbling about waking up that early after staying up well past midnight to finish a project for my Food Science class. I threw on whatever clothes I knew were clean, brushed my hair and teeth, and ate what might have been considered breakfast if it had been more than a single piece of toast. An hour later, I was in school, placing a container of homemade noodles in a fridge for later and balancing an over-full backpack on my shoulder.

Twenty four hours into the future, we would be put into our first COVID-19 lockdown.

Ravenna High School

But on March 12 at eight o’clock in the morning, I sat in the freezing library, working on my college English and philosophy classes. I read poems and learned how to analyze them as I sat at a desk in the deafeningly silent room. I tried to memorize all the different kinds of argument fallacies. Admittedly, I gave up partway through, instead opting for a few minutes to skim the shelves for new books.

Michigan State University Preveterinary

In less than twelve hours, we would be notified that we needed to take everything from our lockers out and bring it home, books and all.

Kaia Cooper

Around nine I found my way into the Animal Science classroom, dogs running around because we were starting our unit on how to perform a basic canine checkup, and I smiled in earnest. I listened to my teacher’s presentation, laughing as the lecture was repeatedly interrupted by a puppy who just wanted to lick her face. I lingered after the bell rang just to one pet of the fluffy puppies.

In just one day, the trajectory of the entire year would be changed.

By ten, I was clumsily signing my way through a practice session with my friends as we tried (and arguably failed) to learn American Sign Language. We joked and laughed and tricked ourselves into learning by turning everything we had to learn into a game. We had been learning words that related to family, and although they would never know, I signed to them all that they were my family.

In one week, I would be forced to confront the reality of how my year would change, needing to find new ways to stay in touch with my “chosen family.”

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Lunch and physics blur together since I spent both periods sitting in an empty classroom with two friends, trying to find the best way to make a Rube Goldberg machine out of Jenga bricks and a roll of tape. We scrounged up scrap pieces of paper to build a tower, bits of string to create a hanging basket of tape. We never finished.

In one month, I would need to learn how to let go of things that I had worked so hard for, only for them to be ripped out of my control.

I spent the remainder of the school day trying to convince my peers that my coffee-infused noodle product, “Brewdles,” was, indeed, edible if they just got over the texture. I laughed and pitched my product to the entire class and a few administrators, presenting through my anxiety.

Over the course of one year, I would need to confront some of my biggest fears head-on, But not on March 12. Instead, I smiled and laughed because everything was busy and normal and pure. On March 12, I didn’t know how bad the year would get. I didn’t know how many people would be taken from this world by a disease we knew so little about. I didn’t know how tumultuous our society would become.

I didn’t know.

I didn’t know how the world would rally and unite to find a cure. I didn’t know that we would find ways to stay connected, stay positive. I didn’t know what lengths friends and family would go to to show their love and appreciation for each other. I didn’t know that, in the end, we just might be okay.

Some days I wish I could go back to March 12, 2020. I wish I had the same carelessness to walk into a store and not worry about a deadly virus. I wish I didn’t see flaws in the people I used to idolize. I wish I was still in March 12.

But if I were stuck in a never-ending loop of March 12, 2020, I would have never gotten to experience the joy of seeing friends and family driving by and honking their horns to wish me a “happy birthday.” I would have never gotten to learn how much my parents like to laugh in spite of dark times. I would have never seen how determined human beings are to hope.

I ended March 12, 2020, by baking another Food Science project. Impending lockdown or not, I had school tomorrow, so I made papaya bars and packed them away in the fridge. After all, March 13, 2020, was just supposed to be another day.

Hutt 2021 | 5

APRIL 20TH

It was an ordinary morning April 20th, 2020 - well, as normal as a day in a global pandemic could be. I woke up to the buzzing of my alarm clock just as the sun was peeking above the horizon and fed the dogs before meandering upstairs for my own breakfast. It was an ordinary morning, except that I had successfully passed from 16 to 17 in my first quarantine. I felt no difference, but I was excited to see how my birthday would look with everything that was going on. As I reached the main floor of the house, I found a balloon filled with notes from almost a dozen of my closest friends wishing me a fabulous birthday.

Lydia Derks

Traverse City West Senior High School College/University Undecided Engineering Management

I was astounded by the kind words of my friends, and I couldn’t have asked for a better present. Grinning wildly, I ate a bowl of cereal before heading to my normal online classes. From 7 in the morning to around noon, I drifted from class to class while still thinking about the tremendous gift I had received earlier. A bunch of other people wished me a happy birthday as well, but I started to think one of my best friends, Elizabeth, had forgotten. It was a pandemic though, so I was a little hurt but I understood the circumstances.

After my last Google Meet, Elizabeth called me. She asked how my day was going, and I told her it was pretty normal. She didn’t bring up my birthday, but she did tell me to come outside before she hung up. I pulled on a sweatshirt for the windchill and practically fell up the stairs as I rushed to meet my friend. I opened the door, and standing in my driveway (6 feet apart of course) were both of my best friends! It was the best surprise I could have asked for, even better than the notes earlier that morning.

We sat in the driveway and ate cake and talked for almost three hours until they both decided to leave. I waved goodbye to them and went back inside, where I organized my birthday notes and gifts in my room.

The rest of the afternoon and evening seemed somewhat similar to other birthdays that I had celebrated with my family in the past. Even though we did not go out to eat, we ordered out for a special dinner and brought home a delicious meal of my favorite food from Applebee’s - mouthwatering Three Cheese Chicken Penne. After feeling full and satisfied from dinner, my parents entered the room with an enormous glowing cake lit by 17 flaming candles as they sang loudly an off-key rendition of the happy birthday song. We topped each slice of cake with a dollop of my favorite butter pecan ice cream. There was plenty of laughter and tears as they recounted numerous birthday memories. I thought to myself that the day had turned out to be a pretty nice day in spite of the nationwide quarantine.

Little did I know that my day of celebration was not over yet.

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Later that evening, my mom entered my room and hinted that I should go back outside. I was completely unaware of what could be outside this second time, so as I meandered up the stairs and followed my mom outside I was surprised once again - there were at least a dozen cars lined up down our road that held member upon member of my youth group! They shouted happy birthday as I ran to say hello, and some of them even gave me candy. We chatted and laughed while I stood outside and they stayed in their cars. After awhile the line of cars trickled down and I went back inside. I thanked both my parents for what had happened.

Overall, it was probably the best birthday I have ever had. Even though I had no real party in the traditional sense, the most important people in my life had gone out of their way to make sure I had a fabulous day, and that was very significant to me. For a day that I expected to be relatively uneventful, I felt blessed by the outpouring of love and celebration from my friends and family during a challenging time in history. Reflecting on the days’ events, I realized that even with COVID-19 there were still plenty of ways to express love and gratitude, and there was plenty more to be thankful for. This was a birthday that I will cherish and remember for years to come.

Hutt 2021 | 7

I DID NOT NEED THE SUN TODAY The sun seemed nervous that morning—she hid her pale smile behind the clouds that plague the city skyline. I leaned my head against the window in search of her as if she held some sort of antidote, some sort of cure for the news I knew I would receive, behind that smile and within her clingy warmth.

My hair was unruly that morning. My five-dollar dry shampoo lived up to its price tag and nothing more, and my hair sat flat and rather sad against my overflowing skull. Not even the poorly-lit mirror in my bedroom could convince me otherwise that I radiated what I felt: anxious, out-of-place, afraid.

Grey tones swallowed me whole from my socks to my mangled sweater, and the hidden sun couldn’t wash that away. The grey stuck with me.

It bit at my heels, my thoughts, my greasy hair; it laid in my shadow as I entered the hospital too, an unrelenting beast of a color that I decided I now hated.

Lynlee Derrick

Forest Hills Central High School College/University Undecided International Relations

I imagined that the sun bid me a farewell—perhaps a blessing of luck and love as well—in return for her allowing the grey to stay. Thinking over this thoroughly, convincing myself that this appointment was just any other and not the appointment, I followed my mother blindly as she navigated the layers and layers of the hospital.

She had a natural knack for layouts, and at that moment, with my mind running more than I ever physically had, I was grateful for her intuitive leading. I was grateful for her warmth when the sun couldn’t be there, and I was grateful for her understanding of the paperwork we were greeted by when we reached our destination: the endocrinologist.

As she signed papers, clicked away at some machine that felt a little too fancy for a cramped endocrinology office, and chatted with the others sitting six feet apart from us in her southern drawl, I distracted myself with anything. With the tiles in the ceiling. With the size of my shoes.

With the calculus assignment I was missing in online school, which isn’t as portable as I thought it would be. With the idea that my dogs missed me even though they weren’t awake.

Had my stomach not grumbled in protest to my skipping of breakfast— pre-appointment jitters were my first “meal” of the day—I would have pondered the very existence of the world, something far too philosophical for me to explore as I drank water out of a crinkled paper cup in a faded indigo chair. Yet my hunger grounded me, a blessing in disguise, and brought my bouncing leg to a halt and my trembling

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hands to the arms of the chair. I needed to breathe. Perhaps I needed to scream from one of the roofs of the various overly-tall industrial buildings, too.

And so I exhaled deeply, letting everything out, as my name was called from a slender white door slowly opening.

I fell into this trance, aided by my unfortunate pessimistic nature, and let go of any shred of hope as if it was water slipping through my chronically dry hands. I couldn’t break it, so I embraced it. I let myself worry, wonder, wait; I let myself feel for the minutes between doctors, and I let myself breathe.

Stumbling behind my mother once again, I followed her to that door and through the office hallways as the medical assistant asked me hollow questions. “How was your morning?” “How is school?” “Are you doing online school?” Yet my answers were just as hollow, falling into the trap of hypocrisy, as my mind was everywhere but this conversation. I was still fixated on how large my feet seemed in my scuffed black boots rather than the reality at hand.

Still in my trance, the endocrinologist entered the room. Her honey smile corrupted the sterility of her white lab coat as if to signal that she was a friend to those who found themselves in one of her examination rooms.

I tore my eyes off the clock and cemented my legs on the post of the table-chair hybrid I perched upon as she walked me through what she saw from my history, experiences, and vitals. As confused as I had been with my health for over a year, her certainty pushed my grey pessimism off the stage as best as it could—it will always seem to have a supporting role in my life.

It wasn’t until the crinkle of the paper pad echoed through the sterile examination room that I realized that this appointment was anything but hollow; what I was facing was anything but hollow, and I needed to digest that—accept that whatever is to come will be no matter if I choose to think about shoes and my dogs over a diagnosis. I answered the next questions with depth as this realization inundated my senses, describing symptoms that ranged from debilitating pain that kept me in bed for three days to strange grey hairs that sprout from nowhere. I piled on my medications, or rather what I consider to be a tricky history with them, and the names of each, the dosages, the side effects, the time taken.

The moment the words polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) left her honey smile, I exhaled once more. I found relief in the painful diagnosis, and I found comfort in her treatment for me. Every detail was laid out on the table from the fact that some of my medications will be alarmingly large to the idea of infertility as a result of PCOS. She made me aware, not doubtful for once in my life, and when I walked back through the hospital layout in my embarrassingly scuffed boots, the grey wasn’t suffocating.

The grey made peace.

With a cathartic word vomit of my history with my then-mysterious illness, the medical assistant looked me in the eyes with an expression that provided more comfort than the sun could have that morning. Life felt grey that day and had for many days before, but her nod—her simple sympathetic look— told me that it was okay. The grey was okay, I was okay—everything was.

She comforted me and then left for the endocrinologist, the one who held the answer I searched for in the sun.

There was an absence of any staff in the room, and my mother perused her Facebook feed as I latched onto the clock. Time drained away in front me, a daring act on its behalf. It was daunting to think that my days had become ones of sterility, of appointments, of chronic pain. And it became even more so daunting when my pessimism devoured any of the previouslygifted hope and focused on the ticking of the clock. Grey overtook my sight and mind in an all-consuming manner as my leg began to bounce against the paper underneath me in unison with the cruel clock.

It made peace with me, and I made peace with myself, even if my ovaries were somewhat attempting to ruin each day. Head against the car window once more, I saw the sun peek out in the sky to say goodnight to me— to acknowledge my newfound peace in the diagnosis I feared—as traffic clogged the highway. I watched the faces of those who drove past wondering about them, their days, their goals, and for once, I didn’t worry.

Walking through my kitchen, I didn’t worry. Eating whatever leftovers I could find, I didn’t worry. Head perched upon my rather stiff pillow, I didn’t worry. After endless doctor’s appointments and countless days lost to pain, I finally knew the answer. I couldn’t keep questioning myself and the validity of whatever illness I didn’t know I had.

And with the sun comforting someone else in the world, I slept with a smile—one finally free of doubt and finally accepting of the now.

Hutt 2021 | 9

A STORY ON A SUMMER’S DAY The hot July sun cast shadows across the road as my mother turned the Jeep off the highway. We made our way up the drive toward the Resort clubhouse in the distance. I frowned at the rolling golf course in front of us and the packed parking lot to our left.

Through a series of cancellations and conflicts, I was the only member of my Teens for Life Club that was able to volunteer at the church-run charity golf outing. The other Teens for Life officers and I often find ourselves running baby supply drives or organizing pizza party fundraisers, as leaders of our school club that advocates for children and mothers in need in our community. School closings and coronavirus safety concerns forced us to cancel many of our plans—but of course, the one event that wasn’t canceled was the one I had to attend alone.

My mom shifted the park into park and unlocked the doors. “Hey, you’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Katie Donahue

St. Francis High School Hope College Pre-law

“Okay…sounds good,” I responded, as cheerfully as I could muster.

My mom gave me an encouraging smile as I opened the car door into the summer heat.

Pulling my mask on, I made my way up the clubhouse’s driveway and toward a white tent running along the side of the building. A few people were laying out papers on an L-shaped table as I approached. One of them, a thin woman with long, gray hair turned and smiled when she saw me.

“Here to volunteer?” she asked through her mask. I nodded and smiled, relieved I had found the volunteer coordinator so easily. “Let me show you what you are going to be doing…”

The summer sun was high overhead by the time I had checked in all of the golf teams. I was organizing the disarray of schedules and attendance sheets when the volunteer coordinator motioned to me from the other side of the long table.

“I have a new job for you—can you go with Stan* to the seventh hole?

We need two witnesses in case someone wins the hole-in-one contest.”

Just then, a golf cart pulled up a few feet away. The driver was a shorter man with close-cropped white hair and kind features. “And here he is now!”

“I hope you haven’t eaten yet,” he smiled, holding up a paper bag lunch provided to the volunteers by the event. I was slightly apprehensive about

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going to an unknown location on the course with someone I had just met, but Stan’s grandfatherly thoughtfulness gave me a good feeling about my “new job.”

Honda, I thought it was her. I even followed one for a few blocks downtown one time before I realized I was being creepy! But I just couldn’t wait to see her again.”

I thanked him for the lunch and hopped into the golf cart. We sped down, down, down the lane from the clubhouse, passing the other parked carts and the driving range. The day was clear and warm. “So! It’s great that you can help me out today. There is a fantastic grand prize for anyone who can make a hole-in-one on the seventh hole,” he said, punctuating his statement with a dramatic look in my direction.

“Couldn’t you just see her at the next Bible study?”

“And what’s that?” I asked, warming to the conversation.

“Well. Anyone who makes it gets a free Chrysler,” he said, and we shared an appreciative nod. Just then, the cart crested a hill. Rolling shades of green spread out in front us, seemingly unfurling from the woods on either side. Stan whistled.

“What a nice day,” I said, slightly disappointed when we so quickly reached the bottom of the hill and our view lost much of its depth. The cart took one more turn and we arrived at hole seven. Stan parked the cart under a tree with a clear view of the green.

“Ready?” Stan asked me as he got out of the cart to watch. I nodded, pulling a turkey sandwich out of the paper bag and turning my attention to the golfers.

As team after team finished up hole seven, they came down the hill to us. Stan said hello to every person—and introduced me to his friends as they came through. When he was not talking to golfers, Stan told me about himself.

He had an easy storytelling ability that hooked me from his first word.

During a particularly long stretch where no one was teeing off, he sat back down in the cart and pulled out a lunchbox.

“My wife packed this for me,” he said, pulling a handmade sandwich from the box. And then, with conviction, he told me, “She is the love of my life.” I raised my eyebrows.

“Well, I went, of course, but she wasn’t there for the next two meetings!

I was almost out of hope. Then she came to the one after that. I asked her to dinner—and she said no!” Stan reached into his lunch box and pulled out a handwritten note: Love you, honey! Have fun today! And wear your hat!

“But,” he said, holding up the note triumphantly, “I was patient. I knew that she was worth waiting for. Finally, she told me she was ready, and she asked me on a date. I got to meet her dogs.” I smiled as he ran a thumb over the note. “She blesses my life in ways I could never have imagined.

She is such a good person, and she makes me better every day.”

It was a good thing that no one got a hole-in-one that day, because the two witnesses were deep in conversation for the duration of the outing.

“God brings the people we need into our lives,” Stan said thoughtfully.

To my surprise, he held up his phone so I could see it. To the beat of a slow piano song, picture after picture of a smiling woman in her sixties rotated onto the screen. Watching the slideshow he had created, I was amazed by Stan’s love for his wife and his gratefulness for her role in his life. As he put away his phone, Stan leveled a serious look at me.

“I prayed everyday for three years that God would bring me someone to love. He heard my prayers, and I got to marry the most beautiful woman in the world—and the best person I know. We must never lose faith.”

I will never forget that July day. The classically rolling hills of the golf course bathed in the afternoon sun are crystal clear in my memory. I can feel the bumpy golf cart ride up and down and around the cart path as we make our way to the shady tree at hole seven. And of course, I see Stan’s face as he tells me his love story. Getting out of the car that morning, I never would have guessed how my day would progress. I wonder if Stan was a person God knew I needed to meet—even if it was only for one day in my life. * name changed

“When my first wife passed away, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

It was very hard… and I processed it for a long time. After a few years, my sons encouraged me to ‘get back out there’ but an old guy like me doesn’t know where to start,” he laughed. A few golf carts crested the hill and parked near the tee, but Stan continued chewing his sandwich thoughtfully. “So I was sitting on the beach one day… and I suddenly had the feeling I was in the wrong place. I went all the way home and looked at my calendar—one of my friends had invited me months ago to a Bible study at the Congregational church that night. Now, I hadn’t intended to actually go… what’s a Catholic going to do at a Protestant Bible study?

But then I thought, ‘There’s no reason I can’t go! I don’t have any plans.

And I was invited.’ So, I went.” Stan pulled out a Tupperware holding two big cookies. He offered one to me. “I got there late, but there was still one open seat next to me. The Bible study was interesting enough… but then she walked in.” I took a bite of my cookie in anticipated silence.

“I was instantly in love, I tell you. When she pushed open the doors, all I could think was, ‘Wow, this beautiful woman is going to have to sit next to me!’ At the end, I tried to talk to her, but she ran out of there! When I left, I saw that she had to check on her two big dogs waiting in her tiny Honda,” he laughed. “Well, I have to confess. Every time I saw a little white

Hutt 2021 | 11

DEATH OF SISTER

I close my eyes. I hear her laugh. I hear her jokes. I see her smile. I loved her.

I remember like it was yesterday. I remember what I was wearing that day, what I did. This is my story.

November 18 had been a wonderful day. I made a new friend on Zoom and I had done some volunteer work that day which was enjoyable. At 1:17 pm I was wrapping up my Zoom call when I received a text from my sister. She asked if we could talk privately. I had known her half my life and I had never received a text like this from her. Usually, when my sister texts me, I can hear the emotion in the text. She uses emojis that makes me think of her actual facial expression. This was not like that.

Suddenly, all of the events of that year thus far congealed and flooded into my mind:

Alayah Dudley

Jenison International Academy Grand Rapids Community College Graphic Design/Web Development

When 2020 began we had big plans especially since she was graduating from high school that year. Our family gave her a surprise car train graduation party, social distanced and all.

Over the summer, however, she started to fade. When we got together with our other family via Zoom, she wouldn’t speak. When I called or texted her, she took an eternity to respond. When I invited her to activities, she wasn’t available? Things were just not adding up.

I knew the transition to adulthood was challenging; however, it couldn’t have been that. I had called her a few weeks before just to check on her.

The pep and sweetness in her voice were gone. She sounded like a record going in a circle to no end. I wanted so much to hug her and just tell her I love her. I couldn’t thanks to Covid.

Soon thereafter I realized what was happening. She was fading quicker than I expected. All the signs were there but I chose to ignore them. I refused to believe she was sick. I wanted her to fight, I wanted to fight for her. I wanted her to snap out of it and be okay. She couldn’t thanks to Covid.

By the time summer was over, her health had deteriorated quicker than predicted. It was like a moving train that couldn’t stop. We didn’t have time to switch the tracks. The course had already been set.

When autumn fell in, I was determined to encourage her to keep fighting. We had made a plan to get together every Friday in November.

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She attended the first meeting. The second she didn’t make it. I became worried and texted her. No response. I decided to let it go. In my heart, however, there was still an inkling of hope burning.

On the 18th of November, my hands were shaking as I grabbed my iPad to go upstairs into a more isolated area to call her. Before I even pressed the call button, my heart sank to the bottom of my stomach, my heart began to palpitate. Fight, fight, fight, please fight.

As my FaceTime call rang, the little voice in my head kept screaming, “Please fight! I beg you to just keep fighting!

The call went through. I took one look at her and knew.

She didn’t fight.

She spoke to me calmly. I could tell she was trying not to cry. I waited for her to begin and then she said it. She said that she was dying. She told me to keep on strong, to graduate from high school, and keep fighting though she had not. She admitted she was warned too many times but didn’t listen. I never said a word. I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea of not being able to talk, joke, laugh, or share feelings with her.

She finally asked me what I thought about her situation. She frowned and said, “You can call me stupid if you want.” I shook my head and told her I’m sure she’s got plenty of people in her family who has already done that. She felt awkward that I didn’t have anything to say! What could I possibly say to make the situation better?!

I agreed to do so. After that, we ended the call. I felt like I had too much to drink. As if I was walking sideways back downstairs. My brain kept pushing in thoughts, negative thoughts, which were squeezing the life out of me and pushing tears to my eyes. I told myself to get over it, that it’s done and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.

I started cleaning up because I had chores that day. When I took my belongings to my bedroom, my younger sister was in there. She noticed my demeanor had changed after my FaceTime call. She asked me what was wrong and of course, I lied. I said I was just tired, and I had a lot to do today. As I turned to walk into our closet, she stood in front of me.

She was determined to find out what was wrong.

As I sunk deeper into the abyss of untruth, she finally just shook her head and hugged me. At the point of contact my brain gave up and tears gushed out. I couldn’t stop crying. She finally asked me what was wrong. I told her that our sister was dying. She too then started to cry. We just held each other in our bedroom as we cried an ocean. After about five minutes we stopped and parted our separate ways. I went to start my work and she started school.

From the 18th forward, I swore to myself I wasn’t going to get sick and that if I did, I would fight with every fiber of my being to stay alive.

The nightmare came to a peaceful close at 8:37 pm, the following day.

My sister died.

I took in a deep breath and finally said, “You know my family and I will always love you. I’ll miss you.”

That. Was. It. Nothing else would come out. As soon as I said it, anger bubbled up inside of me. It slid like molten lava to my throat and I would have given anything to let it out, but I didn’t. I wanted to reach through my iPad and shake her until she’d come to her senses. I wanted to give her the statistics on low survival rates! I wanted to do so much but I couldn’t thanks to Covid.

She nodded and said, “I’ll miss you guys too. Tell your sisters I love them.”

Hutt 2021 | 13

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A GIRL WITH ANXIETY Six o’clock? Shoot. I’m running late.

It takes five minutes to get dressed, five minutes to brush, fifteen minutes to eat, and ten minutes to do makeup… Oh, I need to pick out pants.

The pants I was going to wear have a stain and there’s a chance I could be chosen to present today in class.

I know: it’s only the size of a quarter, but what if someone notices?

Can you imagine the repercussions? Whole school’d think I’m gross.

Friends would never talk to me again, crush would avoid me — it’d be devastating.

Annie Garcia

Okemos High School College/University Undecided Psychology

So yes, different pants. That adds five minutes to the clock, which puts me out the door at 6:40. It’s only ten minutes to school, but what if there’s an accident that puts me ten minutes behind? Better leave early so I’m there by 7:00. That gives me forty-five minutes before school starts. Is that enough? I’ve got so much to do...

First: talk to Mr. Smith about my math questions. He’ll probably be annoyed.

I don’t really take him for a morning person. What if he thinks I’m not paying attention? Or worse, that I’m not smart enough to understand in the first place? Will he recommend that I be moved to Studies in Algebra?

Will he email my parents? Doesn’t matter. There’s a test Friday and I need a C to maintain my grade. Can’t do that if I don’t understand how to do problem 58 from the homework, now can I? So yeah, let’s say fifteen minutes with Mr. Smith — two minutes apologizing for interrupting his morning and thirteen minutes going over the problem. Probably won’t take that long, but better play it safe.

Then: Mrs. Tracy — Spanish. Pretty sure she thinks I’m a pain, so I’ll get straight to the point and just ask if there’s an alternative to the oral presentation. Please say yes — but what if she doesn’t? I could hide in the bathroom during presentations and wait until the hour is over — upset stomach — nobody ever questions that. If I’m lucky, she’ll just let me present to her during lunch tomorrow and I can be done with it.

She’s intimidating, but better just her than her and the whole class.

So yeah, ten minutes to ask her about alternatives. That puts me at 7:25.

I’ve got twenty minutes. What else do I need to do? Crap: English paper!

The librarian is always so talkative but I hate cutting people off. I lose five minutes with her, which cuts my time to actually print the paper. School computers are so slow and there’s always someone trying to print their twenty-page history report right when I need the printer. Just have to wait...

14

It’ll take at least ten minutes to find my doc and print it, which puts me at 7:40. Five minutes to get to class — that’s cutting it close. First hour is chem in B hall — Mrs. Richards locks the door at 7:45 on the dot. If I’m one second late I’ll have to knock. I can see her cold, soul-deep glare, her towering stature. Everybody will notice. So many eyes, so embarrassing.

Nope, can’t do that. I’ll have to run — risk looking like a dopey, first-day freshman but so be it. I’ll keep my head down and pray that I don’t run into anyone. I do not need a repeat of Thursday — that was mortifying.

Everyone stared. I swear those girls were whispering and laughing at me. The kid I bumped into definitely hates my guts. What if he told his friends? Whole school probably thinks I’m a klutz. Whatever...

Back to planning. I’ll make it to class on time but just barely. I’ll just stare at my shoes and pretend I don’t feel her eyes, drilling holes into the back of my head. I’ll have to watch for kids trying to trip me — that’s never happened, but there’s a first time for everything. Can you imagine? I’d have to drop out — change my name. I could never set foot in that school again.

So yeah: eyes on the floor, get to my desk, sit down, pay attention.

That’s all I have to do for the next three hours — just sit back and listen.

Then comes lunch — time to brave the jungle. Oh, how I do dread lunch, the impatient lunch ladies, the loud sophomore boys, the hard-to-read lunch menu, all making my worst fears a reality. I’ve developed a survival plan, though, that usually gets me out alive and only slightly scarred: pick the shortest line, order whatever the person in front of me ordered, and hightail it out of there. Walking the hallways as I eat covers both my daily nutritional and physical needs. Two birds, one stone.

Then I’m in the home stretch, with just the bus ride home.

Okay, the bus is a close second for the most dreadful part of the day.

Squeezing down the narrow walkway is hard enough, but today my tennis bag will make it harder. As long as I don’t hit somebody in the face, I’ll call it a success. Just take the first open seat and hope nobody sits by me. What if there’s no open seat? Worse: What if the only open seat is next to an upperclassman?

I could walk. It’s only five miles. Winter, two heavy bags. On second thought, I could just sit on the floor and hope the driver doesn’t notice.

Finally, I’m home, where everything is predictable and familiar and safe.

Home, where all I need to worry about is homework, dinner, and bed. Home marks the successful end to another long, stressful, slightly terrifying…

And there’s a knock on the door. Mom peers in and I smile. She smiles, but her eyes look tired and she’s a little pale. Is she getting sick? She’s been sneezing more lately. What if it’s serious? The flu is bad this year and she’s getting older, her immune system…

“Running a bit behind, sweetheart. You should probably get up soon.”

I look to the right in search of my clock. Eyes widen. 6:10. Crap.

Then, the most terrifying part of my day: gym. Every day I walk in not knowing if I’m facing death by dodgeball or (worse) running laps, surrounded by sweaty, smelly, moving bodies. Nightmare. I have found pretending to be part of the wall works well, and if that fails, I can blame the knee surgeries — either of them — four and five years ago, but bones heal slowly, so...

After gym it’s all downhill — only two classes left: Health, where freshmen boys snicker at diagrams of the female anatomy, and English, where I try swapping out my reality with Daisy’s, from The Great Gatsby.

Hutt 2021 | 15

MAGIC TRAVELING MATH BUS I waited in the Waffle House parking lot with my favorite book, The Art of Problem Solving, a few math textbooks, and my calculator. At precisely 5:51 AM, the bus rolled up and the doors squeaked open. It had started in Miami and would pick up students in most of the big Florida cities, until it reached its final destination, 800 miles away. Its passengers were the top mathletes in the state, selected to represent Florida in the American Regional Math League competition at the University of Georgia.

In preparation, I had brought a list of math problems; ones I found unique for their obscurity or beauty, ones I had not yet solved, and ones that no one had ever solved. Though I was excited about the competition, I mostly wanted to meet the other students and talk about our shared favorite subject.

Jordan Hochman

Community School of Naples College/University Undecided Mathematics and Computer Science

From the moment I stepped on, the bus hummed with conversations.

Some students had broken into smaller groups talking about Mu Alpha Theta (MAO) competitions. Another group was collaboratively solving functional equations, while another was discussing Fermat’s last theorem. Normally I am a bit of an introvert, but that day was different, and I found myself at ease. I buzzed between groups meeting new people, adding to the conversation, asking questions and just taking it all in. To anyone else, we were a bunch of glasses-wearing, pimply teenagers, but to me, this rolling steel capsule contained pure magic.

Up until that point in my life, math had not only dictated my academic life, it had defined me socially as well. Unfortunately, that usually meant that I was looked at as slightly eccentric, different from most of my classmates. And it was true. For most students, math was something to tolerate. If given the chance, I would do math problems all day. I see math for its beauty and its importance as the framework behind life. From the golden ratio found in Nautilus Shells, to the coincidental symmetry in the ratio of distance to radii of the sun and moon that allows solar eclipses to happen, math can be found simply by looking closer at the world.

Being around my fellow mathletes on the bus reminded me of a family holiday. No matter what else was going on in the world, I felt safe, accepted, and understood. We all knew what it was like to stay up all night striving to make a breakthrough. We all knew what “make a breakthrough” actually meant.

16

I began to imagine that, at our next stop, a student who loved theater, a potential actor, got on our bus by mistake. Who would be the outcast then?

Who would be seen as more than slightly eccentric? The thought of it brought a quiet smile to my face and a dynamic course of action.

Inspired by the camaraderie on the bus, I decided that I would, from that moment, own my identity and build on it. When I got home, I connected with math teachers in the surrounding counties and built my own community of people, zealous about learning math. I started Hawk Math, my own YouTube channel, and started teaching solutions to thought-provoking math problems from MIT Integration bees to challenging integrals and number theory problems. I ran for regional coordinator of ARML and created a comprehensive math Tips and Tricks manual to assist younger students with competition math. I was no longer on the fringes; I had moved to the center.

Another important moment of the trip came after dark, when many of the travelers had fallen asleep. Thinking about the pleasures of my day, the connections I had made and that I knew would continue, I came to the realization that I would throw myself into a combined math and computer science major in college and tie that into my career. With my passion for teaching, I knew a career as a professor would be a perfect fit. I probably would have fallen asleep, too, except that this decision already had my heart racing in anticipation. When we finally arrived at the Athens Best Western, it seemed like everything in my life, like the numbers on a bicycle lock, had suddenly lined up.

For some people, the greatest day of their life might be going to DisneyWorld, or winning the State Championship in basketball. But for me, it was traveling on that bus. Of course, that’s until my first day of college, when my best day ever will be walking into the math department.

Hutt 2021 | 17

MAY 30: A DAY OF GROWTH The days of 2020 were unlike those of any other year through which I have lived; this drastic disparateness caused grandiose change in my life, as I’m sure it did in the lives of many others. The political unrest, the fight for human rights, the pandemic that uprooted the very way daily life had functioned for everyone, and changes in my personal life defined 2020 for me, and made the very nature of the year transformatory. My person, my relationships, my prospective endeavours, and my emotional maturity all experienced a transformation in one aspect or another due to these happenings. My horizons were broadened and perspectives enhanced with a kind of empathy previously unbeknownst to me, to phrase it bluntly.

Although many of 2020’s relentlessly unending days bled together like watery inks culminating into an unnerving visage on the canvas of a monumental year, one day remains poignant in my memory, separate from the others: the thirtieth of May, 2020.

Ashley Kluting

Coopersville High School Northern Michigan University English

18

As the bloom of May was coming to a close, making way for a hot, torpid June, I and the rest of the high school students of the nation were anticipating the sluggish end of virtual schooling for the year, as the promised return to in-person schooling never came to fruition. Two and a half months of stationary life, confined to a home, crowded with daily, unleaving inhabitants, was something I begrudgingly succumbed to. I don’t think the pandemic could have chosen a worse time to wreak havoc upon the world for me; my family was trapped, in close quarters with one another, not three months after my parents announced to my sister and I that they were ending their marriage. As businesses closed and slowed due to mandated shut-downs, the progress of their divorce was halted indefinitely, until things were normal enough for it to resume.

Because of this, the atmosphere of my home was understandably thick, clogged, congealing, parasitic. Raw emotion - anger, resentment, fear, abandonment, and utter sadness - seeped out of the very pores of my family members. There was no refuge from the loathsome heaviness of this crumbling family. Each of us expressed our emotion regarding the subject uniquely; I watched my sister kick and squirm in denial and a sense of unending abandonment, still clinging to the hope that my parents would change their minds - she was certain they still regarded each other with love. My mother lashed out with a feeling of being blamed and at fault for the situation: sensations of abandonment clung to her as well, showing themselves in desperate bouts of anger and accusation.

The sense of abandonment that they both felt was attributed to how my father and I handled the emotions we were experiencing: by turning inward, shutting others out. I cannot testify to what my father was going through, I saw an immense sadness plant itself in him, but that was the extent of it. We both wanted to deal with our feelings privately. A desire for refuge from this sickened, contagious environment, even momentarily, had been festering in my stomach for months.

An opportunity for escape presented itself in the form of a phone call from a friend, my own personal deus ex machina: “I miss you,” she said, “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal if we hang out. No one else is staying home all the time anyway.” So it was settled. I didn’t need much convincing - no one in any of our families was sick, and we collectively needed a break from each of our familial situations. The proceeding drive to Hoffmaster State Park, the walk through one of the trails flanked by encroaching foliage and trees, whose blossoms were full and fading now, and the arrival at the serene view of dunes, sloping down toward a white beach and a gently sloshing Lake Michigan, accompanied by tender conversation, was practically cathartic. It was at the very least a release: a cleanse of pent-up frustration that had been consuming me like a parasite, a tapeworm feeding on distress. I was not surprised to find that similar parasites had taken refuge in my friends, no one was alone in the difficulty of stagnant life at home, and it was reassuring to know that they understood this difficulty.

between two trees in the yard, their boughs bending slightly in support of our added weight. Under the silky cover of nightfall, stars glimmering watchfully overhead, my friends and I remained silent for a time, absorbing the whiplash-inducing turn of events that had sprung upon us so unexpectedly. We turned to our phones, to social platforms, on which our peers were already spouting their opinions, creating more division from their willful ignorance and intolerance. The silence was ruptured by my friend, who expressed her concern that things would simply never return to normal, that life as we knew it and the future plans we were betting on were no longer tangible. I was afraid her concerns were justified; life had been altered so abruptly, and fear, division, and hatred seemed to be the principles on which our nation was functioning.

It became clear to me then the absolute precariousness of my own situation; nothing was guaranteed, every aspect of life had been altered within the succeeding months. I was astonished at the sheer speed at which everything could change.

The day continued, I drank in the sublime faces of the dunes, the cascading waves, and the fresh, ripe growth of the landscape around me. The sun crawled slowly through the sky as I absorbed the much needed energy which my friends radiated, I found solace in their company. Nighttime was quickly hiding the face of the sun, enveloping the land in greys and blues, signaling our necessary retreat from this place of solitude, healing, and peace. As we found the car of my friend, an old, white Impala lined with a lace of rust, my phone buzzed with a call from my Mother. “Hello?” I answered, and received a sharp, snapping, “Where are you?” as a reply, in a harsh tone, tinged with worry. “Just leaving the beach.” I replied, placidly. “Are you lying? Are you at the protests?”

She continued in an accusatory tone. “No, what protests?” I answered.

She couldn’t be bothered to inform me, demanding, “I want you to come home, now. It’s not safe. Your friends can stay here if they want but I need you to come home.” The drive from Hoffmaster to my house was fleeting, filled with relentless chatter and twenty google searches, scouring the news feeds for coverage on the aforementioned protests.

We found that outrage had struck with the murder of George Floyd by the hands of police. Protests had sprung up in the city of Grand Rapids regarding Black Lives Matter, police brutality, and civil unrest. My mother was right to question me on the honesty of my location - I would have wanted to join the protests in solidarity with their efforts.

May 30 was the zenith of my mental and emotional awakening and realization that occurred in 2020. My outlook and perspective on life was altered unchangeably that day; I realized the futility of banking on the future for worth and meaning in life. Living in the moment and truly cherishing and experiencing daily life and those I am close to has caused me to be a happier person overall. I have come to appreciate and undertake adaptability as a core part of who I am; I seek to be adaptable to whatever cards I am dealt to by fate, as 2020 has proven to me the sheer fickleness of my way of life. May 30 also brought to my attention the necessity of standing up for what is right; being a bystander in the face of injustice is equivalent to supporting those who enforce injustice. I no longer wish to be placid and tranquil as I was taught to be, but rather I strive to empower myself to fight for what is right. The culmination of emotions and new experiences I was undergoing came to a precipice on May 30, the new lifestyle brought on by the pandemic, the distress of my familial situation, and the domestic unrest our nation is still experiencing affected me greatly, and I am a different person because of these occurrences. I am glad for such a day to have happened to me, I am thankful to have grown up a bit more and solidified my person, and I am grateful to be the person I am today because of May 30.

Returning home, I found my parents huddled around the television, intently watching the coverage of the protests. I saw a rise of divisiveness on the screen, an eruption, a demand to be heard, and the opposition that it was met with. Retreating outdoors, my friends and I set up a hammock

Hutt 2021 | 19

THE MEASURE OF SUCCESS In. Out. In. Out. I focused on breathing, holding my composure. Control, discipline, strength--I had trained for this. I kept my eyes squeezed shut and envisioned myself cutting through the six stacked slabs of concrete.

I pushed away memories of how I had hurt myself doing this before and forced myself not to think about how embarrassed I was last time I failed.

I couldn’t focus on the fears and doubts eating their way through me right now. I wouldn’t let myself think about how my family, friends, and dozens of others were standing nearby, watching and waiting to see whether a little girl could defy expectations. I didn’t let myself think about any of it.

I could do this. I opened my eyes, and the enemy stared back at me.

Six single-inch thick concrete slabs spaced and stacked on two cinder blocks--it may as well have been Everest. But I had trained for over half of my life to climb this mountain. I could do it.

Yzabella Lab

Lakewood High School Great Lakes Christian College English

It was July 20, 2020, and I couldn’t decide whether I dreaded the day, or longed for it. It was the day I was going to test for my third dan blackbelt.

I had been taking Tae Kwon Do classes since I was eight years old, and had spent the previous three years training for my third blackbelt. I was testing with two adults who were also going for their third black belts, and the past spring and winter had been planned as our crunch time for mastering everything we were going to be tested on. But covid was not kind. Thanks to a worldwide pandemic, our class was shut down and we were quarantined.

Come late May or early June, our class was still closed, but my instructor reached out to me and said testing was on for June twentieth. That announcement just about gave me a heart attack. Since we’d been shut down for so long, I hadn’t come close to learning everything for the test.

I now had about a month to master four forms, learn gun defense, prep for partner work, and choreograph my very own form all while working a job. Nevermind the fact that I had to prepare to break concrete, and my dominant wrist was injured. I was completely overwhelmed, and honestly wasn’t sure if I could pull it off. Part of me wanted to push off testing for at least a few months, giving me time to prepare. But I wasn’t about to back out. Sure it’d be challenging, but what worth doing isn’t?

I’d like to say something poetic, like, “The day of the testing dawned bright and clear, promising a day full of success.” But honestly, I don’t remember how the day looked. I just remember how it felt. And it felt like a mental-breakdown level of nerves. It was like I had swallowed a bowlful of ants and they were all crawling through me, itching under my skin. The only thing I could do to manage the nerves was practice.

So that’s what I did.

20

Even with the practicing to distract myself, I was still jittery and ended up leaving an hour early. Apparently I wasn’t the only one sick with worry, because the two testing with me were already there, practicing like their lives depended on it. It felt nice to know that I wasn’t the only one who felt completely and totally unprepared. But even though my partners were facing the flames beside me, I couldn’t help feeling slightly alone.

They were both much older than me. At seventeen, I was the youngest in our class to test for my third dan. I also wasn’t blind to the fact that I was a girl, and plenty of people didn’t expect me to be able to keep up with the 6”2, 250 pound, ex-military man beside me. The pressure was on for me to prove that being a young lady wasn’t equivalent to being weak.

In. Out. In Out. I made a point of not looking at the testing board watching and judging, or my friends staring in anticipation, or at my dad who had his camera out, filming for facebook. I couldn’t pay attention to any of that as I prepared to break. I felt a wave of doubt pierce through my emotional shield and sweep through me. The stack was taller than I had been counting on. It would be hard to get the leverage and twist needed to go through it. But I shoved away the doubt and placed the edge of my palm on the cold, hard concrete. I could do this. I had to do this. I needed to prove that I was just as good as anyone else. One last big breath. In. Out. I could do this. I raised my hand up, held it a split second, then slammed it down on the concrete.

Surprisingly, the testing flew by, and parts of it were actually enjoyable.

I stumbled a bit through our forms, but managed to pull through. I sailed through partner work and gun defense with confidence. I got turned around with one of the knife defense routines, but was able to figure it out, and the testing board thankfully seemed to note my perseverance rather than my struggle. Even the stress test (where the testing board gives you a practically impossible challenge just to see how you operate when you’re stressed) seemed remarkably easy.

Something didn’t feel right. Something didn’t sound right. Where was the sensation of reaching through brick and touching free air? What happened to the sweet sound of success as the concrete crumbled and collapsed? Then I looked closer and saw the tragedy. I had broken cleanly through five layers of concrete. But the sixth layer--the one that I had asked for!-- remained intact, laughing in my face. I was mortified, humiliated! Jumbled thoughts chased each other through my head. I had failed. I shouldn’t have set the bar so high. I should have just settled for five. There would have been no doubt about me getting through those.

It would have been easy. My own stupid goals had gotten in the way.

Finally, we had reached the very last part of the test: the feared breaking.

Lower ranking students had to break boards with various kicks or hand techniques at this point, but blackbelts were expected to take on the tower of concrete. Two cinder blocks stood with inch-thick slabs of concrete stacked with pencils acting as spacers between the layers. The number of layers would change depending on each person. The man I was testing with always got a large number because he had the height, weight, and muscle to cut through the concrete like butter. I had always been given smaller numbers because I was shorter, smaller, younger, and, well, a girl. But this time, it would be different. This time, I was gonna go big.

This time, I would prove myself.

I had a goal in my mind, and I would stick with it if it killed me. I was doing six. My record was only four, it had been three years since I had broken concrete, and my wrist was still a little sore from a work injury, but I believed in myself. I could do six. But when it was my turn, my instructor asked for five slabs of concrete to be stacked. Five? To everyone else, five probably seemed like a fine number. For my age, height, weight, and rank, five was good, even impressive. But to me, five was settling. It was settling for less than my goals, and I didn’t settle. So I asked that one more fateful block be added to the pile. Then I approached my mountain of concrete.

But wait a second. What was the point of only setting goals I could easily reach? That was hardly a goal at all. If I never pushed myself beyond my limits, beyond breaking point, I would never grow. Setting easy goals wouldn’t get me anywhere. Anyone could do that. But I wanted more than mediocrity. I wanted to reach for the stars. Great things are in store for me, but I can never take hold of them if I don’t push myself, and that’s what July 20th, 2020 taught me. Sure, I may have failed to reach that specific goal, but the point is that I tried. I refused to settle for the status quo, and I strove for something greater. Success isn’t measured only by the things we accomplish, but rather by the goals we set and the dreams we chase after. I may not always get there, but I will never stop trying to achieve greatness. And that is my measure of success.

Hutt 2021 | 21

THE DAY THAT FELT LIKE A LIFETIME I woke up that day knowing very well what was going to happen, but yet refused to believe it. It felt years away when only it was just hours. Time flies by and you won’t know times up until it is.

I walked out of my room and into the kitchen bracing myself. My mom’s eyes were red from crying and she pointed out the window. I followed her arm to her finger and I had found my dad at the end of it. There he was outside walking alongside my dog. The last walk. There she was as happy as she could be, but in pain. Alongside my dad she hobbled, a once black lab, but now mainly grey. A 14 year old puppy. The one who always greeted us home with her tail wagging fast enough for lift off, and her feeting hopping back and forth like she was standing on hot coals. Now, barely able to get out of bed.

Sydney Osterberg Rockford High School

Grand Valley State University Engineering

My dad brought her around to the car and started with his goodbye.

Same with my brother. I had decided to go with her early on, wanting to be there for her. She had always protected us throughout our lives and now was our turn to protect her. She was in pain and it would have been selfish to hold her here longer than she wanted. No matter how long we tried to prepare ourselves, I don’t think anything can prepare you for the day. We lifted her up into the car and took off.

On the way she was struggling to lay, sit and stand. She didn’t know what to do with herself. I reclined my chair to the back of the car where she lay and pet her to try and calm her nerves. Touch was one of the only senses she had left. I held her steady and looked into her clouded eyes, but realized she can’t see mine. She couldn’t read my eyes, telling her everything was going to be fine.

When we got there, my mom and I walked around to the back of the car and pet her while we waited for the vet to come escort us inside. I kept finding myself in denial of what was about to happen. Everytime my mind went there I pushed it away. I kept pushing it away until I saw the vet, walking up to us and proceeding to guide us to the door. We picked her up out of the car and walked her to the door. She had her last sniffs around and went compliantly inside.

Once we got in the room she paced around, so I sat on the floor and held her each time she cycled back to me. The vets came in and got things started. While we waited for her to fall asleep, the vets left and gave us our time with her. I didn’t have much thought at this point, I didn’t want to. I just focused on petting her and being there for her.

22

As she paced around the room her legs started to drag and get heavy. She found a place to lay down and just passed out. She seemed peaceful. Soon after we had time with her the vets came back in and helped her onto the table. I just kept petting her. It was about the only thing I could think to do.

I felt useless. I couldn’t help her, but just stand there and be with her. Everything felt frozen. I felt nothing, but everything at the same time. Everything came at me like a flood.

The vets left the room and gave us time once it was over. Waves of tears flooded down and I just held her. All the thoughts that I had pushed away came forward. I couldn’t push them back anymore. I knew I would never see her again. I wouldn’t be able to pet her again or hold her or even feel her again.

All my life she’s been there and I hadn’t a thought of what it would be like without. My companion who was always there for me, now won’t. The thought had never occurred to me. I didn’t want to leave her. It didn’t feel real. If I could’ve I would’ve stayed there forever and just held her.

I gave her one last hug and kiss on the forehead and had one last look at her. I had a hard time leaving that room. Once I left I felt a huge regret of doing so, because I knew that was the last time I would ever see her again. I just fell apart walking back into the car. The only thing that made me okay was knowing she was at peace, happy, and free from her old body. She could now forever be a puppy and run around exploring.

Only in my memories she lives. A happy healthy puppy. Forever chasing squirrels, playing with the hose and sprinklers. I imagine her sitting in the grass waiting for my dad to come home from work everyday. Every little memory of her she lives on. Happy. As long as I remember she lives on. This day impacted me immensely. Everyday when I walk in the garage and she’s not there to greet me I miss her. I miss her in the little things, but know in my heart she’s still here with me.

Hutt 2021 | 23

LIFE LESSONS

Sunday, October 4th started out like any regular day for me. I slept in, woke up and had my morning coffee, and then eventually got up to go get ready for the day. I had plans with a friend later that afternoon so I decided to curl my hair. Everything that I was doing pointed to a very normal day and that was not what turned out at all. In mid curl, just as I was finishing, I was greeted by my parents who were visibly upset as there were tears running down my mom’s face. I knew at that moment that something was terribly wrong. My heart dropped to my stomach and my hands began to sweat. She said, “sweetie there is something that your dad and I have to tell you”. I, very scared and concerned, asked, “What is up? Has something happened?” My mom then proceeded to tell me that my best friend’s father had taken his life. I immediately started bawling and was in total shock. All I could think was “this can not be real”, “this is a dream”, “he is still here”, “this has to be a mistake”.

My heart shattered into a million pieces that day for my best friend and her family.

Madeline Peoples

Comstock Park High School Grand Valley State University Nursing

24

The rest of the day all I could think about was how close of a bond my friend and her father had and how many things he would miss out on in her life. This is my senior year and my friend’s senior year as well and my thoughts turned toward all those activities that would be missed.

Graduation is a moment that both students and parents look forward to. My thoughts fast-forwarded to that day and the realization that he will not get to see her graduate high school. Next, I thought about moving out of the house as she starts college and the harsh truth that he will not get to send her off. Then I thought about 10 years into the future and a likely time to get married and I was saddened more knowing that he will not get to walk her down the aisle, or see her eventual family and ever get to hold her children. Later that day, when the initial shock of the situation had subdued I went over to my best friend’s house to show my support and ask if there was anything I could do. I had been over to their house thousands of times but this time it was obviously different.

This time instead of the normal laughter and general commotion of an active household I walked into a broken home that had been devastated by this day’s events. Their hearts had been torn and their lives forever changed. Once we had our initial cry and had calmed a bit I was able to take my best friend out to my car so we could talk with a bit of privacy.

What I heard in the next 15 minutes forever changed my life. I could not imagine finding someone I love so dearly in that state. I tried to put myself in her shoes but it was impossible. There is no experience in life that prepares you for something like that. I felt so useless because I could not change the situation and I could not take the pain away either. When she had finished talking, once she had unloaded all that she felt comfortable with, we embraced in a big hug and we both started crying once again.

One unfortunate thing about suicide is you never expect it. My best friend’s father always had a smile on his face and looked so happy; you would never think that he was struggling so bad mentally. Since this event occurred this past fall my eyes have really been opened to mental health. I have seen firsthand how hard dealing with your mental problems can be and I have also seen how it affects those around the person too. It is a serious problem that needs to be talked about more and taken as seriously as any other health issue. People should not feel weak for wanting to and needing to get help. Suicide not only affects the person who took their life but will forever change the lives of their family and friends. I have learned to check up on the people in my life and ask them questions to see how they are really doing. I try to be a better listener and notice signs that may indicate that someone is not okay. I have learned that in order to help others we have to lose this stigma that if you struggle with your mental health you are any less of a person.

This day taught me many things. Lessons learned in the tragedies that life can bring. I value relationships better and know the power of honest communication.

Most importantly, I have been reaffirmed that it is important to take care of the people around you. They fulfill so much in your life and I was reminded of the responsibility that you have to always make sure they know you are there as well.

Hutt 2021 | 25

BYE

I groaned as the incessant beeping of my alarm woke me on the morning of January 30th, 2020. Thursday, I thought, slowly sitting up. Almost the weekend. It was only a month into the new year, and I was already having trouble getting through school every day. Part of that was just general lack of motivation. But part of it was due to the fact that my mind was elsewhere every minute of the day. My best friend, Lydia, had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April of 2019. Even after many months of treatments and hard work, her condition worsened.

Lydia was put into hospice care in mid-December, and she was all that I could think about.

Annabelle Rickert

Thornapple Kellogg High School Annabelle is currently undecided regarding their higher education pursuits.

I trudged into school with bags under my eyes and an iced tea in my hand.

I knew the day would feel ridiculously long, but fortunately, I had something to look forward to. After school every day, I headed to the auditorium to practice for our school’s musical, “Once Upon a Mattress.” I’ve been involved in theatre for as long as I can remember, and I’ve participated in every school show. This year, I was cast as the lead. It was the only thing that kept my mind off my friend’s condition.

Seven hours crept by, and school finally ended for the day. I hurried out of my classroom and to the auditorium, where I could focus on something else for a few hours. I let myself melt into the routine of the show. Nonsensical lyrics filled my brain. My feet danced every step on their own. I didn’t need to think about anything. I felt strangely calm.

Soon, I realized I hadn’t checked my phone in a little while. When I wasn’t needed on stage, I clicked the screen on and was greeted by a text from Lydia’s older brother, Reece; Hey, it’s Reece. Lydia isn’t doing so hot. Her lungs are filling with fluid and the nurse said there isn’t anything we can do about it. She’s having a really hard time breathing, so it’s not expected she’ll make it through the night. Feel free to come on over, we’re all here.

I was frozen. My eyes locked onto the screen. My breathing sped, getting heavier by the second. I whipped around, looking for mine and Lydia’s closest friends, Lila and Ellie, who were also in the musical. I spotted them talking to our director with red eyes. They had gotten similar messages.

I bolted to where my friends were standing, trying to control my hysteria.

Unfortunately, our director wouldn’t let us leave until we had completed a full run through of the show. We were visibly frustrated, but we complied.

Lila squeezed my hand as we walked back onto the stage.

26

Holding in tears, we finished the show. The moment the cast cut off the final chord, Lila, Ellie, and I rushed out of the building. Lila’s mom greeted us in her van. We were in no condition to drive. I messaged our other friends, Lilly and Amelya, to meet us at Lydia’s house.

When we arrived, Lydia’s family was huddled around her bed in the living room. The local church’s pastor stood above them, praying. At first, I felt out of place. I hadn’t ever really believed in a God. The last time I entered a church was for the funeral of a classmate who had taken his life the previous year, and even then it wasn’t for religious purposes. My friends and I stood behind the couch. Lila, Ellie, Amelya, and Lilly all had their eyes closed and heads bowed. My hands were shaking, intertwined with theirs. I slowly inhaled, followed suit, and for the first time in many, many years, I prayed. I hoped that if there was a God out there, he would hear us and spare her. I wasn’t ready for her to go.

The evening was filled with laughter and love. Lydia’s house was full, as well as the hearts of every person there. We shared stories, recalled memories of Lydia’s impact on our lives. Tears spilled on old photo albums.

In every single photo, Lydia Cole had the most beautiful, genuine smile.

Even if it had to end so soon, she lived the happiest life of anyone I’ve ever met.

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. I snapped awake. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. I turned to see that my phone was ringing. The call was coming from Lydia’s phone. Here it is, I thought. I picked up to hear Reece’s voice on the other end.

“Hello?” His voice sounded heavy.

“Hi,” I answered, my voice gravelly.

“You’re the only one who’s picked up,” he sighed. “Lydia passed at about 12:30. We’re all okay. If you need to come by the house tomorrow or you just want to talk, feel free.”

“Thanks,” I whispered. I knew this was coming, but it didn’t feel real.

“Of course. See you soon.” He hung up.

I checked the time. It was one in the morning. Laying back down, I thought about where she would be now. Everyone says that people who die go to a better place. I still wonder a year later where that place is. Maybe she’s swimming on the moon. Maybe she’s blowing the wisps off of dandelions or dancing with the wind. I drifted off to sleep, knowing that wherever that better place is, she’s okay.

Hours passed, and Lila and I decided it was time for us to leave. We said our goodbyes to everyone in the room until the only person left to bid farewell was Lydia. I waited as Lila bent to whisper in her ear. She stood, eyes glistening, and walked toward the door. My turn.

“Lydia,” I whispered, leaning down, “I have no idea if you can hear me or understand what I’m saying…” I trailed off. I never thought I would have to do this.

“I,” I started again, taking a deep breath. “I am so proud of you. Don’t forget about me.” I swear I heard her whisper one word as I stood: “Bye.” I returned home with sleep weighing down my eyelids. I asked my dad to stay at home the next day. Even if Lydia made it through the night, she definitely would not make it through the next day. I did not want to be at school when that happened. My father nodded, hugged me goodnight, and I climbed into bed.

Hutt 2021 | 27

A FINAL FAREWELL

“Well, I think that’s everything,” I declared to my sister after the vats of clothes, a refrigerator, and multiple miscellaneous articles were strategically crammed into the trunk of the car. It was time for her to move into her North Campus dorm at the University of Michigan.

All of my siblings were clustered around her for the pending sendoff, our parents unavoidably detained in the hospital with the influx of COVID patients. We are part of a family of seven, and as the oldest of five children, she was the first of us to undergo this exciting, but lonely, experience. Now, with my parents away, it was my privilege and responsibility to help her settle into her dorm.

Rachel Schenck

Forest Hills Central High School College/University Undecided Materials Science and Engineering

While I come from a large, close-knit family, my relationship with Sarah is unique. Only 18 months and one grade apart, we have always been inseparable. She was my first playmate and the leader of what became a gang of five siblings. We have shared the same bedroom, played the same sports, and taken the same classes. At some point, she became my best friend, supporting and encouraging me. When I impulsively signed up for wrestling Sophomore year, she joined me just like I joined her on the swim and water polo teams. I cherish how she can light up a room with her smile that reveals her scarcely contained joy trying to burst through as she hurtles over to wrap me in a hug. The shared giggles that burst out over a remembered phrase from a well-loved book echo in my ears, uniting us and our happiness. However, today was the day she’d be leaving–the dreaded and anticipated last day at home and first day on the college campus.

For years, I’d shied away from any mention of college, knowing she’d be the first to go and then she’d be gone, to start a life of her own with only occasional visits and no long days lounging around together. As I awaited the inevitable, I stared vacantly at the blank ceiling overhead, looking for unfound answers as to how I should view this culmination of her hard work of writing essays, studying homework and schools, and all the steps leading to her entrance to the University of Michigan.

Bittersweet. That’s one word for it. Bitter sadness of her leaving and sweet hopes for her upcoming experiences, opportunities, and rewards for her hard work.

I was pulled back to reality with a sudden slamming of a car door and her grave remark, “It’s time.” After a flurry of hugs from all the kids, she took the keys and settled in the driver’s seat for the two-hour drive to Ann Arbor. I took my usual place at her right hand and skimmed the stations for a good song. 107.3’s country songs filled the air, changing the emotional environment to a happier one, where we could postpone the future by singing along to the songs from which we’d learned snippets

28

of lyrics. We were both aware it was just a temporary reprieve and a cover for what we were actually experiencing, but we needed to take our minds off our impending separation.

The trip passed all too quickly, with fields and forests speeding by as fast as time itself. Before I knew it, we faced a circular driveway where drop-offs were to take place almost 45 minutes before our allotted move-in time, so we began exploring her new home-away-from-home. Everything seemed foreign and somewhat imposing, as the campus sprawled out before us.

With the addition of everyone in masks and maintaining maximum social distance, it was anything but welcoming. When our turn came, we began unloading all of her belongings and transporting them to her room on the seventh story—the top floor. The room was an average dorm size, with some room but still very small and built for economy and efficiency.

There was a rod to hang clothes with a shelf above it, a dresser that doubled as a bed stand, and a desk in the corner between the window and the bed. The room was symmetrical, shared equally with her roommate, a Spanish-speaking student from Colorado. My sister and I started putting everything away and figuring out what was necessary. The refrigerator went by the window with the toaster her roommate brought perched on top.

The previously packed items gradually gave the utilitarian room a lived-in, more comfortable feeling.

After everything was in its place, and not wanting to say “goodbye”, we decided to familiarize ourselves further with the campus. Both of us had visited in the past, back when students had been enjoying the sunny days by hammocking or throwing around a football or just actively chatting in small groups. However, it was now very empty and desolate when we walked.

Volleyball courts were deserted, courtyards were silent, and the atmosphere resembled a ghost town, complete with closed, darkened buildings. Some people had started moving in, but it was early and many hadn’t yet arrived.

The emptiness wasn’t just due to the lack of students; COVID-19 restrictions and safety precautions included closing many areas where groups would have congregated. Everyone we saw had a mask masking their expressions and changing our perspectives on the new ‘normal’. The only question was: how different would this year be?

We entered the buildings we could and looked around at the plaques of accomplishments, framed projects, and artistic architecture that surrounded us. The hallways filled with the echo of our footsteps, an echo of the footsteps of all those who’d come before us. We left them behind in favor of the verdant surroundings and pleasant outdoor temperature. Continuing the postponement of separation, we decided to travel to Central Campus in an attempt to find the missing vibrancy

and activity we remembered and the Barnes and Noble bookstore, where my sister would get her textbooks. The bus ride was empty, silent, and a rare experience for both of us. We had only an inkling of an idea of where we had to get off and which bus was the correct one. The location label on the bus kept changing, and we followed its progression on the map. After the correct label appeared, we stared, then lunged for the cord. We managed to get off at Central Campus, shouting our thanks to the driver ensconced in layers of plastic protection, and walked for around ten minutes, uncertain of where exactly the store was located. We eventually found it: a closed store filled with books and other school items. We had much more success and were more confident on our return trip back to North Campus, walking and riding without a hitch or getting turned around. We shared a final meal from the dining hall: a doggie bag filled with packaged items designed to be consumed far from the company of others in order to prevent the virus from spreading. Instead of a comfortable, crowded cafeteria filled with future friends, we ate alone in her diminutive dorm room.

After our meal, I got ready to head home. We were both at a loss for words for our final farewell. Cracks began chipping away at our neutral masks, and some water leaked through the cracks, until the strained dam crumbled under the weight and the tears fell soundlessly onto each others’ backs as a bone-cracking hug—a moment to last for months— was our way of sharing our sadness and premonition of loneliness, as well as an accumulation of years upon years of memories and love.

“I love you. Goodbye. Have fun.” Only a few words made it out before I turned around to drive back home, a lonely drive, a juxtaposition to the loud, raucous companionship I enjoyed on our journey to the university.

The car ride back took only two hours but felt like days. I again tried to fill the time listening to music—Ann Arbor was so far away that our normal stations were staticky, but I had found a good one on the way to the college that I played—and concentrating on driving without missing a turn-off.

Sarah and I had never been apart for longer than a week, and she would be gone until winter break as trips home wouldn’t be permitted. I was glad she was trying a new experience but sad that she was gone. As I pulled up to our house, my parents were a welcome sight. They immediately wanted a recounting of my trip, trying to experience the day vicariously.

Dinner was notably muted by Sarah’s absence and loss of her natural, exuberant joy. I went to bed early, to a much emptier room, and tried to fall asleep. The tear tracks dried up on my face in the dark, taking away all traces of change except for the vacant bed from which no noise emerged, and a sinking feeling of an absence where there was once only comfort.

Hutt 2021 | 29

A FLOOD OF EMOTIONS My hand, shaking in fear, grasped the cold metal of the doorknob.

As my family stepped into our home, the smell of sewage, mold, and rot immediately assaulted my senses, causing me to become dizzy.

We surveyed the main floor and felt a wash of relief as we perceived no damage; the same could not be said for the basement, however.

As we rounded the corner to our basement stairs, the smell intensified, heightening our anxiety. There was no electricity; we could barely see anything. As we turned on our phone flashlights, we gasped in unison as the water sat less than a quarter of an inch from the main floor.

The basement was demolished. I was prepared for a few inches of water.

I never expected over 8 feet.

Elaiyna Schwartzkopf Calvary Baptist Academy Cornerstone University Communications

As I stared into the murky water, I lost my grip on conscious thought and began to replay the events of the past few days. Over a hundred thousand gallons of water had rushed into the homes of the unsuspecting.

When the official warning came, my parents and I were at the grocery store picking up a nice dinner for “Family Movie Night”. My twelve year old brother was home alone. When the warnings came, we didn’t know how much time we had. For all we knew, it could’ve been minutes away and we were stuck in the busiest part of town with my brother home alone.

Dropping our bags immediately, we ran out of the store as fast as possible in an effort to beat traffic. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea and traffic seemed thicker than rush hour in New York. When we finally got home, we didn’t know where to begin. We packed a small suitcase of clothes, threw them in the car, and drove. Thankfully, my grandparents lived close, but far away enough that the flood wouldn’t directly hit them.

By the time we arrived, it was almost midnight. We had little more than the clothes on our backs and enough fear to last a lifetime. The next morning, we knew, would be a day we would never forget.

When we drove back to our house, we were rerouted a couple times due to road destruction, debris, and bridge collapses. The city was in shambles: porches floated down rivers, sofas were lodged in trees, and buildings were just… gone. We could have never imagined the sheer amount of devastation that happened that night. After our long, heart-wrenching ride, we parked the car fairly far away from our house as the water still had not receded enough to pull into our driveway. The sight was something other-wordly. Such vast amounts of water did not belong where houses resided. It surrounded the base of our home, making our house appear like it was floating in the middle of a lake, nothing holding it to the Earth.

The reflection of our house on the water was like a distorted mirror.

From the outside, the house looked serene, but in our hearts we knew the inside was destroyed.

30

For the next few days, my mind could not wrap around the idea of my house being flooded. I saw the house, covered in water, and yet I still believed that when I entered and it would be “normal”. For many families, losing the basement would be the most ideal of floors to lose as they are often unfinished and “excess space”. For my family, our basement was our entire life’s storage. We kept nothing on the main floor but the necessities.

We lost nearly everything we owned. We sat and stared at the muddy water, thinking of everything that was gone. My parent’s wedding videos, our childhood photographs, furniture, my first baby-doll, all of my brother’s toys, everything was destroyed. I snapped back to reality when I felt the pressure of my mom’s hand on my shoulder, preparing to enter the house for the first time since the flood, and felt her hands shake in fear as well. So much had happened in such a small amount of time. It was a lot to take in. Continuing to replay past events, however, wouldn’t fix the current situation. It was time to begin work.

With that much destruction, we didn’t even know how to begin.

As the water had begun receding, a few family friends came to see the damage. They brought muck-suits, masks, and head gear and literally jumped into our basement. It was a strange sight, watching people swim into my basement. Trip after trip, they began to haul out floating bins and boxes, saving as much as they possibly could. We would have saved nothing if it were not for those men. Though they saved only a little, anything recovered meant the world to my family. When my parents finally deemed it safe, my brother and I checked out the damage in the basement. As we headed down the stairs, each step squished and sloshed, causing the water to quickly fill our socks and shoes.

The walls were no longer solid, but mashy and bubble-filled. My brother, ever-curious, poked one. With barely any pressure applied, it burst open and spilled out chunks of dry wall and debris. Laughing, yet concerned, he turned to me and exclaimed, “Well, I won’t do that again!” We laughed, but there was a sadness in that moment that hurt my heart. As we continued down the stairs, I glanced at the ceiling and became transfixed for a minute. Glittery paper stars were indented like ninja throwing-stars into the ceiling. They seemed to almost mock us with their cheerful sparkle.

At first I was confused as to how those stars got there, until I turned the corner. Dozens of bins, boxes, totes, and bags littered the floor. It was as if a great hurricane took the bins and slammed them against each other.

The damage was purely overwhelming. So much so, that I could not cry.

I couldn’t comprehend what I had lost, how this would affect my family, or what this meant for my future. I just stared at my wreck of a home and swallowed back my fear.

Suddenly, my mom’s phone began to ring. Then, my dad’s. Countless people offered food, supplies, and physical help over the next few hours.

The aid was overwhelming. Every shovel-full dug by a volunteer was one shovel-full my family didn’t have to worry about. Eventually, the basement was cleared and the reconstruction began. My family lost nearly everything, but that is not why we cried. We cried looking at the overwhelming sense of love and hope our community showed us. In a time of fear, concern, and stress, the people of our city fought back their differences to come together for the greater good. Not only did they help those in need, but they hurt with us. Many times complete strangers would show up at my home to help work. As I went over to greet them, our eyes met and I could see, over the top of their mask, their eyes brimming with tears. I did not know these people, yet they cried with us over our losses. Smiles slowly crept back onto our tired faces as we thought of all the wonderful volunteers that came to help us. Somehow we knew, looking at the support from those around us, that we were going to be okay. Love allowed the healing process to begin. I am forever changed due to this ordeal as I am now encouraged to be the help that was given to me. When tragedy strikes, I will no longer wonder what to do. Instead, I will be the first to help. For the remainder of my life, I will strive to bring light into dark moments and a smile to the faces of those most in need.

Hutt 2021 | 31

BLUE

This will not be life-changing. Today is no more or less special than any other. Despite what many teenagers my age—who have also fallen foolishly in love with a school—believe, regardless of the decision I receive, I will remain unchanged tomorrow.

At least, that is what I convince myself as I lie awake, anxiously awaiting my alarm. The adrenaline pumping through my veins as early as six in the morning is proof enough that the next twelve hours will be grueling at best. “Worrying means you suffer twice,” I repeat, simultaneously hoping that the news I receive today will bring me one step closer to becoming a writer half as legendary as J.K. Rowling. It does not make the churning in my stomach subside. Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. In, out, repeat. In—I am jarred from my trance by the long-awaited signal that still has managed to catch me by surprise.

Katelyn Turner

Zeeland East High School University of Michigan Sport Management

The virtual school day is hardly as torturous as when I am left alone with my angst while my parents travel to the airport to retrieve my brother, who is homebound from college. I busy myself with walking the dog, finishing my homework, even unloading the dishwasher.

A text message prompts me to check my phone, the anticipated email catching my eye. My heart beats in my throat as I sprint up the stairs to grab my laptop—then back down again to receive the news in the kitchen, all while desperately logging in my information. The laptop is barely settled on the counter when the letter appears. I have googled enough samples to only read one word before all the adrenaline, hyperventilating, and unreasonably high heart rate halt. My hand shakes over the computer keys, celebration energy unspent. I skim the letter, endlessly searching as if I could have missed the one word that would have changed everything.

Although I thought I had convinced myself it would not.

I wander aimlessly into the living room. As my thumbs type out forlorn text messages to the few people I trusted enough with the knowledge I had even applied, tears plop onto the screen. My mind spins uncontrollably. It is all I can do to crash against the ottoman and release the unexpected torrent of tears. I had given my best of everything, yet it still was not enough.

And I so desperately wanted it to be. I just had not realized the depth of its importance until I was turned away. Rejected. But that is not how I feel. Bewilderment and betrayal fight over who deserves to bring upon the next bout of tears. I am bewildered by my counselor, who told me I had nothing to worry about. I am bewildered by my closest friends, who reassured me that I possess all the qualifications and then some. I am bewildered by my coach, who enlightened me of the positive impression I left on my interviewer. I am bewildered by my campus visit and the feeling of belonging that overwhelmed me. Mostly, I am bewildered by myself, who thought I ever had a shot. It is these same emotions I feel have subsequently betrayed me.

32

My dog cries as well, but considering her proximity to the exterior door, I assume her sorrows do not derive from sympathy.

The Christmas lights twinkle in my peripheral vision, a mocking reminder that my break will be spent writing halfhearted essays for colleges that will never measure up. Since the early decision whirlwind, I have not written much of merit; although that is why I desire to attend college. I loved writing long before I could so much as think about middle school. In the wake of my devastation, a thought drifts across my brain, and I rush my dog inside, knowing I must jot it down before the thought disappears.

Bounding up the stairs for the second time that day, I type at a feverish pace.

My favorite color has always been blue, But I would have changed it to purple for you.

I have always despised poems, probably because I have never been particularly skilled at writing them. I have never understood the need to twist words in such a way, resulting in ambiguous interpretations.

Why cannot people just say what they mean? But at this moment, writing out those two lines minutely calms if only one speck deep within me. It is a sensation that has been so vacant today that I write line after line just to feel that way again.

I thought I had received a sign from above That you would be my home and my truest love.

How could I have been so wrong, to fall for a place that felt so right? As I am forced to search elsewhere, how will I ever trust my gut instinct again?

But that door, it was slammed bitter in my face.

Some other hopeful must have taken my place.

This is too fresh, too painful, too raw, too real. I should stop. But I cannot.

A place so gilded I couldn’t see through To the imperilment disguised from my view.

I have been conditioned to believe God always has a plan. But for once, why could His plan not halve aligned with mine? I truly believed I had it right this time.

You’ve only fooled me once, so the shame’s on you For deceiving a girl, who you barely knew.

This lake that I’ve lived by has always been mine,

In some ways, the waiting was far worse than the brutal truth. And ultimately, knowing now is better than postponing the inevitable. Yet, there will always be a part of me that wishes I was still able to dream.

But somehow you have made it feel like a crime

My favorite color has always been blue

I had forgotten how serene writing for myself could be—not for school, not for my future, but for myself, for right now.

Without your presence and my judgment askew.

To think I would be welcome around its waves.

Instead, washed on the rocks I’ll never engrave, Oh, but how terribly I wished—I mean, who am I kidding, I still wish—I would one day sit beside the lake, the ever-present wind caressing my hair. If only I had seen that one word, I would have been set up for four years of endless inspiration.

The water rushes over the vibrant paints, Never an artist, but for you, no complaints I incorporated every hope and dream I have ever conjured into that application. Merely writing the essay gave me butterflies for what could have been.

Now I need to look beyond the school that has been my focus point ever since that perfect autumn day when the leaves were the perfect shade of orange, and the sunrise glittered perfectly off the lake.

Little did you know, I would have been the one To prove your relevance had only begun.

In light of this crushing revelation, I still possess the gift I was dying to share with that community, who passed on the opportunity.

But this dream, it existed before you did, Which means it had never been you, but the kid After all, I might have never truly been in love with the place but rather what it could have accomplished for the passion dearest to my heart.

About spending all day on your windy shores,

Who, at thirteen, typed out her dreams for hours,

Painting for hours while crouched on all fours

Knowing one day, the people would scour,

There are still moments I catch myself dreaming about what life might be like to walk along the Lakefill, but then I remember, and the fantasizing is replaced by emptiness.

I cannot decide whether or not my convictions were correct this morning.

In one way, nothing has changed. In another, everything has.

The messages buried deep within my heart Your beauty inspired—I’d wished I’d never part.

That place was magical, so unlike anywhere I had ever visited. While it reminded me of home, there was also a hint of something more, something that scared me—in a good way. But no. I must stop thinking like this, about something that will never be.

Searching for the chance to read That book I alone had written, yes indeed.

From deep within, I am resolute in what I am meant to do, regardless of where I find myself in a year’s time.

In spite of that school fading in the North West, I will write, prove you wrong, and become the best.

My favorite color has always been blue, Yet no one has made it so relatable as you.

Grief and panic attack my conscience. I knew it would be a long shot, but I thought if I genuinely loved it enough, what more could be asked of me?

Apparently a lot more.

Hutt 2021 | 33

SAYING GOODBYE

“Mom, please we have to go to the funeral,” I pleaded to my mom as I sat in my musty garage with tears in my eyes.

I knew my request was ridiculous. It was Friday September 18th, 2020.

I had just received the news about 3 hours ago that Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg had passed away. This request would have been surprising coming from any other 17 year old, but from me, my mom understood.

I fell in love with civil rights when I was around 6 years old. Throughout my early life, I knew I wanted to help people and make a difference. The legal system was how I was going to do that. When I was in 7th grade, I was first introduced to Justice Ginsburg. As most girls my age were obsessed with Riverdale and the latest Hollywood stars, I was engulfed by my love for this 5’1 Justice. I was obsessed with her. I had everything from her autobiography to multiple shirts with her face in it to a bobblehead of her.

Livvie VanEss

East Grand Rapids High School College/University Undecided Political Science

My mother glanced at me with sorry written all over her face. “You realize the drive is 10 hours from here. We can’t do that.” She knew how important this woman was in my life and wanted me to be able to go down to DC, but with her health problems, we couldn’t feasibly drive all that way.

“Fly?” I tried to find any possible way to get to Washington DC. I needed closure. “We’re in the middle of a global pandemic. I don’t want to fly right now,” she replied.

The conversation couldn’t stop there, it couldn’t! Carrying my sadness I slid into my bed, giving up on any chance of going to DC. As I saturated my pillow with my tears, an idea hit me. My uncle! My uncle was a pilot for an airline. I remembered him talking about borrowing a friend’s plane a couple times for various trips, including one to Yorktown VA a year prior.

Could he take me to DC? The idea was crazy, but not impossible. Before I knew what I was doing, my thumbs were punching in my uncles phone number praying he would answer.

“Hello” I could recognize that Australian accent anywhere.

“Hey, so I have a crazy request,” I paused, a glimmer of hope in my voice.

“Would you be willing to fly me to DC to go to RBG’s memorial?” Within seconds he responded.

“Sure, when do we go?”

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He didn’t pause to think about it. He knew how much I loved Ruth, my whole family did. With some convincing from my uncle and I, my mom finally agreed for the 3 of us to go down. The plan was to drive to my aunt and uncle’s house about 90 minutes away, then take my uncle’s friend’s small 4 seater plane to DC at the crack of dawn so I could officially say goodbye.

I stood there, a set of marines walking step by step down the white marble steps of our nation’s capital, carrying the casket draped with the American flag.

Taking deep breaths and feeling the tears drip down my face, I watched as they honored my hero for the last time. Around 30 female Congresswomen and Senators lined the steps paying respect to the Justice. I clutched onto my autobiography by Justice Ginsburg and my pocketbook constitution. My pocketbook constitution has always been somewhat of a security blanket ever since I received it as a gift when I was 12, yet it gave me no security at this moment.

Silence fell over the small group of people congregated outside of the capitol building. With tears streaming down my face I closed my eyes for a few seconds, trying to scrounge up a prayer or some words of wisdom, anything to get me through this. Then I heard it. There was a faint whisper in my left ear. It was a single word. My name. Rationally speaking, it was probably someone in the small group of people behind me, or it could have possibly all been in my head. However, I knew who it was. It was Ruth. As silly as it sounds, I truly believe it was her speaking to me. Giving me the nudge I needed to keep going. Keep fighting for her legacy. Keep fighting for the little people. Keep fighting for what I believe in. I felt she was passing the baton to me to embark on my own journey towards equality while upholding the legacy she left behind.

Hutt 2021 | 35

OVERCOMING FEAR AND GLIDING INTO GRATITUDE Over the course of the past year, I have experienced more personal growth than in any other point in my life. The year of 2020 has been undeniably challenging for individuals in all walks of life, as each person has been profoundly and uniquely impacted by the unpredictable changes brought about by the Covid-19 Pandemic. As a competitive figure skater, the closure of public facilities such as gyms and ice rinks seemed to turn my entire world upside-down. Although the sport of figure skating is not as commonly recognized as sports such as football and baseball, the rigorous training schedule and time commitment required of the athletes is strikingly similar.

Much like any other high school athlete, my days prior to the shutdown followed a somewhat predictable routine of balancing training, while keeping up with my academic studies. As Winter of 2019 gradually began to give way to Springtime, I had no idea that my present definition of “normal” was about to be challenged in ways I never could have predicted.

Grace VanZanten iCademy Global

Grace is currently undecided regarding their higher education pursuits.

As I reflect upon this past year, there is a specific day which stands out as one I am especially proud of, and grateful to have experienced. On Friday, March 13, 2020, I had the opportunity to complete the three ice dance tests that I had been diligently practicing in anticipation of this test session. The corresponding competition, which was set to begin the next day, had been cancelled just the night before, due to concerns over the rapidly spreading Coronavirus. At this time, we were all stunned that this virus, which had seemingly been contained to only impact the individuals mentioned in news headlines, was now right here in our own cities, schools, and perhaps even our ice rink. As I laced up my skates that day, I had no idea how meaningful the time I spent on the ice that day would grow to become over the course of the next several months.

I stepped on the ice, and began to warm up my body, beginning to practice as if this were any other day. As I glided through my usual warm up routine, I fell into the comfortable rhythm of what I assumed would be a typical practice session. Nothing compares to the experience of stepping into an entirely new medium of movement, gradually becoming free to move with complete confidence and joy. This is why I have always come back to the ice, even after long, challenging days of frustration, and the inevitable failures known by all athletes. I found my freedom to truly belong on the ice, and it has always been a dream of mine to help others experience the joy of skating. My peaceful practice was interrupted when one of my coaches informed me that a panel of judges had arrived the night before, unable to cancel their travel plans before the last-minute cancellation of the competition. She explained that the judges were coming to the ice rink to observe and critique performances, and I was scheduled to debut my

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brand new routine for the judges that morning. I was immediately filled with panic. I had not planned to perform my new program that day. I had only just learned the choreography, and was far from confident with my mastery of the many new and difficult skills involved. I was overwhelmed with anxiety, and I began to doubt myself as I resumed my practice.

A short while later, adrenaline filled my body as the judges took their places alongside the rink, and each skater took their turn performing and receiving feedback. Critiques are valuable tools which help athletes refine their programs for the upcoming season. However, the vulnerability to criticism makes this type of performance incredibly nerve-wracking. I took a deep breath as I looked down at the skirt I had tied around my waist. At this moment, I needed to make a very important decision. I could skate cautiously, excluding the new and most challenging skills from my performance. I could avoid the vulnerability of presenting skills that are new and challenging. I clasped my hands together and released them again, nervously pondering the decision I was faced with.

Slowly, I drew in a deep breath as I closed my eyes and began to focus. This was my performance, and I knew I wanted to give it my all. I was going to go for it. When I reopened my eyes, my mindset had shifted to one of total resolve. Only I could choose what to make of this day, and I wanted to make the most of it.

My mind cycled through a whirlwind of emotions as my turn to perform approached. With renewed determination, I took the ice and assumed my opening pose. As the opening lines of my music filled the arena, I let go of my self-doubt and simply skated for the joy of it. As I moved through my routine, I became filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I was given this opportunity to do what I truly love, and had almost let my own self-doubt overshadow the true love of skating that drives me to put forth my best effort each day I train. My genuine love for the ice filled me with energy as I glided through each step of my routine. I finished the routine with my signature spin, and smiled wide as the music came to a stop. Words cannot explain the fulfillment and joy of knowing I had given all I could to this performance. I was glad that I had chosen to take the risk of performing new skills, and truly put forth my best effort that day.

Later the very same night, my friends and I received the news that all ice rinks had been ordered to close their doors for an extended period of time, in response to the dangers of the Covid-19 Pandemic. I was devastated, because skating nearly every day was the only life I had known ever since I was the wide-eyed four-year-old who fell in love with the ice so many years ago. The closure of ice rinks was one of the greatest obstacles ever faced by the skating community as a whole. Similarly to just before my performance, I had a decision to make. With the resolve and resilience I had learned in my years on the ice, I decided not to let this devastating news define the months that were to come. In all the years I had spent training, I learned much more than routines and technique. Through skating, I gained resilience that made me into the person who I am today. This resilience would prove to be crucial as the world entered into times filled with change and uncertainty, with which came tremendous opportunities to learn and grow. As the shutdown stretched on into many months, the figure skating community came together to support one another, sharing encouragement and hope as we all learned how to persevere through the new challenges brought about by each and every day.

As I reflect upon this day, March 13th of 2020, I am grateful beyond expression for the life lesson I learned that day, and the confidence I gained from delivering a performance I was truly proud of. This day reminded me of the reasons why I truly love skating, rekindling my true passion for the sport I love.

It is only in hindsight that I have recognized that this experience was what fueled the fire within me to remain hopeful and resilient to continue training in new ways, in spite of the challenges that were to come. The experiences of this day equipped me with the confidence and determination to persevere through the trials and adversity in the months that followed. Although I did not realize it at the time, I truly could not have asked for more from my last day on the ice before a long season of quarantine. As the events of Spring and Summer persisted in presenting trials and challenges, I experienced tremendous self-discovery as I began to adjust to new routines and environments. Fueled by passion and inspiration, I discovered new ways to pursue my passion of inspiring others and sharing the joy through the sport I love.

Hutt 2021 | 37

THE MISSING PIECE

The morning of my grandfather’s funeral, I went for a run. As my feet pounded the pavement in a steady rhythm, I thought about memories.

An uneasy feeling tugged at me. I had no lasting memory of my grandfather.

I could pull up scraps here and there: a hug, a mug of hot chocolate, a car ride. I had no anchor, no conversation or unique moment that I could remember him by. I feared that I would leave the funeral empty handed. Surely one eulogy, one prayer, would spark a remembrance.

I held on to that hope.

I spent the car ride from the hotel room thinking about memories. When my family and I reached the church, I still could not grasp anything worth my attention. I felt like a puzzle with one piece missing, and if I could find it, I’d feel complete.

Reagan Voetberg

Portage Central High School College/University Undecided English

The funeral took place in a Catholic church. When my family and I walked in, I was struck by the beauty of it. The pews and walls, made of dark wood, contrasted the colorful, stained glass windows. The sunlight shining through the windows brought a feeling of sacredness to the room. Statues and portraits of Mary in front of the pulpit completed the look.

My extended family was milling about under the high ceilings, talking and preparing for the funeral. My mom asked where I should put the drawing I was holding. I was told to set it on a small altar in front of the pulpit, where my grandfather’s ashes had been placed.

It had been three years since I’d drawn anything seriously. When my mom asked two days before the funeral if I wanted to sketch a picture of grandfather, I agreed to it without hesitation. I knew I would regret it if I didn’t take up the opportunity. I sometimes feel as if I waste the talents that I have, and she gave me a chance to put them to good use.

I set my drawing on the altar and backed up to look at it. I had drawn a picture of my grandfather in his kayak, kayaking being one of his favorite activities when he was alive. He is centered in the middle of a background of trees with a river below. His back and face are turned away from the camera, like a candid shot. He is oblivious to the person taking the picture behind him, he is caught up in the current. My grandfather looks natural in his kayak, as if the paddle is an extension of his arms.

I imagined my drawing as an ominous goodbye. He is drifting down the river into the unknown, and I am left without a last glimpse of his face. I am left with empty memories.

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I strode down the aisle of the church where there were poster boards full of pictures of my grandfather. I didn’t take much time looking at them.

There were a few pictures of myself when I was younger, sitting on my grandfather’s lap. I couldn’t trace any of those pictures back to a memory, and I walked away frustrated. They were taken too long ago.

I sat down in a pew, not being in the mood to talk, until everyone gathered in the front of the church to begin the funeral with a prayer. I listened carefully to the prayers of my family members, hoping I could be reminded of something. It was comforting to hear their voices, but in the end, my agitation remained.

We went back to our seats to listen to my cousin Grant sing I Can Only Imagine. His voice carried me far away, to a different place. I was no longer in the church, but suspended between heaven and earth. I could sense that my grandfather was there, he existed. Knowing that I would be in heaven with him one day, that we all would be, was for a moment enough. The song ended too soon. I returned to the stark reality of the church. The pew felt hard beneath me, and the air was chilly. Tears brimmed my eyes.

A hired musician led us in Amazing Grace and It is Well with my Soul. I sang passively. My mind was searching for the place my cousin’s music had brought me to. I couldn’t find it.

Four eulogies were said, and during each, I looked for the missing puzzle piece. Could it be found in my grandfather’s devotion to God, and his heart for the community, which Father Bill touched on? No. I scoured the stories of my uncle Bruce, who talked humorously of being the favorite. My aunt Marie deeply felt his love and care when her daughter passed away.

My uncle Jim told of a father he knew very differently from the rest of us. His was the story of the Prodigal Son. After scanning the floor, sticking my hand in the couch cracks, and checking my pockets, I had come up empty. The puzzle piece was still missing.

With the scent of incense lingering in the air, the funeral ended. My family and I drove to the reception lunch at an old veterans club. The place was decorated with my grandfather’s possessions: certificates, medals, race bibs, diplomas, awards, and pictures. He had left a legacy behind, but I felt disconnected from it. I was racing to find what I’d never known about my grandfather.

I ate my sandwich and listened to the conversations floating around me.

My family wanted the lunch to be a celebration of life, as opposed to the sorrow of the funeral. People were sharing happy memories and stories, and it helped cheer me up.

My mom stood up to speak after everyone had had their fill of sandwiches.

She spoke about the bike trips she went on with her dad. They’d been on multiple trips across Iowa, they’d braved the Rockies, and they’d biked all over Wisconsin. She, like my uncle Bruce, also made claims to being the favorite. I supposed my grandfather had that way about him.

He made everyone feel like they were important.

Just before my family and I left the reception lunch, I talked with my aunt Marie. She mentioned that my grandfather had helped raise the funds to pave a trail in his community. I’d run on it often in past visits to my grandparents’ house, but the significance didn’t reach me until the car ride home.

For five long hours I stared out the window occupied by my thoughts.

I had a book beside me waiting to be read, but I wasn’t in the mood.

I had to look for the puzzle piece.

The trail my grandfather made possible was the missing piece I’d been looking for. When I placed it in the puzzle, the answers I’d searched for came to life.

I imagined myself running, shoes striking the pavement, trees flying by.

I’m on the trail, his trail. He paved the way for all of us: the moms with their strollers, the couples, the bikers.

This trail is a piece of himself that he left on earth. While he’s not here physically, this trail holds the memories I need, and it gives me the power to create new memories.

His trail is a living memory, a reminder that I can remember him through what he loved.

When I’m running, biking, or kayaking, there he is with me. In his time on earth the outdoors was his home. I will make it my home, and a home for the generations after me. I will carry the torch.

I had a chance to uncover my lost memories at the lunch. My mom was going to speak, and I was interested in what she’d say. In the meantime,

Hutt 2021 | 39

A DAY IN THE LIFE

At 6:30 in the morning, like any other summer Thursday, my alarm goes off blaring Led Zeppelin to wake me up for my morning football hill run; a long-standing tradition our football team has of running up and down ski hills for an hour each summer Thursday. Exhausted from the week, I roll out of bed and make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and start my day. Water bottle filled, protein bar in hand, and cleats in my trunk, I take the dreaded drive to conditioning.

The grass is wet, the sun is not fully risen, and a chill fills the air. We run our hills as a team and muscle through the pain to reach the top, where on a normal day, trees and buildings fill the view as far as the eye can see, but not today. Today was gloomy and foggy, so all we could see was the parking lot and the lodge at the bottom of the hill. Exhausted from our run, we head down the hill for home. All the while, I am expecting a call.

Joey Whitmore

Rockford High School University of Alabama Criminal Justice and Criminology

Upon my return home, I go back upstairs to shower away the sweat and dirt. After I settle down in my bed for a nap, my phone rings, my phone lights up, and as expected, my mom calls me to give me the news.

My parents were out of town, on their third trip to M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Texas for my dad. In March of 2016, he was diagnosed with stage three colorectal cancer. In 2019, he was told his disease had worsened to terminal stage 4 cancer. With no more treatments working, and tumors throughout his body no doctors in Michigan would touch, we went to the best cancer center in the world for answers. Answers we got, but solutions were long gone. At his third visit to M.D. Anderson in June 2020, his doctors performed a full set of MRI and CT scans for the first time in almost a year.

After a week of testing and appointments, mom called me to let me know they were finished with the appointments and tests, and they would soon be on their way home.

I called down to my little brother to tell him our parents were on their way and would be home tonight. The rest of the day was a blur. How did the appointments go? How did the scans go? Did his doctors recommend a new treatment? What happened this week down in Texas? My mind was racing, fear clouded my thoughts, and all I could do was sit in my room, wait, and pray for good news.

Later in the evening, my mom and dad made it home from their trip to Texas.

Excited for them to be home, I fired up the grill and made burgers, my dad’s favorite food. All the while he sat boasting about how good the restaurant at the hotel was. After dinner, my mom and dad pulled me aside to tell me about how all the new scans went and what was seen.

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The MRIs revealed our worst fears. The cancer had metastasized from his colon to his kidneys, lungs, diaphragm, brain, liver and almost every corner of his body. The best cancer center in the world told my father he has two to three months to live as of June. I was stunned. I nearly forgot how to breathe.

My heart pounded like John Bohnam’s kick drum in Led Zeppelin’s “The Ocean”, and my world was sent spiraling at this news.

My dad has been my best friend my whole life. He has been there for every football game, every wrestling match, he used to coach my hockey team.

He taught me how to build decks, how to work on cars, and now I am tossed into a world he will not be living in for much longer. This cancer had already taken so much from him: He had to retire early from his passions of coaching and teaching. The tumors have him in constant pain, and now as a husband and father of two, his future is gone at just 46 years old. Hearing my name called at graduation, moving me off to college, seeing me bring the love of my life home one day, watching me walk down the aisle with my wife, me becoming a father and him a grandfather, all of these important moments in life, gone. How do you process that? I wish I knew the answer, but Lord knows I have no idea, for either of us.

Since that gloomy June Thursday, my life has been much different. A normal kid wakes up every day, leaves the house, comes home and goes to sleep with minor inconveniences through the day. Since that day, every time I wake up, every time I leave the house, every time I go to bed, nothing crosses my mind other than fear; fear that when I wake up and go downstairs, or come home from school, my dad will no longer be with us. That one “day in the life” has metastasized itself into so much more. That “day in the life” has been the same day, the same moment that replays in my mind every waking minute. The day I found out life with my dad is slowly drifting out of reach, and nothing can be done about it.

Hutt 2021 | 41

THE ART OF AN ELECTION 2020 meant a blur in the passage of time, where each day seeped into the next, not unlike the melting clocks of Dalí’s The Persistence of Memory.

Days of the week and dates on the calendar held little meaning in what felt like the continual drag of simply existing. Of course, this drawn out boredom and lost sense of purpose came from a place of privilege, and I fully recognize that the position I take on this past year is one that millions would envy.

Although singular days are difficult to decipher from the conglomerate that has been the last 365, there is one that will pertain to my memory for the rest of my existence. November 4, 2020 marked an incredible milestone for me and the path that I intend the rest of my life to follow.

Daphne Yaman

Mattawan High School College/University Undecided Political Science/Journalism/Pre-law

The day in question is Election Day, where one Joseph R. Biden and one Donald J.Trump faced off in what was predicted as being one of the most politically explosive elections in American history. As someone who has been politically driven for close to six years, I was beyond devastated at the prospect that I wouldn’t be able to cast a ballot because of my age.

However, I knew my youth was not to be a deterrent in participating in American democracy.

On November 4th, I awoke at 5:00 am. To say I was nervous is a remarkable understatement. Before I had even fully opened my eyes I felt my heart pounding against my chest and moisture collecting in my palms. I had studied for months for that day, attending training sessions and reading mind-bogglingly long manuscripts and instruction guides. And yet, I still felt unprepared. I had worked with politicians and interacted with our democratic system before, but this was a completely different ballgame.

I was going to be a poll worker.

My mind ran rampant with wild worst case-scenarios. I felt as if the only two outcomes of the day were to be an Avenue in the Rain by Hassam or a Washington Crossing the Delaware by Leutze. Requiem in D Minor, 3rd Movement bellowed dramatically in my head. As if the stress of never having set foot in a polling facility wasn’t enough, I had to constantly remind myself of the stringent rules that poll workers had to follow. Park in a certain area- no political bumper stickers. No political clothing of any kind. Masks were required of us, but not of the voters. Phones were not to be taken out. We were recommended to bring a snack or two, but don’t get your hopes up- there were no set breaks. Arrive by 6 and if you were lucky you might be able to leave by 9:30 at night. All of this and I had never met any of the people I was to work with.

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As I drove the twenty-five minutes down to my assigned polling location (a mixup the day before meant that I had accidentally been assigned to two different locations- I ended up choosing the location farthest from my home due to peculiar circumstances), I played my comfort songs, which, among others, were composed of ON by BTS, Back Door by Stray Kids, and Can’t You See Me? by TXT. My eyes were glued to the GPS just as my hands were to the steering wheel. I was driving into a part of town I had never in my life been to. November 4th was a day overflowing with the unfamiliar.

As I neared the community center, I realized how barren and rural the area around me was- how the spaces between the buildings allowed for a still Starry Night to emerge from the cracks. The sky was clear and the air was comfortable. Descending the elongated driveway to the desolate structure, I noticed that I had arrived in tandem with an older couple, and our two cars parked where we had been instructed to do so. We had been the first to arrive, so I allowed myself to squeeze in a few more breaths before following them up the wooden rampway inside.

The abruptness of the fluorescent lighting was the first sensation that hit me. The way in which the iridescent rays ricocheted off the tiled floors and cinder block walls, and perversely illuminated the confinement of the voting area, was undermining jarring. Unspoken words hung between me and the elderly duo, but luckily the silence was broken at the entrance of the building’s care-taker, who rather crassly explained to us the dos and don’ts of the complex. I silently thanked the universe that she wasn’t the one leading the day’s course of action.

As others arrived, my anxiety decreased as I realized that out of all the volunteers who had showed up, none had previously worked an election. I was, with no surprise, the youngest participant by at least eleven or twelve years, but I didn’t mind. I always have been able to connect with older generations in a way that I can’t seem to with my peers. As we mingled, a (possibly false) sense of serenity passed over me much like Monet’s Impression Sunrise. Maybe I could do this.

As fate would have it, I was assigned to arguably the most important station in the five-station process. Along with a delightful woman named Sunday (who turned out to be my parents’ coworker), I attended station #2, which consisted largely of utilizing the EPollbook, an electronic voter checking system. The line of reasoning of our curator followed the idea that a young individual such as myself would have no issue with a computer.

I truthfully had not the slightest clue of how to work the machine set in front of me. Night on Bald Mountain by Mussorgsky bounced between my ears.

Station #2, which was equipped by two first-timers, handled every task from affirming an individual’s registration to vote, to redirecting them to their correct polling location, to spoiling ballots, offering affidavits, and granting provisional and challenged ballots. It sounds like a lot because it was a lot. And honestly, if it hadn’t been for Sunday, I would’ve been completely lost.

The first five hours after the polls opened was beyond stressful. You couldn’t even muster the thought of asking for a break because there was simply no time to even think. The line did not cease to wind around the corner of the building for those first 300 minutes, and by the time the crowd and dwindled, the aches in my back were breathtakingly painful. My body felt as if it had been thrown about like a sailor in Aivazovsky’s The Ninth Wave.

I smiled at Sunday and the other volunteers around me. I was in pain, but I had thoroughly enjoyed every moment of the chaos that had ensued.

The rest of the day was rather event-free; towards the end so few people showed up that I considered simply lying on the floor and taking a welldeserved nap. But my duty was my duty, and I trudged onwards, giving all my energy to the now pacified service.

The end of the night consisted of cleansing the booths and properly stowing away the machinery, especially keeping a keen eye on the shutting down and data transfer of the EPollbook. I happily munched on snacks that had been donated to us by local organizations as the day drew to a close. With a belly full of muffins and cookies, I wished my fellow poll workers goodbye and headed home. The empty roads provided a tranquility with striking similarity to Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night.

Entering my home, I released all the pent up anxiety that had been obstructing my body since the beginning of the day. As I laid on the couch, however, with the TV on and reporters itching to receive the first of the reporting states, I knew that I was in for a wild week.

Little did I know how truly unrestrained and disorderly the next few weeks were to be. Guernica by Picasso.

Hutt 2021 | 43

Thank you Lake Michigan Credit Union would like to extend our thanks and appreciation to the judges of the 2021 Hutt Scholarship contest who helped select our 20 recipients out of the 1,346 essays submitted this year.

External judging panel: Mary Bratt

Krashawn Martin

Retired Teacher

City of Wyoming

Christy Buck

LeaAnn Tibbe

Mental Health Foundation

Grand Valley State University

Renida Clark

Deb Warwick

West Michigan Center for Arts and Technology (WMCAT)

Ferris State University

Gary Ebels Grand Rapids Community College

Dave Weinandy Aquinas College

Keri Kujala Special Occasions LLC

“ Wow. Simply Wow. This was a good, impactful, thoughtprovoking, perspective-inspiring read.”

- Dave Weinandy

Congratulations to this year’s recipients!

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