Fall '22: issue 02

EDITORS IN CHIEF

Helen Branch Stella Engel-Werman Zia Foxhall

LITERARY

Senior Literary Editor

Assistant Literary Editor

Zia Foxhall Carla Crawford

Kimberly Pienkawa Maitreya Ravenstar Talia Remba Lila Ressler

DESIGN

Creative Director Graphic Design Helen Branch Willa Flink

Piper Ingels Annabel Judy Jules Katz Brenna O’Brien

PHOTOGRAPHY

Photographer

Fashion Photographer

Taerin Kim Max Volk Ava Wood

SOCIAL MEDIA AND OUTREACH

Art and Outreach Director Treasurer Events Planner Web Design Social Media

Stella Engel-Werman

Patricia Amouzgar Ellie Eiff

Emma Balón Anna Brooks Callie Derechin Ava Wood

Dear Reader,

We’re so pleased to share with you the second issue of Lunchbox. As we enter our first full year of publication as a magazine at Skidmore College, we remain grateful for the roots we’ve established. In this period of growth, we were moved to reflect on the idea of renewal: How does one begin to move forward after a period of uncertainty and stagnancy? While last semester’s theme of nostalgia prompted us to seek comfort in reflection, this semester’s theme pushes us to question how our pasts shape our future.

With growth comes growing pains. In spite, a community has formed to face these challenges with the shared intention of care and dedication to creative expression. We are humbled and inspired by the sustained enthusiasm, dedication and support without which Lunchbox could not exist.

Creating a magazine from the ground-up is an intrinsically dynamic process, one that provides an opportunity to establish beliefs with intention. As we continue to gain our footing, we find ourselves looking to our experiences for newfound knowledge that allows us to establish values that evolve as we do. We aim to utilize our expanding platform to amplify the voices that are often left unheard. We hope that this issue inspires you to reflect on your experiences as seeds for your own renewal.

It is a uniquely special experience to find community in one that you create, and we feel so lucky to be able to do so. Thank you to our members, contributors, readers, and executive board.

With Warmth and Gratitude, Stella, Zia, Helen | Editors in Chief

LITERARY

Oceanside: Deep Winter The Expanse Untitled Baptism The Nice Guy I cut my bangs too short Peeling Lip I Have a Crush on a Bike The Inaugural Natural Hair Fest Dull Brown Drunk Poetry I scenes from a new york bathroom Jams

Artist Interview: Jeremy Acosta Locket a requiem for rest water or wine then, who shall I look up to? nativity Resisting Invisibility Untitled Untitled Student Designer Spotlight the resurrection I will always know the sound of water Renewal of Tragedy Exquisite Corpse Spotlight on Corwin Ravenstar The adults are talking in the kitchen How to Disappear Completely In The Riptide Ring Stories Listen walking to class It Feels Different When You're a Girl I am a Peach

Flow Quiz: What’s Your Major?

7 8 10 13 14 16 17 18 20 24 25 27 28 30 33 34 35 36 37 38 43 44 46 55 56 59 60 62 64 67 68 72 75 76 78 81 82

Bec Duffy Sam Donohoe Maddy Rader

Christopher Arnold Talia Remba, Emma Balón Maitreya Ravenstar Shane Romer

MaryDrew Mason-Hill Zia Foxhall

Noah Eisman Elle Oestreich Liza Schnauck Kimberly Pienkawa Taerin Kim Quinn B. Liza Schnauck Madison Sadler William Carter Claire Lipkin Carla Crawford Chia Ramnarine Julia Davies

Bel Kiely Bec Duffy Liam Moren Christopher Arnold Lila Ressler Kayla Hassett Noah Eisman Théo Zita Lily Hudner, Abby Brew Amanda Denney Helen Branch Chloë Boatright Patricia Amouzgar

Lars

Emulating Water Untitled

Chateaubroand et Saint-Malo Narelle Caged Untitled Missing Pieces Babies 2B Witchcraft Untitled Series 350 Flower Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Rhea Swan Print Andreas 21st Century Madonna My/Our Wings (Top and Bottom) Heaven Within Earth (Middle) 99 Cents Fresh Pizza Stories Peter’s Stuff Untitled Light Source Untitled Untitled Symbiosis Monster 2 Displaced Untitled

Cover 6 8 9 11 12 16 17 19 24 25 26 28 33 34 35 36 38 42 45 54 57 58 58 60 61 65 66 68 70

Taerin Kim Renée Fritschel Sam Stiefel Eve Kreshtool Gabby Paisner Quinn B. Alex Bullock Piper Ingels Martita Baenziger Noah Eisman Taerin Kim Frankie Stolcke Piper Ingels Narelle Zhao Sam Stiefel Emma Staton Patricia Amouzgar Anna Goodwin Gabby Paisner Anna Goodwin Taerin Kim MaryDrew Mason-Hill William Carter William Carter Taerin Kim Maitreya Ravenstar MaryDrew Mason-Hill Tomas Rodriguez Nancy Yang Josie La Forte Ava Wood Josie La Forte Beck Hagopian Patricia Amouzgar Piper Ingels

Oceanside: Deep Winter

The water begins to crack under my feet, but the marigolds poking through the ice are all we can think about.

You pull me up to the edge of a grassy sea bank, look at the sky through a piece of blue glass and I die laughing while you dance with a dead crab.

There you and I don’t feel so bad about everything. We find a small pool to sit at and wash out shells until our hands freeze the hours hollow us out We laugh at nothing, which means everything.

The sand holds its shape better in the cold— we scoop it up with cans and halved soda bottles, adding bright shells, polished glass, dried up weeds and carcasses, placing each ocean jewel with time to spare, delicate and once our palace shines like ice sprinting home is the only way to stay warm.

Bec Duffy

THE EXPANSE

SAM DONOHOE

The flat expanse was broken only by scattered rocks, jutting up violently from the gray slate below. The sun beat down mer cilessly and a stiff wind blew from the sea to the west. Scattered throughout the plains humanlike figures sat prone, living stone glued to their faces. Some gave an occasional twitch, most were still. The roar of engines could be heard just beyond the trees bor dering the plain, and ships came into view often before they were lost in the brightness of the sun.

A man made his way from between the trees towards the figures on the ground, walking slowly, head down. His tattered cape fluttered behind him, and his boots scuffed over the loose slate. He stopped by each of the figures, placing two fingers just below their head, ear cocked close to their mouths. With a shake of his head, he moved from person to person. He cleared a particularly large rock and stopped. At his feet was a boy, fresh faced and fair haired. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

The boy clutched the hand of the figure beside him in a white knuckle grip. The man bent down and set about checking the figure. With a sigh, the man slowly rose. He looked the boy in the eye.

Photograph by Sam Stiefel

“Boy. Your father’s dead. I’m sorry.”

The boy jerked backward as if stung, still clutching his father’s hand. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out. The man turned on his heel and began to walk away.

“What do you mean my father’s dead?” The boy shouted from his spot beside his father.

“Precisely what I said. Your father is no longer with us. Nothing you or I can do will change that.” A pause. “He made his choice. Say goodbye or join him in his fate.”

“Can you help me?”

“That depends on what you need help with.”

“I don’t know what I need.”

“Ah. That’s the smartest thing you’ve said yet, boy. Come with me, your father is at peace.”

“One second.” The boy lowered his head over the unmov ing body of his father. His chest heaved in great sobs, and his lips moved imperceptibly. He laid his father’s hand upon the gray slate and slowly walked over to the man.

Photograph by Eve Kreshtool

Is it because you do not love me? No, it could never be; your body frames my most cherished memories.

Did I not do enough? No, your reach held and protected them when I could not.

Am I not pretty enough? Is that it? No, your marks, scrapes, and imperfections are what I love most about you.

Then why are you leaving me? After all this time… I am bound somewhere else, and you are bound for someone else, just as you were before and just as you will be again.

The paint roller runs smoothly over the penciled names, names rising like flowers seeking the sun.

Showering the flowers below Petunia, 4’8 1965 Rose 4’0 1965 Petunia 5’6 1973 Rose 5’3 1973 Then the garden of names is gone, and the wall is clean, plain white.

As you were before,

Maddy Rader

Photograph by Gabby Paisner

Art by Quinn B.

BAPTISM

I met God in my bedroom last night We danced around in circles As “Take me Home” by Cher played on his stereo The air was thick as our bodies spinned

There were empty bottles on the floor That clanked each time we switched direction And forgot where to place our feet As to not mess up the order or the rhythm

There was an ashtray on the windowsill It sat precariously on the edge as to Allow the smoke to exit, while Also preventing it from falling from its stoop.

I met God in my bedroom last night He interlocked his fingers into mine and made his words contemporary He rendered me vulnerable to see colors unbeknownst to me Transporting me into scenes of Eden

He turned my sheets into his kingdom Where all that mattered existed And where all that existed combined Into a sensation, that is to be felt, not seen

His warm breath hit my ears His words inaudible, but I understood His message was less verbal as it was physical And flooded into me as he had wished.

I met God in my bedroom last night He stood tall and firm and His skin tasted like honey, His lips like berries and cream

He put his mouth to mine and Exchanged his secrets And guided his hands around my body Reshaping my body as his He submerged my body within his He held me there for some time Before allowing me to come up for air And when I had returned–he was gone. Christopher Arnold

THE NICE GUY:

A Weapon of Toxic Masculinity

Like many liberal arts colleges, the student body at Skidmore College can be broken into two distinct groups: the Athletes and the Non-Athlete Regular People (NARPs). Although the term “NARP” is mostly used ironically, the division between the two groups is very real and—for the purposes of this article—the term will be used in abundance (Note: As NARPs themselves, the authors of this article claim this title with pride).

NARPS often characterize the athletic population (often deservedly so) as carrying a chauvinistic attitude. Historically, misogyny toward women has become a consistent byproduct of athletics—a result of the toxic culture fostered within hypermasculine environments. The stereotypical athletic male may have graphic discussions about conquering women and the field. While this might be expected within this population, we want to dive more specifically into the NARP community at Skidmore.

Urban Dictionary defines “Nice Guy” as someone “who believes basic social expectations are currency for sex.” This entitlement to sex is deeply rooted in toxic masculinity and it exists within both populations on this campus. We may see this forward sexism in typically masculine environments, like ath letics. Whether it is more surface-level sexism, where men outwardly shame women and proudly flaunt their masculinity, or hidden beneath a facade of male liberal feminism, the two forms of misogyny are equally dangerous.

Among the NARP population at Skidmore, Nice Guy Syndrome may manifest through painted nails, rings, touting femininity, praising feminism, and—most importantly—believing they are rid of toxic masculinity. Misogy ny is a thing of the past! While toxic masculinity often is depicted as macho, hyper-masculine, and strictly adhering to heteronormative gender roles, it is crucial to note how these men camouflage as “nice guys.” Partaking in female dominated activities does not exclude men from toxic masculinity.

“Whetheritismoresurface-levelsexism,wheremenoutwardlyshamewomen andproudlyflaunttheirmasculinity,orhiddenbeneathafacadeofmaleliberal feminism,thetwoformsofmisogynyareequallydangerous”

We spoke to many Skidmore students about their experiences with The Nice Guy. An anonymous female-identifying student shared her experience with us. Jane Doe says, “When I confronted him about his flakiness, he told me I was thinking about it too much. When we were alone he made it very apparent he wanted to hang out with me, but when I would come over to his apartment when his housemates were there, it felt like he wanted to hide me. I was just a hookup even though he claimed otherwise.” Similarly, Cam Pittl ‘24 talked to us about their encounters. They said, “Men just want one thing, and have become so accustomed to using other people that they put up this front of being really woke and overly interested in what you’re interested in. They make you feel special. But once there’s that conversation that goes beyond the surface, they realize that you’re more than a caricature and can’t put up with having a relationship with a real person. They cut off all ties once they’ve gotten what they wanted.”

Lucy Wattenbarger ‘24 says, “ Unfortunately, Lucy’s experience is not unique: on cam pus,mostnon-malestudentshaveexperiencedTheNiceGuyandhismethodsofmanipulation.Itis importanttonotehowTheNiceGuy’sbenefitsfromthepatriarchyatbothaninterpersonalandinsti tutionallevelandhowthatdivergesfromthemorecommonlydepictedversionoftoxicmasculinity.

Unfortunately, these experiences are not unique: on campus, most non-male students have experienced The Nice Guy and his methods of manipulation. When we asked students around campus to describe The Nice Guy, respons es included “soft,” “philosophical,” “slippery,” and “selfish.” It is important to note how The Nice Guy benefits from the patriarchy at both an interper sonal and institutional level and how he diverges from the more obvious presentation of toxic masculinity. The Nice Guy does not restrict himself to gender norms, often expressing comfort with femininity, self-identifying as a feminist, and or engaging in performative activism. While The Nice Guy posts Instagram stories about mutual aid and donates to GoFundMes in support of marginalized people, he also may commit heinous acts against women and non-male students. These men construe their personality to be known as pleasant and unproblematic, despite the fact their actions do not reflect genuine care or respect for the non-male population at Skidmore.

The Nice Guy does not restrict himself to gender norms, often expressing comfort with fem ininity, self-identifying as a feminist, and/or engaging in performative activism. While The Nice Guy posts Instagram stories about mutual aid and donates to GoFundMes in support of marginalized people, he also may commit heinous acts against women and non-male students. These men make it their personality to be known as pleasant and unproblematic, despite the fact their actions do not reflect genuine care or respect for the non-male population at Skidmore.

When asked about her experiences with The Nice Guy, Lucy Wattenbarger ‘24 expressed sympathy for her younger self. “Had I known the ‘Nice Guy’ trope was a real thing 3 years ago, I could have avoided quite a few unsatis fying and frankly un-consensual sexual experiences,” She wrote in response. “I have been led to believe time and time again that I owe sex to men who commit ‘good’ deeds.” Wattenbarger says that nice guys are socialized to believe that by doing the bare minimum, they are already exceeding society’s standards for themselves.

Elena Shostak ‘24 talked to us about her experiences with a Nice Guy on Skidmore’s campus. She said, “Now that we’re broken up, I see him through eyes that no one else really has. It creates a lot of anger in me because I know he’ll continue to use his nice guy facade to gain attention from women and have everyone around him think he’s a great guy. Since he tried to act so kind and pretended to be a feminist, everyone (including me at the start) thinks he’s different than the rest of the guys.”

Elena Shostak ‘24 shared her experiences with a Nice Guy on Skidmore’s campus. She said, “Now that we’re broken up, I see him through eyes that no one else really has. It creates a lot of anger in me because I know he’ll continue to use his nice guy facade to gain attention from women and have everyone around him think he’s a great guy. Since he tried to act so kind and pretended to be a feminist, everyone (including me at the start) thinks he’s different than the rest of the guys.”

So, why should we care that Nice Guy Syndrome has spread across campus? Isn’t it a positive thing that men are at least trying to be nice? Nice Guy Syndrome is more than just a disguise. It is a weapon, where he can use his personality to entrap potential partners and fool them into thinking he is safe. Rape culture is prevalent on Skidmore’s campus. We saw a rise in rhetoric revolving rape culture on campus last fall. We had protests regarding sexual misconduct on this campus: at the institutional and interpersonal level. If we want to heal as a community and protect ourselves from harm, we must work on eradicating any acceptance of the self-as sured nice guy. Call out culture is extremely important and the best tool one can use to protect friends from The Nice Guy. Confronting The Nice Guy, if you have the capacity and privilege to do so, can also be a positive teaching tool for men to learn how they benefit from patriarchal roles. Next time you see a liberal-minded, fashionably dressed “nice guy” on campus, make sure you look out for your fellow NARP or fellow student athlete. We are truly in this together.

So, why should we care that Nice Guy Syndrome has spread across cam pus? Isn’t it a positive thing that men are at least trying to be nice? Nice Guy Syndrome is more than just a disguise. It is a weapon, where he can use his personality to entrap potential partners and fool them into thinking he is safe. Rape culture is prevalent on Skidmore’s campus. We saw a rise in rape culture’s rhetoric on campus last fall. We had protests regarding sexual misconduct on this campus, both at the institutional and interpersonal level. If we want to heal as a community and protect ourselves from harm, we must eradicate any acceptance of the self-assured nice guy. Call out culture is extremely important and the best tool one can use to protect friends from The Nice Guy. Challenging harmful behaviors when they arise is a com mon practice of call out culture. Confronting The Nice Guy, if you have the capacity and privilege to do so, can be a beneficial way to teach men how they benefit from the patriarchy. Next time you see a liberal-minded, fashion ably dressed “nice guy” on campus, make sure you look out for your fellow NARP or student athlete. We are truly in this together.

By Talia Remba and Emma Balón

I cut my bangs too short

I cut my bangs too short last night. My hair was limp and heavy with oils, cascading past my brows in thin strands. I took my scissors and sprinted them across my face; they ran like wolves, teeth sinking into the fiber’s brunette flesh, ripping away the ends. Sprinklings littered across my cheeks and into the bath room sink, falling against its blank whiteness like a muddied snow. I looked up from my mess and realized what I’d done. Something imperfect ruined by something imperfect. My bangs are always too long or too short, and I act like it isn’t my fault when I am the one who governs my scissors.

Maitreya Ravenstar

Art by Alex Bullock

Peeling Lip

Detachment.

Backwards spiraling to make my eyes Hazy.

Exposing skin for comfort, Biting it for thrill.

Overgrown nails and untweezed brows, Mark ignorance.

My shoulder blades poke through the back of my shirt.

I straighten my shoulders and Whisper away sorrow.

Shane Romer Art by Piper Ingels

I Have a Crush on a Bike

I have a crush on a bike We've seen each other around a few times It catches me off guard Makes me smile Such a charming individual Basket in the back with a green bungee strap Understated but a classic in its own right And Just my type

Once when I ran into it there was a single freckled banana In the basket I almost took it A gift for me from the bike But it's not my bike And The banana was not for me I have a crush on a bike And It will never know

MaryDrew Mason-Hill

Art by Martita Baenziger

THe InAUGuRal NATURAL HAIR FEST

A Celebration of Identity and Self-Expression

On Saturday, October 8th, Black students filled Case Green proudly wearing their natural hair. They shared in each other’s joy and relished in the fall weather as a community. The moment I stepped onto the green, I was stunned. I am familiar with the feeling of standing out. I am familiar with being the only Black woman in a classroom—the only Black person in most spaces for that matter. I am familiar with being alone in my Blackness. That afternoon, when I arrived at the Natural Hair Fest, I was one of many.

Not only was I stunned to be surrounded by so many other Black students, but I was amazed by the sheer amount of resources available for Black students. Tables offering a number of free services and products lined the walkway. True Cuts, a local barbershop, gave students haircuts. Curly Consciousness, a student-run business that makes homemade natural hair products, gave out samples. Another student-run business, Styled By Jules, offered information about their discounted braiding service. I met Malika Sawadogo, a student that designs bags from African fabric. The Trans Mutual Aid Collective had a table collecting funds and sharing information about the necessity of mutual aid. By the end of my walk, my bag was full of natural hair products I desperately needed, and I had acquired the contacts of students who were doing much needed work on campus.

It was not the efforts of the college that made this event happen. Issy Mejia, a senior, single-handedly planned and saw that the Natural Hair Fest came to fruition. Issy saw a need within the community and went through great lengths to ensure that that need was met.

In a conversation with Issy, they told me their own relationship with their hair largely influenced the inspiration for the fest. They said, “hair has always been a very big part of who I am and my journey for growth.” This statement is true for many Black students, including myself. My mother did my hair until I was seventeen. Every two weeks, she would wash and twist it, the whole process taking around five hours. Growing up, I never wore my afro in public. I felt embarrassed, and having attended predominantly white institutions most of my life, I didn’t want my hair to set me apart. Being Black was enough.

Growing up in a culture that does not cater to, or willingly accept, natural hair is an isolating experience. The hair products readily available at conve nience stores are made for looser hair textures, and it is challenging to find information regarding how to properly care for natural hair. Issy noted that growing up, “It was very difficult to find resources. Thankfully, I had a village of friends and older women that I could reach out to that helped me come into my hair and come into loving my hair.” For many Black youth, learning to love and care for their hair is a long journey.

I started experimenting with wearing my hair in different styles the summer after graduating high school. I discovered what products agreed with my hair. Slowly, I learned to love the way my naturally kinky hair resisted flattening—how it complimented my features and curled outwards, taking up the space it deserved. I learned to love my hair as a reflection of my mother and my history.

Similar to my experience, Issy (having their hair entwined with their iden tity) realized how hard it would be to maintain their hair when they got to Skidmore. “There are no places nearby that I could go to get my hair braid ed, if I do have to get my hair braided it’s probably in Albany—I don’t have a car, how do I get there? It’s so expensive.” These are all questions I have asked myself in my time here.

With all this in mind, Issy began to do research on the history of Saratoga and found that the city used to have a large Black population that was dis placed. Knowing this, Issy felt that they must jump into action. The planning for the Natural Hair Fest took almost a year. Issy felt the gravity and “wanted to do something that had never been done before, and [they] couldn’t do jus tice to that event if [they] had only planned it in a few months.” The time and tireless work that went into planning was abundantly clear on the day of the fest.

Members from all different backgrounds within the community attended. It was truly diverse—not diverse in the way predominantly white institutions falsely advertise their diversity.

The Natural Hair Fest was intended for the entire community. Issy made the event “open to everyone on campus.” This was an intentional choice “for a number of reasons, one because as much as we need representation and diversity in spaces that make us feel included, that inclusion can’t [exist] un less white people also know and understand what it means to celebrate this and to see it, visualize it, and have access to a space where they’re learning about this.” Members from all different backgrounds within the community attended. It was truly diverse—not diverse in the way predominantly white institutions falsely advertise their diversity.

Malika Sawadogo @sdg_malika_

Natural Hair Fest Natural Hair Fest Natural Hair Fest

by Taerin Kim

And while the fest was meant for the whole community, it was also a space specifically for Black students to feel seen. “Being a person of color and being Black are two very different experiences,” Issy noted, “especially as it pertains to natural hair … [there are] added moments of marginalization that come from having natural hair, and texturism ... And so I wanted this event to feel very much ours as a Black community but still an opportunity for people to come and see us celebrate our natural hair and see the beauty in our community.” Black experiences are consistently pushed to the background. Having moments that are principally Black is revolutionary. They are forms of resistance.

The energy of celebration was palpable on that day. The afternoon was also filled with music, dance, and food—all the things that make a good cookout. Students felt proud of their identity and their hair. When asked how it felt to see their hard work become a reality, Issy said:

“In my eyes, there is literally nothing more beautiful and joy-filling than a room full of Black people enjoying themselves and feeling comfortable. There were people coming up to me and saying ‘Issy, I haven’t worn my natural hair in years but I wore it out today because I felt so good about this event.’ It felt so good to hear that and know that that space was able to happen at Skidmore.”

The Natural Hair Fest was the first of many events that will celebrate Blackness in this way. Issy has already put the future of the Natural Hair Fest into motion. To my delight, they said, “For y’all it already happened and it’s over, but for me, it just started.” More information about upcoming events can be found @naturalhairfestskid on Instagram.

By Zia Foxhall

Photographs

An adult and a child sit on a stoop, waiting.

Over time, the stoop has become a dull brown although it was originally light blue.

The sidewalks are hollow with nobody to fill their shell. The two wait until the sun goes down. “It’s time to go back inside.”

They sleep for the sole purpose of waking up bright and early the next morning to do it all over again. The next morning the child is impatient for the day to end. The child begins to cry. The adult strikes the child.

An adult sits on a stoop, grieving.

The stoop has become a grim red although it was originally dull brown. The city echos.

The adult is impatient for the days to end. “It’s time to go back inside,” he said to the sidewalks

DRUNK POETRY I

I write after the party In the darkness of the quiet It’s Sunday and I’ve cried into your shoulder It should’ve felt good knowing you Knowing that you wanted to take care of me but in truth it didn’t That voice kept saying “There is something wrong” I can’t tell what but a part of me hopes it isn’t me That I’m not the person I usually am I have changed maybe not for the better You always feel half honest nowadays It kills me a little bit every time you look away You’re not looking at her but not at me Maybe we love in different ways But you say you love me and don’t mean it You used to feel and it would come spilling from your mouth like it’s the only true thing you could say Now you look at me and I can’t see anything You say my eyes are gray They’re green You say my blood is red but you haven’t seen it yet Choke me, play with me, do not stay with me Walk away and I’ll walk back too Fatal flaw and the fairest one of all I have done too much that can no longer be undone It is 3 am and you are still not “the one”

Elle Oestreich

Photograph by Taerin Kim

scenes from a new york bathroom

my friends are washing up in the porcelain kitchen, all laughter and wet forearms. their voices seep under the door, fill the space between me and the mirror; the lights are golden in their sconces, the tile like the subway, the walls like wine. someone is clumsily finding chords on a piano in the corner while two pairs of feet sweep up the corners of a rug, spinning. too soon we will take the train away from this city and hold each other’s hands too tight, but tonight we are all too young and too old to be pretending in someone else’s home, living someone else’s life.

Photography by Frankie Stolcke

Liza Schnauck

Don’t you remember the fruit jams?

It was mid-August. My armpits were wet. I clinked a spoon against my teeth. Coarse sugar sizzled on the pan. Your knuckles, covered with blisters. Sometimes, you thrust your thumb into your mouth.

I pretended not to see.

The cold, smooth glass. The lopsided labels. We placed the seeded things in the cellar.

Art by Piper Ingels

I told you, this is the summer we live, And I didn’t quite know what live meant, only that it had something to do with the orchard. The fields, too. The ones with the stalks of corn. The sky was purple and cut into pieces. I thought I could swallow the earth raw and laugh

At how much space was left behind, right there with the bloody corpse in my throat.

Don’t you remember how much I wanted to go to a barbecue?

The quintessential American crap. Smoke furling and unfurling, this pathetic and flimsy flag. Sacrificial meat. Picnic blankets crucified by the nails in the wooden tables. Your family held out skewers, and I knew we were happy. I felt it, even, because you kept looking through the curtain of your hair, and I promised you, Live live live, we are living.

I begged you, what are your dreams? Who do you need me to be? Then, little pockets of light furnished your lips, the beat-beat-beat of wings. Anyway, we were whispering about the fireflies, heavy air in the emptiness between our hands. I was supposed to survive, I think. I confessed I was afraid, anyway. You said nothing, only examined the dirt and the salt crusted on our naked feet. What about how much I wanted to go to a waterpark?

Slides of static, fraying bikini, cherry Italian ice and smeared red lipstick. I watched you watch me: the pouch of belly fat, the overbite, eyes too squinting and far apart, and ears too big. I concealed my goosebumps. Forgot to tell you my clumsiness and humanness are mine. We weren’t human then, were we? From our stomachs, Crawled scaled creatures, exoskeletons and summer sweat and eggs cracked wide open.

I whispered to you, do you think anyone else notices? You pressed the lemon wedge to your mouth, then lent it to the wide-eyed weeping worms. I was still shivering, plunged underneath and into the chlorine. The wave-pool tasted like chemicals and urine. There were imprints from your goggles. You tapped the swollen and dark bags underneath your eyes. We were communicating clearly, for once, this ugly little compensatory companionship.

Don’t you remember the supermarket? (It was the day before your funeral). Deflated bags of potato chips. Condensation on Cola. The neon and artificial glow. We held the shopping cart together, hip jostling hip, wheels screeching. Your list of groceries, scrawled and cramped handwriting. It somehow took up the whole page. I grabbed a ballpoint pen and in the margins, I added, I love you. I drew a heart, miserable and sweet.

I cried to you, we aren’t going to leave, right? Then, I laughed: of course we aren’t. We swallowed honey-wheat pretzels, and braided each other’s hair. I tried to tell you a secret I kept.Well, in the aisles with shampoo and sunglasses, I touched your collarbone tenderly. Here: our summer made me sick, and I’d do anything to live in it again.

(I hate you because I made you into something beautiful when you weren’t). You didn’t answer me, but I thought I smelled the congealed cherry jam that fell and clung on your casket.

Kimberly Pienkawa

WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHY

BY TAERIN KIM

JEREMY ACOSTA, born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, is a painter and senior at Skidmore College, majoring in Psychology. Having never taken an art class at Skidmore, he started painting only a year ago as a stress reliever. This past summer, he spent nearly every day painting in a friend’s basement in the Bushwick neighborhood in Brooklyn. The following questions were asked in-between listening sessions at a mutual friend’s makeshift music studio as Jeremy read lyrics off his notes app to fit to the beats.

T: When did you start writing?

J: Seriously? Probably about a year ago.

T: Is that when you started painting?

J: Yeah. I started both at the same time.

T: What materials do you work with?

J: Acrylic, gouache, and some little pastels.

T: Why did you start?

J: If I have this life, I might as well do what I wanna do. I just kept doing it, and after this one night, I realized how much of a release for stress it was.

T: What’s the ideal space for you to paint?

J: I’m tryna get a warehouse. Big windows. Big rooms. Art studio in one space and music studio in the other. Brooklyn. I also sleep there.

T: You’re not bothered by the noise?

J: Laughing. I don’t care. I sleep with my window open in the city.

T: How do you choose your colors?

J: Green is my favorite color. I like a lot of shades of blue and green. I really like red, too. Whatever’s readily available at Walmart.

T: As the colors on your faces melt, they seem to be at war with one another. That’s just my interpretation. What do you get from looking at your pieces?

J: I try to make stuff aesthetically pleasing, but that’s also saying something. Until I’m satisfied.

T: How do you know when you’re finished?

J: It depends, really. I go into a state of flow basically, and once I’m out of it, I’m done.

T: How long do these states last?

J: Well, this summer I was painting everyday. Honestly, this summer I was grinding, bro. I was hungry to grind and wake up just to paint. It’s a drug. When I’m at school though, usually it’ll be spurts of four hours. Something like that.

T: Where were you painting?

J: In Brooklyn. My boy let me paint in his basement so I had a studio to work in. Super lucky honestly. I live in Crown Heights and he lived in Bushwick so it was just a 10-minute walk away.

T: Still planning on using it when you go back?

J: Yeah. I have like thirty pieces there still.

T: The place must’ve gotten messy by the end.

J: My friend’s older brother didn’t want paint getting on the wall or floors so I put a tarp down. I had to be extra cautious not to get paint everywhere.

T: Why faces?

J: The mind naturally sees faces. Once I start I just carve it out with the acrylics. Shape it with the pastels.

Art by Narelle Zhao Tangled, A warm pool of flesh Conjoined figures

LOCKET

Quinn B.

One is lust, The other, true veneration Like sunrise and nightfall

I never felt whole Even when the finches warble, And the sky was a fleeting orange You encompassed me Circumambient.

With the ramparts long discarded Suffused

In a way that you could no longer discern one. from. the other.

Mutual Parasitism

Like two leeches In a Möbius strip.

a requiem for rest

i don’t know why i thought the mountains would suit me. the creeks empty themselves endlessly, filtering and refilling. all year long the leaves are green.

to sit by a stream on a thick slice of schist is peaceful — but it will be here tomorrow. and i will be different. how can i live away from the fall and the ocean? how will i know what time it is? there will be no tide, no winter to fill the valleys with snow, no way to know when breakfast is, no way to know when to rest and when to start anew.

there is no time for coming alive here: no designated time for death, dictated by rich earth and umber rot. it is the living, the ever living. i left to be still again.

Liza Schnauck

Photograph by Sam Stiefel

by Emma Staton

water or wine?

sometimes she is clear like the sky on a sunny day. she is cool to the touch, refreshing against my skin. a soothing sensation, like an ice-cold breath after drinking a glass of water. other times she rushes like a river over smooth tumbled stones. this flood of emotion held in a stormy gaze, her darkened eyes speaking myriad words i cannot understand: yet still, she is dark and mysterious like a novel hidden beneath my pillow. i am on fire after one kiss. and i wonder, is it her i am tasting or is it the wine?

Drawing

Madison Sadler

then, who shall i look up to?

Oh to be carefree

To walk through life

Like wind through the trees

To stand outside And not scare police Enjoy the world With ease

I wanna have confidence like you

I wanna turn heads when I walk in a room

I wanna be bright I wanna be right But I don’t wanna have to be _ _ _ _ _

William Carter

Collage by Patricia Amouzgar

nativity

sheathed in blood, sprouted in moon-color, she untangled and lashed from the dark. she was born in humid mid-summer, during aching dawn’s release. her mama cried and cried herself dry, clinging to the moss-drenched earth. cradled in leaves, the babe cried too and begged the sky for heaven. in salvation, the stars came crashing down to earth in fits of light and spoke. said the stars, take your mama’s breast, and drink of her love and pain, drink of her sweetness and misery. and one day, when you lie heaving and bleeding in this moon-soaked place, remember us, and look toward angels.

Claire Lipkin

ResistingInvisibility

Non-Tenured Teachers Union Fights Cannibalistic Labor Conditions

Carla Crawford

Art by Anna Goodwin

As students, it is easy to view our professors as individual agents: scholars who operate by their own systems of teaching and pro fessionalism. We casually discuss our frustrations with their disorganization, poor instruction, tense moods, and slow grading, oftentimes acknowledging them as singular failures of the professors. What is often left unsaid, and even more commonly is utterly unknown, is that these flaws are built into the academic system—a system that cannibalizes professors for their scholarly labor while repeatedly refusing to support them.

Contingent faculty (non-tenure track faculty or NTT) are pro fessors who are either hired with a short-lived, two-year contract or are part-time faculty, and they make up the majority of professors. Their titles are often listed as “Lecturer,” or “Guest” or “Visiting Professor.” Employed without job security or adequate support from their department and the administration, contingent faculty are required to have the same engagement with students while receiving a fraction of their colleagues' benefits (e.g. fair contracts, adequate compensation) of tenure-track professors.

“they have been recruited into various entrenched camps, been intimidated with threats of retaliation, and sacrificed precious scholarship and teaching energy as a result of these conflicts.”

We must recognize that, in a school that applauds itself for its progressive educational model, there’s hypocrisy built deeply into the college

“every year that I have been here has involved saying good-bye at the end of the academic year to Black and other POC faculty and staff in a range of departments. Too often it has been multiple good-byes and more often than not it has been Black women and other women of color who are leaving.”

The Moon screams at me.

Her cries a constant screech in my ear, They course through my blood and body.

I pray to Her and Her valiant sky. Helpless and hopeful, I grow in phases like Her mighty body,

I pray.

The cry comes from within me, To the night sky I look, Rolling my eyes and chin upward, This time daring the armored knight. Asking it to change me, strike me!

I look, to the vast strings of pearls curling and bending in their black jewelry box, Shooting their falling light towards me, Like a glass sword. It leaves its big shadow sheath.

I begin to glow.

The star light makes me hum, I start to vibrate and warm. Light wells in my heart and stomach, The hum grows as the knight sky stabs through me.

It fills me!

Transforming me into a jewel. Crystal grows from my nails, My third eye blinks out lapis tears, and Pearls fall from my hair.

I’m glowing!

Chia Ramnarine

Art by Gabby Paisner

I can hear her breath begin to stumble out of her mouth. Each inhale is a question. The exhale doesn’t have an answer. I squeeze her hand. It’s sweaty and cold. My eyelids slam tightly against one another as I wish for music.

I start to hum that one song by Billy Joel, the song that we danced to in the middle of Deja Brew all those years ago. It was 9:30 pm on a Tuesday. The three other people looked at us with sharp grimaces, but we didn’t care. We continued around the coffee shop, spinning around and around, side to side, covering the floor in invisible footprints. Her laughter sang loud and clear over the clashing of spoons and freshly steamed coffee mugs, loud breaths followed by explosions of tiny bells, all chiming at different times.“I love you,” I said. It had stumbled out of my mouth before I could even compre hend what I was doing. She stopped dancing and gave me the biggest smile I had ever seen. I didn’t need the words she gave back to me, because they were all in her smile, letters stuck between her teeth.“I love you too.”

I didn’t know if she could hear me. My throat is so dry. But then, like bluebirds, I hear it.

“And she only reveals what she wants you to see. She hides like a child but she’s always a woman to me”

To the nearest passerby, it sounds like raspy grunts and squeaking cries, but to us, it’s a symphony of “I love you. I love you too.” The backs of my eyelids swirl with greens and pinks and yellows. I can smell 9:30 again. The rush of air is on my cheeks as we wind around the coffee shop tables, around and around and around.

I open my eyes gently. I see her with sheer clarity. I rest my hand on her cheek. It’s warm and wet and bright pink. It’s the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. My mouth parts. So many things to say.

“You don’t have to say anything. I already know.”

I take in that pink forever. I live in the pink. I breathe in the pink. I close my eyes once again. Kiss her hand. And the world fades out in a pink haze of “I love you.”

Julia Davies

Print by Anna Goodwin

StudentdeSigner

CROCHETVA

With my work I want to shift people’s perception of crochet from something their “grandma used to do,” to a high-end, fashion medium. I started CROCHETVA (crochet + Ava) in the start of 2021 when my sister told me that I had to stop making things for free. I started taking com missions from friends and family, and eventually expanded to people all over the world when I created my Instagram: @crochet.va. In Spring 2022, I placed third in the Freirich Entrepreneurial Competition at Skidmore College. Today, CROCHETVA is a handmade to high-end crochet and textiles-oriented brand. I am constantly trying to incorporate new materials, techniques, and looks into my brand. I will be attending the Glasgow School of Art in Scotland in the Spring of 2023, where I hope to further evolve in my artistry and as a brand.

DjEnEbA SAnOgO

My piece is a two-piece set made from African fabric, and I worked on it in the IdeaLab. I made a corset tube top with a matching ankle-length skirt. I tailored the outfit to precisely fit my model, Natasha. The process of creating the look took about four days since I was experimenting with various tube top designs. I wanted to accentuate her arms and neck to show her rich, deep skin color. I specifically picked a fabric color that would make her skin tone pop. I designed this outfit for Natasha to model in the AHA fashion show gala.

MESTH COllECTiOn

MESTH collection is an Authentic African Textile handmade Brand. We source all our Material from Burkina Faso in West Africa. Our line of Accessories was created to showcase the beauty and the richness of African culture through Fashion. We have diverse patterns of loincloth fabric made differently by different tribes. MESTH collection shows the pride in wearing Simple, Styl ish, Vibrant colors. Our products value dedication, passion, joy and also contribution because we support Women and children in Burkina Faso with our Net income. Wear MESTH Collection and enjoy beautiful accessories that last for generations.

Spotlight

liA ADAMS

In recent months sewing has become another way for me to express myself with my hands. I have always had a passion for fine art, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of venturing into the world of 3-dimensional art in the form of fashion. While I do love the neutrals, blacks, whites, and creams that have taken hold of modern-day fashion in recent seasons, I find myself most inspired by bright colors and interesting textures. This mini collection was also inspired by my best friend and model Sofia Shore. I often envision my friends in the clothes I have yet to create and use their unique styles and personalities to stretch my imagination. Sofia has been a big source of creativity for me as she has such a bright and unique aura, and she makes everything I sew look so darn good.

REnEE FRiTSCHEl

My grandmother and sister taught me how to sew when I was little, so sewing for me has always connected me to them. I make clothes that I want to wear and cannot find in stores, often dyeing or screen-printing my own fabric to achieve my vision. The pieces here all include either dyeing or printing. I am also always thinking about ways to reuse my fabric scraps and repurpose old clothes.

CAlliE’S COllECTiVE

Callie’s Collective is regenerated clothes created by me (Callie). These pieces shown in Lunch box are just a few of many that I have formulated. They have no specific interpretation; they can mean anything to anyone. All my creations are secondhand clothing, whether they are thrifted or old clothes of my own, these pieces are filled with unique designs, mainly inspired by graffiti and murals I have seen all throughout my life. My clothes are made for anyone; I love seeing everyone rock the clothes and make them look even more fabulous. Being able to have people model my clothes to then be featured in Skidmore’s magazine only motivates/excites me to push myself out of my comfort zone to develop all sorts of kinds of clothing.

MODELS: Helen Branch, Jacob Smith, Anna Brooks, Ava Wood, Cori Brothers, Mia Etkin, Natasha Machera, Djeneba Sanogo, Olivia Dreier, Sofia Shore, Zia Foxhall, Sovi Chann, Liza Schnauck, Malika Sawadogo

CROCHETVA CROCHETVA CROCHETVA CROCHETVA CROCHETVA CROCHETVA

EE FRiTSCHEl REnEE FRiTSCHE

O DjEnEbA SAnOgO DjEnEbA SAnOgO DjEnEbA SAnOgO DjEnEbA SAnOgO

CAlliE’S COllECTiVE CAlliE’S COllECTiVE CAlliE’S COllECTiVE CAlliE’S COllECTiVE

Photogtahpy by Taerin Kim

theresurrection

pulling my teeth out slowly, one by one, watching them drop like popcorn kernels into my raw pink palms

gums smooth spit back a crescent moon on a shallow pool of tears

the ghost of the old me hides in-between my rib cage naked and trembling all bones and no flesh the ghost of naomi lives right next to the thump of my bloodied heart

in the attic in the corner of my mind there is a picture of my uncle he is small and smiling but he has no eyes just folds of pale blue skin over the eye sockets

i will his eyes to open and when they do not i bid a sparrow to deliver him a message a broken violin string protruding from its black beak like a worm the sparrow flies toward milky clouds and i watch it go

next to the attic in my mind there is a garden where my grandfather is buried i water his ashes and everyday he resurrects O joyous! a miracle! a scarecrow flapping in the wind his head of snow winking in the pale light

the sparrow returns and rests on my grandfather’s shoulder the ghosts play hide and seek in my bones my uncle sits somewhere in a field of yellow he strikes an invisible bow against invisible strings plucking the air where a violin would be i drink it all in and it is enough Bel Kiely

I did not know your soul fit inside a cardinal’s wing until it flew across the dark sky, twisting the clouds to look like dancers who twirl before the rain comes:

Nana, I did not know the sound of water falling would seep into my soul forever.

When I heard the rain hiss: Music, is like rain is like rain the land conducted wing and wind, rain beat hard on the sundeck I listened Music, is like rain is like rain

You were showing me where the soul sits: cleansed by rain, rising in the sky, while the dancers flew in circles around the earth as if they too knew a rainbow as bright as a cardinal’s wing.

I will always know the sound of water

Bec Duffy

Photograph by MaryDrew Mason-Hill

Art by William Carter

Renewal of Tragedy

To truly grow, we must renew our judgment of the past, but in a new light.

My Own Sysiphus

They told me I should detest the rock. That it will never reach the top. But my hands enjoy the smoothed edges. And my arms ask for something to do.

Icarus, flyyyyyyyyy yyyyy y y yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy y y y

With wax-tipped wings, I met the sun. Enveloped in warmth, the zealous son. Flew from my prison, begot new life. Treacherous grace, all hope ignores strife. The future is uncertain, the plunge so nearby.

Yet in this moment of bliss, I have reached for the sky. What is tragedy if for naught?

Loss of the highest, through beauty sought.

You are more than your plight Medusa

Oh wretched woman, release your gaze from its averted lock, For the fault bearer’s love, caused but the innocent’s shock. Beauty in nature does detest the purity of the soul, That once brought candor and grace without toll. See the heavens above; their sight does dance with grace. The moon with his light, much more than a face. Release your gaze and meet the stars. Realize, Medusa, you are much more than your scars.

Liam Moren

Exquisite Corpse:

I pass my time looking through a keyhole watching others climb mountains and dance around empty bars all with a cropped composition

reading the pages of their journals — out of order, dogearring some ripping the rest to shreds piecing them into a new collage

eavesdropping on their conversations on mute watching their lips form every syllable, guessing the subject, the tone, the content.

assembling a puzzle backwards previously aware of the missing pieces, over—before putting it together again.

Christopher Arnold Christopher Arnold Photograph by Taerin Kim

Art by Maitreya Ravenstar

Spotlight on Corwin Ravenstar

When stopping by the Skidmore post office to pick up your Amazon order, have you ever noticed a brown-haired man wearing intricate rings and necklaces? That man is none other than Corwin Ravenstar, and he makes all his jewelry himself. Although many of us are acquainted with the post office staff, few have taken the time to learn more about their stories. I had the opportunity to sit down with Corwin and hear about his life outside of the post office and his passion for making jewelry.

Before becoming a jeweler, Corwin started out as a glass blower. However, after growing frustrated with the impermanence of this medium, he felt the urge to create using a more durable material, something that would withstand the test of time: metal. He first took a jewelry class here at Skidmore to gain a basic understanding of the art form. Then, he began to master the medium through trial and error, along with the help of books and Youtube videos.

Corwin, who has prior experience as a metalsmith, is quite skilled at the process of creating the metal that he later engraves. He pours his own silver, which is made of coin and copper, and melts it into a crucible. Then, he pours it into an ingot—a block of metal typically in an oblong shape—and forges the ingot using a hammer. From there, he uses an engraver, which is essential ly a miniature chisel, to carve words or images into the metal.

“My favorite piece is the next one I’ll create” Corwin says, reflecting on his de sire to continue to hone his craft. His main concern is not making money or the number of pieces he’s producing; he is more focused on constantly improving and making something that he is proud of and that people will connect with.

His customers’ connection with the pieces is something that Corwin values and is committed to as most of his jewelry is commissioned and customized. He tends to create pieces for people who want a totem; he wants to give them something with a spiritual, feel-good component that they can truly treasure and find meaningful.

Corwin’s commitment to his craft is inspiring. In addition to making jewelry, Corwin is also interested in engraving knives and bike parts. While he used to have a store in town with a studio, he is now mostly discovered through word of mouth and on Instagram. If you’re interested in checking out Corwin’s pieces and buying one for yourself, you can find him via his instagram @ravenstar.workshop. And the next time you stop by the post office, make sure to say hi and ask him about his work!

By

Lila Ressler

“My favorite piece is the next one I’ll create”

Theadults are talking in the kitchen

The adults are talking in the kitchen and she’s sitting on the stair in the room over while the dogs bark at the mailman outside and she eats the last fruit snack from the pack she opened at lunch. The adults are talking in the kitchen About gas prices and the new Muslim Ban And what are we going to do about the dog? And nobody heard the door open and shut when she came in off the yellow school bus where she almost threw up after seeing her reflection in the window sitting in the very back seat

Angela has the best ugliest ass Katy G wuz here no you weren’t Where was she? Close your eyes Wake up!

when she missed her stop. Creaky knees lift her up and walk her down the aisle, pews on either side of her and little flashing screens become the Hymnals. The adults are talking in the kitchen while She takes the long way home to see Ms. Johnson’s cat

with doomsday eyes that understand, and black tar fur like a sea of souls. The adults are talking in the kitchen about Amo Antoine’s funeral as her loafers drag along the sidewalk past a baby bird that had fallen from a tree and now she’s at the porch, loafers clunking up the stairs with hard and heavy bones right over the doormat’s faded “Welcome,” and into the kitchen where the adults are talking.

Kayla Hassett

Print by MaryDrew Mason-Hill

Art by Tomas Rodriguez

Wake up. Turn the lights off. Keep them off. (I’m not here.)

Close the blinds. Keep them closed. (I’m not here.)

Don’t give the spider plant light. Don’t give the spider plant life. Go back to bed. Don’t look in mirrors. (That there that’s not me.) Don’t make eye contact. Play candy crush on the B train to pass time. (Strobe lights and blown speakers.)

Stop checking-in

Keep your missing assignments missing. (This isn’t happening.) Smoke weed. Take “T breaks.” Buy more weed. Don’t think about aliens. Go back to bed. (This isn’t happening.)

How To Disappear Completely

Noah Eisman

INTHE RIPTIDE

looking out. in a pantheon of idiots and dreamers, and idiot dreamers. “taste the river” reads the sign. I soak my porous greed in ambrosia.

Delphi said: “do not look back otherwise, you be dragged through, dragged by the rip tide. to survive this, be timeless. ”

the Lord said, Nothing. my love is a salt pillar next to the refrigerator. where I wrote a reminder to buy figs for my mother. now that my love is gone the women will cut me into pieces. leaving my head to float down the river.

Photograph by Nancy Yang

“open those brainless eyes of yours.”

there were very few messages from the Lord, and visions from Him were quite rare.

all the kids wonder if from their bedside God, the Lord, is listening to their prayers and poetry. they ask for forgiveness all the same. they pray incessantly, without stopping “Jesus Christ have mercy on me”

the new gods are dead too. sacked by the Civilization then Persians then Alexander then Christ then steel and suicide. in the End, only marble blocks grown over only salt pillars remain. the lone and level sands stretch far away. look at me, ye Mighty, and despair. in the Aegean. drunk on orthodoxy drunk on the riptide drunk on all those people with Christ in them, all those who don’t. all of this is to say, I will always be Roman. and, never look back.

Théo Zita

Metalwork Josie La Forte Photograph by Ava Wood

Metalwork Ava Wood Photograph by Josie La Forte

BY LILY HUDNER AND ABBY BREW

SADIE (SHE/HER) High school grad present from her parents, as her school didn’t do class rings. Wanted to embody her experience, and her sister has a matching one.

BELLA (SHE/HER) Got it in June when she visited Paros, Greece with her grandma. The woman in the shop didn’t speak much English, so she had to whip out some Greek while talking with her.

ABBY (SHE/HER) Her friend gave it to her for Christmas, and engraved on the inside is the coordinates of the ski hill where she’s from and go skiing together.

SOPHIE (SHE/HER)

Her family goes to a beach in Michigan every year. While they were there, her mom found a ring on the beach, and then she kinda stole it from her mom.

ERIN (SHE/HER) Her grandma got it for

her for one of her birthdays. It is

a traditional Irish ring called a Claddagh ring. When you wear it with the heart facing in, it means you are taken, and when you wear it with the heart facing out, it means you are single.

LUCY (SHE/HER) She made it as a quarantine activity.. found a box of beads in her basement and got a jewelry making kit. She was making earrings but then got bored, so figured out how to braid the wire with beads.

LILY (SHE/HER) Originally had a different spoon ring from Jackson Hole, WY, where her best friend lives. It got lost (in the trash?) when she did one of those pee samples at the doctor, so her friend got her a new one, which then got sent back in the mail three times. But three months later it is here!

CAM (SHE/THEY) Found out their ex was cheating, but didn’t tell her that they knew until the two of them had an argument. Their ex gave them this ring as a promise ring to try to prove that she wasn’t cheating, but they had to proof that she was cheating. They eventually broke up with her and kept the ring.

RENEE (SHE/HER)

RACHEL (SHE/HER) She had this big fat crush on this boy, they were

Her brother gave it to her for her 18th birthday. He got it from a vintage store in Boston called Vivant Vintage that has really good rings, and most of her rings are from there. It also reminds her of a bug.

friends for 9 months and she finally told him she liked him, but he didn’t feel the same. She invited him to her friend’s party, who was supportive through the boy situation. At the party, she turned around and the two of them were making out… now they clearly aren’t friends and she stole her ring..

AULEY (HE/HIM) Smiley face that can spin around to reveal a frowny face on the other side. His cousin made it and he uses the mad/sad side when he wants to be passive aggressive towards people.

Metalwork Josie La Forte

Photograph by Ava Wood

ListenListen— lean in and you will hear the universal beat of every heart melting into the rhythm of the world

The song of life begins as the gentle timbre of a spirit strikes a chord that resounds in oscillating overtones through the earth

It is not a solo, but an orchestra of hundreds, thousands of players whose melodies interweave in a glorious cacophony Rising, swelling, soaring into a crescendo— voices, although distinct, merge as one and revel in the splendor of their resonant unity

And the sound fades at last a fermata over a rest as ringing silence sets in— an ending, abrupt, unexpected. Does the song die? No. Even as its tones dwindle, the echoes of its final note whisper the story that it told Long after its music is spent, it reverberates among those who remain and it can be heard—woven into the songs of souls— if you listen hard enough.

Denney Art by Beck Hagopian

Amanda

walking to class

My mouth is too dry: A year without rain

It would have been easy to pour myself a glass of water this morning. The glasses have been washed and stacked in the cupboard to the left of the stove, the pitcher is filtered and replenished sitting next to the fancy coffeemaker that belongs to my roommate, the ice tray has been filled and frozen, shoved to the back of the overstuffed freezer

I could have poured a glass…

My feet are too large: A tripwire waiting

It would have been easy to wear a different pair of shoes today. I can picture where they are waiting: My sneakers I threw off in the entryway when I stumbled home from that party three blocks away, the one that always feels a little too far, my boots are gathering dust on the shoe rack in the hall, their leather beginning to crack, even my slippers neatly sitting side by side under my bed, bunny faces smiling

I could have grabbed a different pair…

My music is too loud: An orchestra warming up

It would have been easy to listen to something less grating. My Spotify is filled with playlists for days like this: Ambient sounds, something my dad would listen to as he sat at his desk, typing on his computer; nostal gic songs, ones my mom used to play while she cleaned the kitchen and I sat at the big wooden table; or no music at all, just the sounds of others chattering and the occasional chirp of a bird

I could have skipped this song at least…

My brain is too full: A suitcase that won’t zip

Its never that easy, is it

Helen Branch

Collage by Patricia Amouzgar

It Feels Different When You’re a Girl

A learner’s permit is supposed to take six months. You get your driv er’s license and become an adult endowed with all the privileges of the road. Not 47 months. And yet, there I was, still practicing merging onto I-290 with my father. It had been almost four years since he had first attempted to school me in the ways of the road, a nervous teenager terrified of the task of wrestling a ton of steel. Only then was it beginning to come together. In the summer of my 19th year, my nerves finally settled as I took on a new feminine confidence.

They say women drive poorly. It’s a classic for the middle-aged misogynist at a standup night. But none of them know what I know. For the first three years of my attempts to learn to drive, I was—ostensibly—a teenage boy. If you asked the same middle-aged misogynist, he’d tell you that teenage boys want two things in this world: a car and pussy. Both of those could not have been further from my priorities as a teenager. The former terrified me for what it was: dangerous and macho. The latter terrified me for what I was: male and potentially dangerous. In these contexts, I feared most respectively being hurt and hurting someone. As a boy, driving was a game of nerves. Constantly on edge, shivering, I would white-knuckle the vehicle across the road, ironically probably creating a more dangerous situation.

However, something changed when I started transitioning. I began my medical transition at college, where I did not have a car to practice driving nor anyone to practice with, and thus did not drive until I had been on estrogen for several months and returned home for the summer. My parents insisted that I get my license by the end of the summer. My father and I quickly noticed that I was much less nervous behind the wheel, and I began to embrace driving as I

took initiative in working toward certification. It was not just driving, either: I felt more confident in my abilities in all manner of activities. In July 2022, I final ly passed the test that I had been terrified to take for the past 4 years and received my driver’s license, a classic symbol of independence and adolescence. I did so years later than most Americans, in a sort of delayed adolescence enabled by my transition.

My late adolescence also brought me to my other teenaged fear. After I began medically transitioning, I took a serious interest to sex for the first time for biochemical reasons and also began feeling comfortable enough with my body to want to act on it. Over the course of a few months, I started flirting with a friend who had indicated interest in me. Flirting as a woman with other women is indescribably different from flirting as a man with women. As a man, it would have been inseparable from the patriarchal dynamics of society and I would inevitably be seen as the one in power, power I had no idea how to wield. Instead, we flowed naturally together, our paths intertwining because I took a chance I never would have taken before.

2 days after I received my driver’s license, I had the house to myself and she had time to come over. Using my new ability to drive, I purchased condoms and lubricant before making dinner for the two of us. We intertwined our bodies on the couch as my dog watched in confusion, and I was at peace with my body in a way I never could have been before. While I was also late losing my virginity compared to the average American, I believe this can be forgiven considering my circumstances.

My transition unlocked aspects of life that are typical for most people but were not in reach for me, and I completed significant traditional markers of adolescence in a period of 3 days at 19. I am eternally grateful for this opportuni ty and I continue to drive the road of existence.

Chloë Boatright

I am a Peach

Screaming fury Bitter Taste

I am a Peach

I am a Peach TAKE IT OUT

They like me when I’m small They like that Mom did not warn me TAKE IT OUT

I feel it in my stomach

I am a peach Mommy, what is at my core? Tooth, and nail, and spit Fire, blood, and grit The remanence of my pain And my mothers And hers before TAKE IT OUT

They like it when my lips are blue They like it when I’m a step behind I am a peach Please Please Please Take my pit out. Do you know what’s at the core of a woman?

Patricia Amouzgar

Do you smoke nicotine?

yes no

How about weed? due to my individuality complex, I only smoke Virginia Slims my burnt Red Bull puff bar

How do you consume it?

yes no Do you, like, have any fun...? no

What does your emotional support water bottle look like? it’s made of BPA-free organic metal it’s covered with stickers from all the indie house shows I go to

What do your typical weekend look like? I like a small soiree with my friends winning beer pong in the apartments What’s your favorite part of living in Saratoga? Sylvia Plath lived here once

When you’re depressed, who do you listen to?

What

renewal