Late Fall 2017

an assault & the birth of sharpp - p.34

late fall 2017

a look at the opiate crisis - p.25 gay bikers - p.21

main

street

main street

Us

Editor’s Note

Andrew Hartnett Editor in Chief Stephanie Khairallah Senior Managing Editor Madison Forsberg Digital Editor Michael Valotto Photography Editor Alex Bostic Issue Editor Aidan Reo Digital Editor Bri Doherty Issue Editor Raoul Biron Contributing Writer Olivia Lachapelle Contributing Writer Sumner Bright Contributing Writer Abigail McIntosh Contributing Writer Ellen Gibbs Contributing Writer Rachael Moss Contributing Writer Kayla Lutz Contributing Writer Connor Dever Contributing Photographer Blake Wasson Contributing Photographer

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don’t care what humans think is impossible.

Yellow, black. Yellow, black.

Yellow, black. Yellow, black.

Ooh, black and yellow!

Let’s shake it up a little.

Find Us The Main Street has mostly been hibernating in the newsroom since you’ve seen us last. We’re fine, just a little feral, if anything. We still have a website, and even though the honeymoon phase wore off, we still like it for the companionship.

Here we publish journalism, feature writing, photography, film, comics, art and poetry.

We are always accepting submissions.

You can find us at MainStMag.com facebook.com/mainstreetmagazine MainStreetMagazine@gmail.com @mainstreetmagazine

with love from the main street

what’s inside?

funny you should ask, because quite a bit, actually

Features

asmr: noise tingles - p.5 how to bang a professor - p.8 seasonal.affective.disorder. - p.12 perspectives abroad - p.14 where even is the local music scene - p.18 gay biker gangs - p.22 the triangle club - p.25 drugs! death! destruction! - p.26 SHARPP - p.35

Creative Writing

fried hash & firm yolks - p.16 richard’s story - p.34 tuesday - p.30

Photography

wild west - p.20 seasons of change - p.10

Reviews

food - p.6 music - p.7

Poetry p.27

courtesy photos by Bennett Mosseau // @bmosseau on instagram

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

staff picks // insider tips personal slogan: “I put the ‘ass’ in casserole.”

“Just trying to get to just getting by.”

-Aidan

-Andrew

“Who’s that chick in the onesie with the huge hole in the crotch...?”

-Madison

“I may be old and forgetful, but at least I’m not old and forgetful.”

“Who wants to blow glitter off my ass?”

-Santa Claus

“Cream cheese heals all wounds.”

-Bri

“When the world kicks you in the nuts...”

-Mike

-Stef

how to catch a creeper: “Me and Alex perch on a rooftop with a crossbow.

First shot goes right next to his foot - that’s a warning.”

-Bri

“Call the cops. They should easily be able to capture the suspect if they put all their men on the job.”

-Aidan

“Lure him into Alex’s van with candy and a puppy.”

- Maddie

“Like all of his/her Instagram’s from 2010.

Fight creep with creep.”

-Stef “Turn myself in...”

-Alex

—4—

“Get a sweet van and a talking dog. We’re doing this Scooby Doo style.”

-Andrew

“Yell, ‘Stranger Danger!’ and kick him square in the nuts.”

-Mike

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

asmr: noise tingles Kayla Lutz | Contributing Writer

You may have heard of videos circulating through YouTube with whispering, tapping, and even some lip smacking. They orient around a community who claim that listening to those kinds of sounds can cause a tingling sensation on the scalp or down the spine. Some equate it to the relaxing feeling of getting a haircut or having your hair played with.

Not everyone who listens to the videos experiences the ASMR sensation. ASMR stands for autonomous sensory meridian response, referring to the tingly feeling that can be caused by different “triggers.” Triggers can vary for each person and not everyone who listens to ASMR videos do so in attempts to experience the tingling, though listening to a quiet voice or someone whispering is a very common trigger. Sometimes just watching someone doing a simple task and listening to repetitive noises can also elicit the tingling.

that simulate ear cleaning with loud crinkling close to the microphones.

People who despise the sound of people chewing loudly or crunching their food should definitely avoid these triggers. Other people love them. Personally, I can’t stand them but some people might hate hearing the tapping noises and whispering videos that I enjoy. Every brain reacts differently.

There are some that believe that the tingles that one experiences with ASMR could be linked to the concept of musical frisson.

Musical frisson is characterized by the physical response of piloerection (goosebumps). Bryson Lochte is a fellow at the National Institute on Drug Abuse who made the possible connection in his senior thesis at Dartmouth College. He told New York Times, “The whole topic [of ASMR] is still very much unknown.

Noises like typing, turning book pages, tapping on objects, and crinkling can act as white noise to help someone fall asleep. Some of my personal favorites are tapping and whispering videos. There are more “intense” sound videos that have begun to surface with noises YouTuber Goodnight Moon on her ASMR Howl’s Moving Castle: Sophie’s Hat Shop

ASMRtist Gentlewhispering in her video “Cute Cards and Journal Tapping, Page Flipping”

Though currently there is little research on the concept of ASMR, some scientists have wondered about the causes and possible uses of it. In a New York Times article in 2014, Dr. Carl W. Bazil said that it could act as a helpful way to treat insomnia. “People who have insomnia are in a hyper state of arousal. Behavioral treatments – guided imagery, progressive relaxation, hypnosis and meditation – are meant to try to trick your unconscious into doing what you want it to. ASMR videos seem to be a variation on finding ways to shut your brain down.”

—5—

I would be interested to see what other traits correlate with ASMR. sensitivity, whether it is an inherited attribute and what sort of psychological effects the sensation has on the body.”

I personally cannot account for the possible scientific effects ASMR might have but I do know that it can put me to sleep in minutes. If you’re up late after a night of studying and just can’t seem to turn your brain off, searching YouTube for ASMR might just do the trick.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

main street eats

the best of durham’s drunk food Rachael Moss | Contributing Writer

DURHAM - You stumble home from the bars, Madbury, or some variety of a house party, only to realize that you’re starving. Perhaps it was the reason you left in the first place. Depending on where you spent your freshman year, or where your path home takes you, your choice of drunk food varies greatly.

Those in the Stoke area may find solace with the steaming crispy spice of Wild Kitty’s waffle fries. It is not an uncommon sight to go in around midnight and stumble across an extended queue of girls in Durham tees, white Keds, and not-quite-visible shorts.

Or perhaps Campus Convenience is more your scene. Freddy Wraps, or “Fetty Waps” to those in the know, are a surefire way to satiate your primal need for a hot, gooey, fried, yet self-contained 2 a.m. snack. Comprised of fried chicken tenders, and a combination of sriracha, hot and sour, or ranch sauces that I would not recommend eating sober. As a last resort to an intoxicated adventurer, however, it can seem like a gift from God (or maybe just Sammy, the proprietor of the establishment).

One living in the seemingly distant freshman city of Christiensen and Williamson dorms may find Pita Pit to be more their style.

An honorable mention goes out to Domino’s. While they may not be the first choice of many, they frequently come in clutch with delivery for those times that the only thing that can motivate you to get off of the drool and beer soaked floor is the promise of a mostly hot, carb-ilicious meal.

There is need to mention a fallen hero, Kurt’s Lunchbox. The story of Kurt’s demise, told frequently with variations, doesn’t take away from the fact that a food truck serving french fries to drunk college students could be the perfect business model. A personal favorite was the poutine, drenched in thick gravy with a smattering of cheese curds, melting under the intense heat of one’s doting love and appreciation.

Photo by Madison Zapatka

The University of New Hampshire, while ranked #253 nationally for party schools, is ranked #35 for college food, and #1 for college food in the state, acroding to niche.com.

This sophisticated palette and accustomization to quality food is consistent and pervasive even in the intoxicated student. Lucky for us, there are many options, with perhaps even more on the horizon. As we lose staples like Kurt’s, perhaps there will be more, ever improving, options for drunk students in the future.

(p.s.a: franz’s food returns with a vengance this november) (if by vengance you mean JB’s) ( & we do) —6—

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

reviews

With a combination of smooth baritone, complementary and haunting bass-lines and saxophone riffs that envelop the listener in a feel of underground jazz, Morphine appears to be appropriately named. The listener always feels as though they’re listening to Morphine on a vinyl record, and once you start, much like the reputation of the drug the band is named after, you cannot stop.

sound remains timely and classically satisfying to listen to.

morphine

Morphine’s uniquely groovy sound is Madison Forsberg | Digital Editor actually very diverse in feel. There are many settings that Morphine has an appropriate song for.

Whether it’s sultry saxophone or upbeat dancey vibes, Morphine comes to the rescue.

Morphine was originally formed in 1989 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. All through- “You see I met a devil named buena buena out the 90’s, Morphine brought their dark jazz And since I met the devil I ain’t been the undertone to the experimental rock genre. The same, oh no band produced 5 studio albums, Good (1992), Cure for Pain (1993), Yes (1995), Like Swimming And I feel alright now I have to tell you (1997) and The Night (2000), the band also released 8 singles between 1993-1999, one of the I think it’s time for me to finally introduce you to the most popular being “Buena” (1993). However, their producing as a band came to an end in 1999 Buena buena buena buena good good girl” when the lead frontman, bassist and vocalist Mark Sandman, died from a heart attack. Though the band is no longer producing music, their

check out “You Look Like Rain.”

sylvan esso

Stephanie Khairallah | Managing Editor

Simple, sweet & almost bare, Sylvan Esso has defined a genre in of itself with her upbeat, ghost-like tone & electronic accompaniment.

With only two albums to date, each and every song released by the duo dawning from Durham, NC, is an instant hit. The echoing tone and electronic harmonizing of the slam-poetry-style-sounds rings against the powerful messages hidden beneath a hypnotizing beat. It is warm belly music.

Most known for the songs, “Coffee,” & “Hey Mami,” the majority of the group’s work is comprised solely of Amelia Meathe’s vocals and Nick Sanborn’s electronic production.

Sylvan Esso is haunting, yet upbeat - it rings with a perpetually bittersweet tone with a strong emphasis on the sweet.

It is incredibly difficult to understand what Esso is saying within their airy, light lyrics. Yet, if you took the time to really listen, the group creates poetic and political statements with word play and long pauses.

This is absolutely perfect café music – try it with a latte.

find them on NPR’s Tiny Desk series

9.5/10 - hands down best new pop artist.

—7—

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

news flash: PILF’s are fair game “professor I’d like to f*ck” Madison Forsberg | Digital Editor It’s the first day of class, the new professor walks in and you, being the observant little student you are, realize that your newest instructor is totally, one hundred percent bangin’.

Now, all of a sudden you don’t mind your 9 a.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because you spend it staring at Professor Hot-Sauce instead of taking anthropology notes. But, as much as you make googly eyes, use your imagination and give amorous smiles, you always leave class wondering, “what if I actually f***ed them?”

According to the University of New Hampshire’s Online Policy Manual (OLPM) you, as a college student, can. According to Topic Section V. Personnel Policies, Section D. Employee Relations there can be existing amorous relationships that occur, not only between faculty and staff at the University, but also between Faculty, Staff and students. The policy manual defines amorous relationships as “any interpersonal relationship that involves sexual and/or romantic intimacy.

Amorous relationships covered by this policy might exist between Faculty members, Staff members, Faculty and Staff, Staff and Students or Faculty and Students at UNH” (UNH.V.D.6.2.1).

The one big topic that the policy manual discusses when it comes to relationships within the university’s community is something called an “uneven power dynamic.” This seems to be the main concern for administration. An uneven power dynamic is described as “the circumstance where one party has the professional responsibility to evaluate the other party’s academic and/or work performance and/or the responsibility to perform in a

‘check and balance’ (e.g. signing off on timesheet or expense payment) role relative to the other, or where there is a reasonably foreseeable possibility that one party could be called upon to participate in decisions affecting the other party’s employment or academic prospects” (UNH.V.D.6.2.6). This means that one party in the relationship has some form of authority over the other, like the ability to change one’s grades or affect their job position.

“Last week you were sipping bubbly with your semester long crush, now you’re taking a D- in chemistry and your whole life feels like one horrible decision.”

This could easily create the opportunity for bad blood. Think about it, when it comes time to end your fantasy-fling with your professor, if they don’t feel the same way they are still in a position to be able to take it out on your GPA. Last week you were sipping bubbly with your semester long crush, now you’re taking a D- in chemistry and your whole life feels like one horrible decision.

But the university has your back. As a college student, you are over the age of 18- meaning, you are a legally consenting adult, as is your professor. The university realizes they cannot stop a relationship from going on between two consenting, of-age adults, so administration included steps to take within the policy manual to ensure your relationship doesn’t somehow blow up in your face, or destroy the university’s reputation.

“The parties involved in any —8—

consensual amorous relationship with an uneven power dynamic are immediately required to disclose the relationship to the proper authorities and cooperate fully in steps necessary to eliminate the dynamic” (UNH.V.D.6.3.1).

For faculty, this means notifying their department chair/head, and for students this means notifying the Office of the Provost or the Affirmative Action and Equity Office. From here, steps to eliminate the power dynamic between the two parties will take place, which in most cases will mean Professor Hot-Pants will be reassigned and won’t be your professor anymore (sad face), but they can still be your professor of love!

However, before you run over to the Office of the Provost shouting your new-and-improved relationship status from the rooftops, you might want to make sure you and your boo are on the same page.

The last thing the policy manual outlines in this section is that if the faculty member or staff member “refuses to cooperate with the reassignment of duties or other steps, or if s/he denies the existence of the relationship, the department chair/director or supervisor must report this to the relevant Dean or Vice President and the Affirmative Action and Equity Office” (UNH.V.D.6.4.3). This could mean a sexual misconduct investigation and a major administrative shitstorm for you.

So, you have the green-light. Invite your favorite professor over for some wine and a movie, but when it comes down to it, just don’t forget to cover your own ass.

(Also.. pics or it

didn’t happen…)

some less than fantastic tips on how to seduce your professor:

Fall 2017

Main Street Magazine

Stephanie Khairallah | Managing Editor

1) Scoff every time he brings up his wife & kids Allude to your superiority with throat clears and coughs. So she had his children, but you have his 401 class. All is fair in love and war.

2) Always wear something slutty to class Nothing says, “I’m hot and intellectual,” like a tube top in December.

Men appreciate the dedication.

3) Don’t do your homework Make sure to turn in none of your assignments. Instead, upload naked pictures of yourself in lieu of reading responses. Make sure they are late on MyCourses. Men love when you play hard to get.

4) Office hours Attend these religiously. Make sure never to bring up any of the assignments.

Ask him about his day and his dick size. Adults love this as it shows that you care about the little things.

5) Ask questions Men love when you act interested. When he asks the class what year the Napoleonic Wars started, raise your hand and ask where he buys his loafers. This will be subtle and informative. (we love sarcasm, please don’t try this at home) —9—

detail by dever Connor Dever | Contributing Photographer

@connordever on insta

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

seasonal affective disorder Olivia Lachapelle | Contributing Writer Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a mental illness that causes symptoms of depression during the autumn, winter, and early spring. According to American Family Physiscian, 4-6% of the United States population suffers from SAD, while anywhere from 10-20% of the population experience a milder form of SAD where they only suffer from a few depressive symptoms. SAD is more prevalent in areas further from the equator, making it very common in New England.

Symptoms of Seasonal Affective Disorder: - Feeling sad, anxious, and/or hopeless - Increased irritability and moodiness Scott Hall covered in new snow, Durham, NH Photos courtesy of Madison Forsberg

- Loss of interest in daily activities - Overeating and increased cravings for high carb foods

mood and sleep patterns can be results of disrupted circadian rhythms. Also, serotonin levels decrease when the body is exposed to less sunlight. Low serotonin levels often cause symptoms of depression.

- Changes in weight - Sleeping more than usual - Lack of energy - Difficulty concentrating - Withdrawal from social life - Trouble sleeping Some people are at higher risk for developing SAD. Women are more likely to develop SAD than men.

Also, people between the ages of 15 and 55 are most at risk for developing SAD, though it is uncommon to develop SAD after 55. As is the case with many mental illnesses, if you have a relative who suffers from SAD, you are more likely to also be diagnosed.

People with other mood disorders, like depression or bipolar disorder, often experience more severe symptoms during the winter months.

Scientists do not know the exact cause of SAD, but they believe it may be caused by the effects that a lack of sunlight has on the brain and body. Shorter days affect the body’s circadian rhythms, which regulate sleep and mood throughout the day. Irregular

Thankfully, there are effective treatments for Seasonal Affective Disorder. The main treatment for SAD is light theapy. Light therapy has been used to treat SAD since the 80’s. The treatment consists of sitting in front of a light box that mimics natural sunlight for a half hour to two hours daily. Typically the price of a light therapy box is between $50 and $100. The Health and Wellness Center at UNH offers light therapy treatments to students with the light box that they have on-site. Kathleen Grace-Bishop, the Health and Wellness Center’s Director of Health Education and Support Services, said that most individuals start with fifteen minutes to a half hour of light therapy, and usually do the treatment in the morning. According to Kathleen Grace-Bishop another light box will be purchased for THRIVE, located in the Hamel Rec Center. You do not need to be diagnosed with SAD to utilize the light therapy service.

Getting an official diagnosis for SAD can be helpful in developing a treatment plan. Kathleen Grace-Bishop says, “We have healthcare providers

— 12 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

to make an appropriate diagnosis for individuals.”

Meeting with a provider can help students find the best course of treatment, which may include medication. The most commonly prescribed medications for SAD are extended release versions of the antidepressant bupropion. Other antidepressants, such as selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRI’s), are also used if bupropion is ineffective such. Typically, people will begin taking the medication in early autumn, and stop taking it in the spring when there is plenty of natural light.

The Health and Wellness Center also has a nutritionist on staff. Meeting with a nutritionist can be beneficial to individuals suffering from SAD, because they can help to develop a healthy diet that will minimize the weight gain and poor food choices associated with SAD. Also, UNH has mental health professionals at the Psychology and Counseling Services that students can meet with for counseling.

Aside from traditional treatments, there are many easy things people can do to manage their SAD symptoms themselves. Health experts recommend making your environment brighter. Keep your blinds up during the day to let in natural light, and try to sit close to the window. Also, be sure to have ample lighting in your home. Try to spend time outside. Even though it may be cold or cloudy, the natural light still has a positive effect on the mind and body.

Another tried and true way to manage any mood

disorder is regular exercise. Rhythmic exercises, like running, swimming, and walking, have been found to be particularly beneficial. It is best to do your run or walk outside while it is still light out.

Grace-Bishop also suggests seeking counseling if these activities are not enough to manage your SAD symptoms.

Seasonal affective disorder is a serious illness. There is no shame in needing help to deal with this very common, and perfectly natural emotional response to getting less sunlight. If you notice a shift in your mood during these winter months try to take advantage of the services that UNH offers.

Above: A blanket of snow covers conifers in morning light Below: Thompson Hall at UNH is dressed in powdery snow — 13 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

perspectives abroad Abigail McIntosh | Contributing Writer

It is absolutely impossible for me to sit here at my computer and put into words the multitude of beautiful moments and emotions that have made up my experience while studying abroad in the United Kingdom. Instead, I will attempt to explain some of the little things that are changing me, introducing me to pieces of myself that I didn’t know existed, and why there is no better way to process than to travel.

I am sitting alone in my shared dorm at Regent’s University London with a smile stretched so wide across my face it hurts. In my mind, I am replaying many miles of walkDoorman of the Ritz Hotel, Picadilly. ing through the London streets: the gorgeous, warm and engulfing feeling of meeting new people, and the colors and sounds of the city that are so vibrant I can practically taste them on my tongue. I have stood in the middle of a Scottish forest and felt so much wanderlust I didn’t know whether I was going to laugh or cry. I have talked to 4:00 a.m. Uber drivers about their families, their favorite foods and whether or not they believe in Brexit. I sit next to people in my classes whose lives are so different from my own that we might as well be from different planets, yet we are able to discuss our perspectives on complex social issues without skipping a beat.

My experience of being abroad is a captivating conglomeration of tiny moments that have left me both filled to the brim with happiness, and starving for more. I truly wish that everyone could have the experience of living, learning, and growing at such a rapid (and slightly uncomfortable) pace. I feel like I am just scratching the surface of my

“I often like to make up stories about the people around me when I travel.”

Baby in a park in Bath, England — 14 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

life, and yet I’m already so filled with the experiences I have had over the past two months, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to fit any more in.

I was sitting on a train from Wales to London last week, and at every single stop I watched people reuniting and parting: friends practically knocking each other over with hugs so big you would have thought they’d been apart for years, grandparents saying teary goodbyes to On the 55 bus back to central London, United Kingdom their families, a young woman running after the train with tears running down her cheeks, people standing on the platform watching and waving until the train was out of sight, couples kissing as if they wouldn’t see each other again for a long, long time. I sat in my seat and watched it all transpire. The reunions made me smile, the goodbyes practically brought me to tears. There was so much meaning in each moment I could hardly process it all.

I often like to make up stories about the people around me when I travel. I want to know where people come from and where they are going. I want to know their dreams, their experiences, their triumphs, and their failures.

Pigeon man, London, United Kingdom

I am fascinated by travel, and people, and the little moments that add up and change me bit by bit. I am so thankful for the opportunity to be in a new place, and to have the chance to appreciate all of the experiences that will become part of me. The world is a huge place, and I want to see it all – one little moment at a time.

Moment shared between father and daughters, Stonehenge, United Kingdom All photos courtesy of Abigail McIntosh — 15 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

fried hash & firm yolks Madison Forsberg | Digital Editor

She sits poised, pulled in close to the light brown wooden slab conveniently placed before her. Laptop open, keys illuminated, blank document excited and ready to become her bitch. Scratch that, she means masterpiece. Her right pointer finger taps the wood impatiently. A single, shorter strand of bright blonde hair dances with her left index finger to a symphony much faster than most. Her foot bounces to the beat of the Talking Heads, but her thoughts don’t have enough fire to even ignite a match, let alone keep that flame alive to cook her dinner and burn down her house to keep her family warm.

“Breaker, breaker. This is Maddog, about ready to hit the road. Come in, can you read me?

Over..”.

Static air. It comes in waves, much like his snoring at 6 a.m. His adam’s apple wavers with every breath, his chin moving slightly. Bugs fly in and land on his arid tongue.

“Testing, breaker 1-9, we need to get this train out of the station, do you copy?” she waits.

“Seems you left the faucet on there breaker. Flip that patty, pull up the shades and read me like a book.

Come in, do you copy? Over.”

The static stops. Silence fills everthing, even the crevice between her toes. She can feel how thick the tension is with a quick wiggle and flex of her piggies.

“This little piggy went to the bar, and this little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had 6

beers and 4 shots. This little piggy had none. And this little piggy went…” she looks at the ceiling.

“This little piggy went insane and shoved a ruler in her eye in a blatant, but poor attempt to see straight.”

The slurp of coffee, loud, obnoxious and too hot for tastebuds to remember. The Talking Head’s are back again burning down her esophagus, settling in her stomach like a rock meant to drown her intelligence. And she was intelligent, right?

“I’m certainly a psycho, but even my killer instincts have been thrown to the chopping block,” she sighs as her shaky fingers

run through greasy hair and she notices the back of her

hand painted eloquently with a muse of smudged mascara.

Her brain is mashed like corn beef hash on a cast iron skillet.

Eggs over hard, no room for the sunny side on her plate.

There it is, the break. Not the big break she’s looking for. Not the award-winning

piece that receives accolades and endorsements. Not the 80 yard run to the end-zone,

celebratory spike of the ball against the turf. The break. The break of consciousness.

The break of thought.

The document, not blank anymore, only possesses a single smile emoticon. She did it to make herself feel better, now the innocent smile is taunting. So what if she lost her innocence to bad choices and life long mistakes? You need an actual brain for this job anyway, and not a coddled one, over easy and cooked only slightly. You need firm yolks, ready for a dirty joke and maybe a lawsuit.

— 16 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

“Byrne, stop dancing with that lamp, the shadows keep moving in circles, the rhythm of the room keeps making me dizzy.”

“That’s the whiskey, sweetheart.” Byrne whispers back, seductively into her left ear.

“Shut up. I know my limit you sonofabitch.” She hurls the quickly emptied glass. She aimed for his ego but it shatters against the wall.

Blood pooling everywhere, dripping down her temple, her eyes widen before they clamp shut to shield herself from fear and paranoia.

“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.” she reassures herself, but only manages to convince herself that she’s, in fact, not real. Her whole life she has been the lamp, but her lamp shade has never been eccentric.

She’s been danced with by strangers, plugged in and unplugged with unfamiliar control, blown lightbulbs never bothered to be replaced. She’s wrapped up in the attic now, her only friends being David Byrne and Echo and the (dust) Bunnymen.

Lips like sugar drip with disdain and she’ll never get out of this tangled up bubble wrap again.

Until she uses her switchblade, specifically hidden in her black denim waistband to pop her personal space bubble and escape into life during wartime.

Her brain cells drown in boredom, unable to swim, considering they have no arms or legs, and their breathing mechanism is labelled as neurology.

Overwhelmed by the lack of oxygen, they die in agony on a blank page with a fucking smiling emoticon laughing in their faces.

“I don’t even recognize her,” she screams to the mirror, ornate with it’s haunting background. They pulled it out of the attic and nailed it to the wall like scriptures. Unaware of the background, the spirit trapped behind the one way glass weeps with sorrow. The connection between real life and fantasy is only used to paint on mascara that will wind up scribbled on the back of some messy tramps hand. Vanity is the name of the game for the reflective blank page, nailed to the wall, illuminating her tired face and, now, brain cell-less mind.

“Better run, run, run, run, run, run, run away from this miracle gift shoved in the attic treasure

chest,” she bellows as she shatters the mirror with an open palm. She clenches her fist

full of shards as her face goes white, whiter than the blank page and then– It’s over.

The smile emoticon won, and with no train of thought leaving the station, breaker has come in, read your message and was over and out before you could ask his real name.

“But. — 17 —

I’m a writer...” she thought.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

finding light in the sound Sumner Bright | Contributing Writer

The Trichomes (left) and The Green Bulletts (right) giving their all at local house shows // photos by Robert Fitzsimmons

It was cold, windy and fucking loud...

The backyard was filled with smoke and Solo cups as greasy haired kids in ripped pants skated the mini ramp next to us. Our amps echoed off the back of a neighbor’s house as they raked leaves on a cool November afternoon. They looked up, shook their head, and went back to work.

We were playing well and with abandon, ripping through two covers and two originals. Then in the opening riff of the fifth song, like something out of a movie, a local neighbor stormed into the backyard donning Carhartts and gardening attire, wielding a sharp and shining pair of garden clippers. She charged over to the band and for a moment the only thing between me and her was my screaming, crackling amp.

We didn’t flinch.

She stared right at me with fire in her eyes then took her clippers to my amp’s power cord. The host of

the party rushed over and escorted her out of the back yard. Blue and red lights followed in her warpath.

We wouldn’t play any more songs that Saturday afternoon.

“There’s a big university stuck in a small quiet town that doesn’t want a big university here,” said Officer Kevin Abbott, one of the police officers that I had to speak with to avoid arrest.

It’s true, a live band at a house party would be too loud for the town of Durham. The police would come quickly, and any loose collegiate fun would be squashed in minutes. The issue is prevalent here in Durham.

Students looking for opportunities to play live music must often resort to short-lived and unreliable house parties. Since the bars in Durham do little to nothing to book local bands, musicians have to risk it at house parties if they want to play for big and energetic crowds.

“There’s just no demand for that music,” says Jay, manager of the popular bar Libby’s, who asked that his last name not be used.

But that’s not totally true. An entire community with seemingly no other — 18 —

opportunities for live music was lost in Durham in the spring of 2017 at the University of New Hampshire.

A beloved and short-lived venue for house shows and live music came to a sad and unsurprising end. The Emporium, as it was known, was a rarity- the last and only private house to host live music shows on weekend nights in Durham.

For so many in the artistic communities of towns like Dover, Newmarket, and Portsmouth, the downfall of this venue was tragic.

“Since the advent of the Internet and illegal downloads/streaming services, the live performance is much more important for newer artists to be heard and to help them generate a following and a resume that will allow them to get the kind of paid gigs that will sustain them financially for the long haul,” says Justin Uhlig, a renowned events coordinator in the seacoast area, and head of the Barnstormer’s Music and Art collective.

Once you add thousands of college students in the local area who want something to do with their booze-fueled weekends, live performances become even more important.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Given the size of UNH (about 15,398 students), one would assume that there would be a diverse array of things to do come the wellearned weekend. However, Rico Brea, the founder (and tenant) of The Emporium, thought differently.

“I really didn’t like the parties at UNH. It’s just a bunch of people crowded with a bunch of shitty music. But all my friends knew how to, y’know, play music.”

So Brea built a stage.

The parties grew as word spread around campus, and soon on any given weekend night there were hundreds of people surrounding his small home, not even a quarter mile from main campus. They were all there to see local acts. When The Emporium met its lawful demise at the hands of Durham Police Department, the UNH artistic community found itself reeling for outlets, and there was little hope of playing house parties.

Unfortunately, this is most often the fate for attempts at hosting loud, raucous and energetic live music shows. But it’s not as if a lack of live music is keeping Durham quiet.

On weekend nights Main Street is flooded with loud, drunk energy.

UNH students flock to the bars and fill the street with laughter and yells. The police aren’t much of a powerful presence there. Occasionally a cruiser will roll by slowly, investigating the dense crowds, but rarely do they stop and apprehend students who are being too loud or disorderly.

“There’s a noise ordinance in Durham from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m.” explained Deputy Chief Rene Kelley of the Durham Police Department, “but that wouldn’t apply to bars and restaurants.”

Durham is a small town. You can

hear Main Street on a Saturday night from across campus. I would think that a band in a concrete basement of a bar would be quieter than the students in the street.

“We only do live music on Fridays and there are two solo guys that usually play. They honestly fill in almost every Friday so I don’t think I have much for open slots” said Ryan, an employee of the Durham bar The Knot, who kept his last name anonymous. “One guy Travis, he’s played here for like 10 years. He usually lets people go up and sing a song if they are interested.”

There wasn’t much clarity on his end as to why there was no new acts coming in to the bar. Perhaps the management just didn’t want to cater to a live show, or maybe they just don’t care to engage with the artistic communities.

As for Libby’s, they seemed to be adhered to a certain mindset. “The demand on busy nights is for DJ music. It seems like the demand isn’t there for live music,” explained Jay. “It hasn’t presented itself to the bar on very many occasions. I mean, I don’t have anyone on staff that books, but it just doesn’t seem like there’s a demand. About 20 years ago there were more bands, and they were here every weekend.

I’d like to go back, there just isn’t a demand.”

So, students who want to play shows without fear of arrest in Durham have to spend time convincing a bar’s management that it’s worth their time and energy. Simply hosting a house show just isn’t as easy as it seems.

“It can be problematic” said Chief Kelley, referring to live music at private homes, “if it’s past 10, and if the music is disturbing the peace, then that it is considered disorderly conduct.”

Unfortunately for the bands, most college parties aren’t even in full swing by 10 p.m. So if a band or host wants to play it safe, the music might be playing to an empty room.

But hope isn’t completely lost. On — 19 —

Mill Road in Durham, there’s the Freedom Café, a non-profit café that donates its proceeds to the cause of ending human trafficking. The café hosts events such as “Perform for Freedom,” which is an open mic that encourages live musicians, writers, poets, other artists to come contribute something.

“Our open mic allows folks to come together in a supportive environment around a love for music, expressing a desire to see beneficial change in the world,” explained the café manager Bryan Bessette.

“There is a lot of creativity, honesty and quality material coming from the stage which makes you want to listen and maybe even try your hand at writing something or performing.”

The Stone Church in Newmarket has been hosting shows that are no longer strictly 21+, which allows more students and young people to come. The booking agent for the venue, Greg Rothwell, has been actively trying to make a point to book more local acts for the sole purpose of maintaining a scene.

In addition, Sue’s Space in Rollinsford is a DIY venue for musicians who can buy a membership for a monthly rate, which allows them to book two events per month in the space.

“From my perspective, I see some very encouraging signs in the local music and art scene and a large number of amazing and dedicated people working tirelessly to, for lack of a better term, make it great again,” Uhlig summarizes.

These venues can’t save a community on its own, and they can’t satisfy band’s desires to play at parties. But, they are examples of the environments that Durham needs more of, and maybe they can somehow inspire other local businesses to join the effort too.

There is an entire community here who finds light in loudness, and who are desperate to find an adequate outlet. There is truly one hell of a demand.

the wild west

— 20 —

photos by: Blake Wasson

— 21 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Riders ride out front in the Boston Pride Parade.

priders on the storm Bri Doherty | Issue Editor BOSTON— Leather jackets taken by the brim and twisted effortlessly backwards onto shoulders. Black leather boots worn out from years of riding on dusted up roads. Red bandannas adorning foreheads just above stereotypically dark shades.

Rough and tumble, big and strong, heterosexual. All stereotypical characteristics given to “bikers.” Despite the standards given to motorcyclists, Riders Motorcycle Club of Boston, New England’s largest gay male motorcycle club, aims to shatter the stereotypical, heterosexual norms of

motorcycle club culture by simply existing as a group of individuals who share a common interest in motorcycles.

“I think [Riders] was formed initially just out of common interest,” said club captain Tom Hood. “The way the motorcycle community works, outside of the gay community, is very testosterone driven. It’s very hetero-male, and there really isn’t space in that general community for gay expression. So for gay motorcycle riders its difficult to find a place there,

— 22 —

where you can be comfortable being yourself in a group.”

Riders began in 1984 and has been a continuous all gay/bisexual male club since 1988. The bikers enjoy organized rides in and around the New England area, including day rides as short as 75 miles and some overnight rides spanning for more than 300 miles.

Trips are club-member organized and planned around the members’ busy schedules. There is no minimum mileage required

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

to be a part of the group, and the welcoming, accepting community extends to the motorcycles as well — all makes and models are welcome in the group.

The Riders emphasize that if one were to see them on the road, they would not be able to recognize that they were an all gay and bisexual male riding group.

“There are a subset of men who are interested in motorcycles, and they want to feel like themselves when they’re out doing it,” said club treasurer Ross Harpestad. “So, I think that we actually help support a niche of gay men who like to be out on motorcycles, who like to be out on highways enjoying the country.”

“I’m not sure if you saw us you would know any different, other than pride flags on license plates,” said Hood, “Or maybe a T-shirt somebody is wearing that might clue you in that we’re not just another riding club. Other than that we’re just another group of bikes out on the road. In terms of how other people view us, I doubt they would be able to tell the difference.

I mean, we don’t ride down the highway with three-foot pride flags flying,” he laughed.

“Well, we usually don’t have big busted women sitting on the back of our bikes that are happily showing off their boobs”

As gay and bisexual men in the greater Boston area, these men have recognized the heterosexual culture stemming around motorcycle clubs and have crushed stereotypes surrounding gay men—without even trying.

To show their love for motorcycles as well as their support of the LGBTQ+ community, the group participates in the Boston, Worcester, and Providence Pride Parades

“Well, we usually don’t have big busted women sitting on the back of our bikes that are happily showing off their boobs,” said Greg Mailloux, club member. “And, that alone is a stereotype, it’s certainly not all the cases.”

A few members of the group recently rode up to Maine near China Lake to enjoy a weekend.

“I think we all enjoy each others company,” continues Mailloux. “I think theres a certain comradery there, that is not necessarily because of the gay thing but certainly because of the motorcycle thing.”

— 23 —

by riding their bikes at the front of the parade. Members bring their bikes to the parade in the morning and are able to ride in the procession and participate in the festivities that celebrate being a part of the LGBTQ+ community.

“The Boston Pride Parade has always been a lot of fun,” says Harpestad. “The attitude has always been really great there, very enthusiastic, very fun. We’re usually at the front of the parade and are able to just sort of ride through and wave and be a part of a larger community.”

Although the group enjoys being a part of Boston Pride, they feel that their presence is more important in the Worcester Pride Parade, a much smaller, less welcoming community. They want their support and

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

about taking on these inquiries moving forward.

“So I really think that was the way [Riders] was formed, to try and be able to exercise this common interest and be able to have the members express themselves in their sexuality without having to worry about consequences,” remarks Hood.

However, instead of focussing on their sexuality, this group focuses on their mutual love for motorcycles and motorcycle riding.

“Essentially it was always assumed that you were heterosexual because you were on a motorcycle, and back when Riders started that was a great outlet for people who were not heterosexual,” says Mailloux. “So they were able to find people to ride with, and it really filled a void there before anybody really became sort of open minded, or maybe less judgmental. Accepting.”

Professor Afolayan attends his friend’s traditional Yoruba wedding.

welcoming attitude to transcend the boundaries of this less accepting event.

“There are no spectators.

Worcester is kind of a blue collar town, it’s not terribly welcoming, and, we kind of like that,” says Hood.

“Worcester is definitely a more important parade to do. Because Worcester is not so welcoming to the gay community. So I think it’s more important to be present and be counted there.”

- Thomas Hood

“Because it’s an opportunity for us to be there, and in a town where a lot of the gay population probably doesn’t get recognized, I think it means more in Worcester. Boston is a huge pride parade. It’s completely inclusive, everybody knows about it, everybody goes out to see it, it’s wonderful, there are millions of people. Not so much Worcester. So sort of as a social, or as a societal commentary, Worcester is definitely a more important parade to do. Because Worcester is not so welcoming to the gay community.

So I think it’s more important to be present and be counted there.”

In more recent years, the club has received inquiries from heterosexual males wishing to join the inclusive, welcoming, open-minded atmosphere of Riders.

Although the group remains exclusively gay and bisexual, the members plan to discuss their actions

— 24 —

This group was not formed to decrease the stereotypes around gay men, it was formed to give people a safe space to be themselves while doing something that they love.

Fall 2017

Main Street Magazine

the triangle club Aidan Reo | Digital Editor

DOVER - A crooked copy of the Lord’s Prayer hangs on the wall of the gutted Triangle Club, a peer driven recovery support group for addiction at 120 Broadway in Dover since 1984. Words offer solace to those who read it:

And lead us not into temptation/ But deliver us from evil

“We call it spirituality, not so much religious,” said Sandra Jalbert, a board member for the Triangle Club. “Believing in a higher power helps people move forward.”

According to their website, the Triangle Club’s mission is to promote the spiritual, physical & mental health of people in recovery from addiction to alcohol, heroin, and other substances. They wish to provide a safe place for those who acknowledge that staying substance-free is of primary importance.

Currently under construction, the Triangle Club holds meetings seven days a week for Alcoholics Anonymous, Heroin Anonymous, as well as other substance abuse recovery programs. A second floor is being added for Heroin Anonymous meetings. The addition deemed necessary by Jalbert and club treasurer, Mike Kimball, to meet the growing population of opioid addicts in Dover.

According to the New Hampshire Medical Examiner, there have been 273 total drug deaths since Oct. 17,2017. 240 of those were from opioids. Dover, so far, has seen 13 opioid related deaths, according to Captain Terlemezian of the Dover Police Department.

“Regarding non-fatal overdoses, we are down slightly,” said Terlemezian. “We think this is because the overdose reversal drug

Words of wisdom at The Triangle Club Nalaxone [Narcan] is widely avail She started going to Alcoholable which means that the same ics Anonymous meetings to get sober number of overdoses are happening and while she had stopped drinking, but less are being reported because she was still taking pills. Jalbert recNaloxone is being used.” ognized the power of denial, a smart woman who genuinely thought she

That is the police departdidn’t have a problem. It took time ment’s theory. For Jalbert, she thinks but she finally got off the pills. Six it’s because of the communities being months later she needed an emerformed for the addicted population. gency surgery and was prescribed Percocet, again.

“Every Tuesday our Heroin Anonymous meetings draw in be “It’s an obsession,” said tween 85 and 125 people,” said Jalbert. Jalbert. “It’s all you can think about.

“There’s a need and they’re passionate Within a week I was back at it, in a about it and they’re getting help.” frenzy.”

Now six years sober, Jalbert

Jalbert, who was a year and remembers her days at the Triangle a half into her MFA in Creative Club, participating in meetings and non-fiction writing at the Universibuilding a family with others who ty of New Hampshire, hit the wall were struggling through their addicon a Thanksgiving. She drank too tion. much, and had taken too many pills

Like many, alcoholism runs in and collapsed on the floor in front of her husband. She needed to get help her family. Her parents suffered from and after rehab, found herself at the it, her first husband died from it, her Triangle Club. son has it and Jalbert has been struggling with it for a lifetime. She was

According to Jalbert, the prescribed Percocet and Vicodin for construction is slated to be finished at chronic pain and within three years the end of the month, having started she became addicted to that as well. at the beginning of August. Meetings

“I was trying to get pills from have been scattered throughout Doother doctors and trying to get them ver. Some at Dover Bowl, some across online,” said Jalbert. “Then it became the street from the Triangle Club, some in the basements of churches. pills and more booze.”

Regardless, people still find their way.

— 25 —

drugs! death! destruction!

is du

rham

next ?

Michael Valotto | Photography Editor

DURHAM

- The University of New Hampshire and the town of Durham, thus far, sit peacefully unscathed by the fallout of the ever-spreading Opioid Epidemic. In the city of Manchester, which lies thirty miles away, there is a huge disconnect between the challenges Durham’s officials are facing and the dark realities that Manchester’s first responders are dealt with daily.

With their peaceful ambiance of higher learning, hangovers and the occasional whiff of cannabis, Durham mimics nothing of the streets in Manchester, nor the municipalities’ constant shipment of body filled bags to the city coroner.

Somewhere in Manchester, in a fluorescent lit room with white walls and a tiled floor, again, a fresh body rests motionless, the departed family’s broken. The result of death, a narcotic, one that can be either prescribed by a physician or purchased illegally on the street. The opioid shows no mercy to its victims; there is no discrepancy for whom the drug undertakes.

related deaths at 240.

Fentanyl is similar to morphine. It is cheap to manufacture and 50 to 100 times more potent than heroin according to the National Institute on Drug Abuse. Fentanyl is typically used to treat patients with severe pain and to manage suffering after surgery. Underground manufacturing of the narcotic has created stronger and more lethal versions of the drug than the painkillers that the pharmaceutical industry produces.

Currently, Chief Dean and his officers are involved in Granite Hammer and Granite Shield, a unilateral approach between State and Federal officials to fight drug trafficking, working to halt the flow of narcotics into Durham and the University.

“There’s no one face to a drug dealer. there’s no one face to an addict.”

The conflict zones in New Hampshire, where local officials are fighting this ongoing war, are spreading. Manchester, the Granite State’s ground zero for the epidemic, is only a hop skip and a jump away from the state’s Flagship University. The question for Durham’s officials is not if, but when will this epidemic spread into Wildcat Country?

“I think it’s a matter of time,” said University of New Hampshire’s Chief of Police, Paul H. Dean, in regards to the epidemic spilling over into Durham.

“You can’t arrest your way out of these things... that’s not how you solve this problem. You got to get at the real cause of it with people, then deal with the people peddling this stuff,” said Dean.

According to a report released by the state’s attorney general and Department of Justice, from the beginning of this year to Oct. 17, there have been 110 deaths as a result of fentanyl alone, with the combined sum of opioid

The harsh reality of addiction with prescription pills is that nearly anyone can get access to them. Because pills may not be readily available and can be expensive, there is a trend with addicts moving onto harder substances such as heroin, which is being “cut” or mixed with fentanyl.

“There’s no one face to a drug dealer, there’s no one face to an addict,” said State Police Sgt. Steve Cooper.

With 21 years as a trooper, Cooper believes a lot of the stereotypes of drug dealers and addiction are portrayed falsely by Hollywood. The effects of this epidemic have and are continuing to effect all of society, from children who have easy access to pills to the elderly who become hooked trying to manage their pain.

Cooper believes people should go to jail for their actions with drugs, but also asks, “how are we really helping?”

“If I arrest someone today and they have one hundred pills on them, maybe they are an addict, not even a dealer. So, I charge the individual and the person is found guilty in court. Let’s say they go to jail for 30 days. They’re still an addict, right?” Said Cooper.

— 26 —

Cooper suggests that New Hampshire’s Justice System approach, should be similar to how the State handles DWI’s. This includes making offenders go to rehabilitation or treatment after their prison sentence.

“So after their 30 days, they do their time, and we just kick them back on the street. How are we helping?”

Asked Cooper.

Durham sits on a fine thread that could break at any moment, however there have yet to be any indictors suggesting that the epidemic is here. Marijuana and alcohol are the substances of choice on campus according to Dean. Yet, there is common understanding that Dean and Sgt. Cooper share. If substances such as opiates and pills are circulating through the University they are hidden under the surface.

Combating this epidemic is like a “three legged stool,” as Chief Dean put it. To be successful, local officials must approach this issue at an angle, utilizing prevention, education, and enforcement.

“If you take any one of those away, the stool is going to fall over,” said Dean.

Dean believes the University to be, “highly

equipped,” to deal with the problems that Durham could soon be facing.

But with addiction as an ever evolving and continuously spreading epidemic, it is better to be proactive than reactive.

Matthew Hunt, a firefighter with the Durham Fire Department, is in the process of planning and hopefully implementing a program to mirror what Manchester has brought to fruition in their firehouses, a program which is helping people when they are most vulnerable.

They are called “safe stations.”

According to Manchester’s website. Anyone interested in seeking treatment for drug or alcohol use can simply show up to any one of Manchester Fire Department’s (MFD) ten stations and ask for help. Unless the participant requires immediate medical attention, this introduction begins the process of placement into a treatment facility. If the participant arrives between 9 a.m. and 8 p.m. he or she is transferred directly to a treatment center for intake; a van from a local treatment center typically responds to the fire station within 15 minutes of being called. If the participant arrives after 8 p.m., a certified

recovery support worker or a licensed alcohol

and drug counselor attends to the participant, and provides him or her with a place to stay for the night. The following morning, the participant is transferred to a treatment facility.

If the person is transported to a hospital, the hospital staff is made aware of the situation as well as the fact that the person came through the Safe Station program.

Once the person has received the additional care they require, Serenity Place (treatment facility) is contacted by the hospital staff, and they pick the person up from the hospital.

Currently, each Manchester Fire Station has a safe environment for individuals who are struggling with addiction and seeking a pathway to recovery. If an individual is holding illegal substances on their person, they will not be subjected to legal repercussions if they decide to participate in the program.

At the moment, the University Police Department has a drug take back policy where students or individuals who are looking to dispose of prescriptions or illegal narcotics can do so without persecution.

“[Addiction] is a challenge that we don’t see as much as other communities do, but that doesn’t mean we are immune from it. We are trying to provide the best service that we can when they need it,” said Hunt.

According to Hunt, the Seacoast does not have the same resources as Manchester. He also stated that people from all over the state were driving to Manchester to seek Safe Stations.

As of now, there is no program like Manchester’s implemented within Durham, but there are resources in the town with limited hours. The nearest facility, which is similar to Safe Stations, is in Dover and called Communi-

ty Access to Recovery, open from 9 a.m. - 7 p.m., Monday through Saturday.

During Hunt’s Nov. 7, interview, he stated that the Durham F.D. was currently coordinating with Wentworth-Douglass Hospital to find out what services they provide, which includes working with SOS Recovery.

SOS Recovery is a community organization to move addicts forward by support groups, recovery centers, coaching, crisis response, telephone recovery support and more. There are meetings held at 1 Park Court, Durham, at St. George’s Episcopal Church.

Hunt states that they can accommodate any individual who is seeking help at the moment, but transporting a person to a facility is not possible because it is against department licensing. The next step for Hunt is finding a solution to the transportation dilemma. The potential answer to this problem on the whole could be developing the capacity for Durham officials to transport people in need.

The way the Durham F.D. operates, utilizes a five man system, one fire captain and four firefighters. In theory, no matter who would be transporting the person seeking help, whether it is local police or Durham Fire, Hunt said, “we don’t have the staffing in this town to drop a resource for a prolonged period of time.”

Hunt wants to see his version of the program implemented in Durham as soon as it can be done correctly.

What is necessary to successfully implement this idea in Durham is the proper amount of funding and personnel as well as an area to keep the individual safe until a transport can be secured to a local facility for treatment.

One can hope the community surrounding the University will be proactive enough to avoid mirroring — 28 —

Manchester and the devastation that plauges the city. For people who are in need of help and struggling with addiction, it’s calming to know that officials in Durham’s community are taking the necessary steps in order to guide those who are lost and suffering, but searching for a pathway to recovery.

“These are people seeking long term treatment. [It could be] somebody that is a recovering addict that feels like they are going to use drugs and they want help. It could be somebody that hasn’t used drugs in months or years, but from life changes and stress’, they are reaching for something they don’t want to reach for.”

- Firefighter Matthew Hunt

Better to be proactive than reactive, right?

— 29 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

tuesday Andrew Hartnett | Editor in Chief She sat with her back to the washing machine. The discomfort in her back had morphed into a numbing, dull ache due to the nervous vibrating of the machine behind her. She knew moving an inch to the left or right would alleviate the pain, but she refused. Today was not one of those days.

In the quiet humming mid-morning she found it incomparably more adequate to sit waiting for the spin cycle than to glaze over the monotone looping of daytime TV. She lit a cigarette and watched the smoke swirl slowly above her head. She was in a way she hadn’t been in a long time.

Piles of clothes around her stretched toward the celling like long looming shadows. Post cards curled inward at the edges on a corkboard above her head. They were faded and smelled like laundry detergent. A limp dryer sheet sat loosely balled in her fist. She smiled at the thought of middle school dime bags dressed in three Ziploc bags and six or seven sheets just like this one. Even as an adult, the smell of dryer sheets felt like adolescent mischief. Proud sorrow swept across her face, and then evaporated into the air.

Sunlight peeled across the room through a small window perched on the far wall. Everything glowed luminescent white like the waiting room at an orthodontist’s office.

She saw an image of herself, 12 years old with a mouth full of metal, terrified of the balding man above her sticking rubber gloved hands and drills into her mouth.

These days, she liked getting off with ties or rags stuffed in her mouth, as if the darkness that filled the corners of her vision found the clitoris faster than any boyfriend could.

She thought for a moment about warm sensations in between fluoride sessions; stumbling through misunderstood hormones. Her mind drifted further from pre-teen confusion to teenage memories of half-ripped prom dresses and sweaty panting.

The back seats of a 2005 Camry were etched on the inside of her eyelids. She could feel the cold leather gripping her bare back, stinging cold skin as she rocked back and forth.

The radio was off and the trees outside the car reached toward her with claws outstretched. Drunk stars danced around her eyes as the figure above her growled and sniffed with vigor, taking pride in the open-legged prize in front of him. She reached up to the foggy window above and melodramatically dropped her hand along its quicksilver surface. The night was cold and still. She searched for feeling, finding it in small cuts reopened on her inner thighs. The glistening silhouette dropped to her level as he licked her ear and whispered, “I love you, baby.”

She woke from the daydream with a start as the dryer finished the cycle and screeched to a sudden stop. Light filled her vision, and she longed for the darkness creeping along the edges of her eyes when she couldn’t breathe. She started to cry.

The light in the room seemed to grow brighter as she slowly stood up to change the load. She moved as if in a dream, floating through the iridescent waters of midmorning. Instead of switching the load, she reached into the cabinet above her, pulling out a tall brown bottle buried under towels and rags. She fell with all her weight, back first, into the washing machine and slowly slid back to her seat on the floor. With a practiced motion, she uncorked the bottle and spilled its contents into her waiting mouth.

In seconds she was warm and happy in a way she hadn’t been since the night before.

There’s always booze in the laundry room that someone doesn’t know about.

She stared into the light pouring through the window across the room; trying to blink away the dark silhouette she saw staring back at her. He handed her a white plastic bottle different than the one in her hand, promising a soft drink and the warm darkness she sought. With little reserve she sipped lightly, and then all at once. Images of the orthodontist’s office danced through her memories.

She felt rubber hands in her mouth, blocking all flow of oxygen. Her vision began to fade again as it used to then.

She drank more.

The shadow of a young man stood above her, promising safety as he stripped away her clothes and fed her more bleach. She liked the feeling of feeling nothing, now gulping away at the bottle sitting shakily in her lap. Her vision faded closer to black as she collapsed sideways on the floor, spilling liquid penance across the floor. She coughed up clear fluid and washed it down with another sip, smiling as the warm hands of dying breath dragged soft fingers along the scars on her inner thighs.

With a sigh, she sat back up right against the washing machine, finishing both the brown and white bottles with gasping breaths in between. Her body burned red from the inside out, but barely registered in her swimming brain.

For the first time in a long time she saw nothing when she closed her eyes, so she kept them closed, and went to sleep.

— 30 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

tuesday, abbreviated Andrew Hartnett | Editor in Chief She sat with her back to the washing machine. The discomfort in her back had morphed into a numbing, dull ache due to the nervous vibrating of the machine behind her. She knew moving an inch to the left or right would alleviate the pain, but she refused. Today was not one of those days.

In the quiet humming mid-morning she found it incomparably more adequate to sit waiting for the spin cycle than to glaze over the monotone looping of daytime TV. She lit a cigarette and watched the smoke swirl slowly above her head. She was in a way she hadn’t been in a long time.

Piles of clothes around her stretched toward the celling like long looming shadows. Post cards curled inward at the edges on a corkboard above her head. They were faded and smelled like laundry detergent. A limp dryer sheet sat loosely balled in her fist. She smiled at the thought of middle school dime bags dressed in three Ziploc bags and six or seven sheets just like this one. Even as an adult, the smell of dryer sheets felt like adolescent mischief. Proud sorrow swept across her face, and then evaporated into the air.

Sunlight peeled across the walls through a small window perched on the far wall. Everything glowed luminescent white like the waiting room at an orthodontist’s office.

She saw an image of herself, 12 years old with a mouth full of metal, terrified of the balding man above her sticking rubber gloved hands and drills into her mouth.

These days, she liked getting off with ties or rags stuffed in her mouth, as if the darkness that filled the corners of her vision found the clitoris faster than any boyfriend could.

She thought for a moment about warm sensations in between fluoride sessions; stumbling through misunderstood hormones. Her mind drifted further from pre-teen confusion to teenage memories of half-ripped prom dresses and sweaty panting.

The back seats of a 2005 Camry were etched on the inside of her eyelids. She could feel the cold leather gripping her bare back, stinging cold skin as she rocked back and forth.

The radio was off and the trees outside the car reached toward her with claws outstretched. Drunk stars danced around her eyes as the figure above her growled and sniffed with vigor, taking pride in the open-legged prize in front of him. She reached her he foggy window above and melodramatically dropped her hand along its quicksilver surface. The night was cold and still. She searched for feeling, finding it in small cuts reopened on her inner thighs.

The glistening silhouette dropped to her level as he licked her ear and whispered, “I love you, baby.”

She woke from the daydream with a start as the dryer finished the cycle and screeched to a sudden stop. Light filled her vision, and she longed for the darkness creeping along the edges of her eyes when she couldn’t breathe. She started to cry.

The light in the room seemed to grow brighter as she slowly stood up to change the load. She moved as if in a dream, floating through the iridescent waters of midmorning. Instead of switching the load, she reached into the cabinet above her, pulling out a tall brown bottle buried under towels and rags. She fell with all her weight, back first, into the washing machine and slowly slid back to her seat on the floor. With a practiced motion, she uncorked the bottle and spilled its contents into her waiting mouth.

In seconds she was warm and happy in a way she hadn’t been since the night before.

There’s always booze in the laundry room that someone doesn’t know about.

She stared into the light pouring through the window across the room; trying to blink away the dark silhouette she saw staring back at her. He handed her a white plastic bottle different than the one in her hand, promising a soft drink and the warm darkness she sought. With little reserve she sipped lightly, and then all at once. Images of the orthodontist’s office danced through her memories.

She felt rubber hands in her mouth, blocking all flow of oxygen. Her vision began to fade again as it used to then.

She drank more.

The shadow of a young man stood above her, promising safety as he stripped away her clothes and fed her more bleach. She liked the feeling of feeling nothing, now gulping away at the bottle sitting shakily in her lap. Her vision faded closer to black as she collapsed sideways on the floor, spilling liquid penance across the floor. She coughed up clear fluid and washed it down with another sip, smiling as the warm hands of dying breath dragged soft fingers along the scars on her inner thighs.

With a sigh, she sat back up right against the washing machine, finishing both the brown and white bottles with gasping breaths in between. Her body burned red from the inside out, but barely registered in her swimming brain.

For the first time in a long time she saw nothing when she closed her eyes, so she kept them closed, and went to sleep.

— 31 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

hoopla & poetry extra croutons

I’m going to call this an obituary

she left me breadless for breakfast her recent endeavor to define herself as, “gluten free,” left her portion of the pantry devoid of baked goods. not because she was celiac or anything, but you know, just because.

The barbed wire sun hangs itself in I’m antisocial at the reunion again. the sky; Hair dried socialites sipping soup with but this didn’t apply to beer, antiseptic or liquor, or anything else Its head sustained loosely like an Smiles. that she wanted in the moment artist’s So long blue fuckin’ Mondays like complacency.

So it fuckin’ goes again. & this didn’t apply to the drunker Whimpering cries over a crowd of Fiendish forks feasting off frozen fruit version of herself mice.

And asshole alliterations begging for the one more comfortable with mercy. breaking the The squeals, which justified blood “rules,” that she made for herself. in his day, Asshole antisocial reunions, more like it. for then, full of beer, Now propel him onto on elevated Reuniting with plastic cups gluten & confidence platform And out-of-place literary references. she would pillage my portion of the I’m antisocial at reunions.

Reckless abandon for familiar chatter and Disposable dialogue.

I feel it. I feel everything.

Empathy pulsating throughout, Masked by comfy clothes And a grouchy exterior.

I guess it’s true what they say, That you never really Know a person until you get in Their shoes and walk around The reunion.

Or rather, walk away

- Alex Bostic

creation

Like the Pyramids of Giza, Whose bloodied clay blocks praise And clap And cheer At the creation of an idol, And the birth of a generation.

- Andrew Hartnett — 32 —

pantry where I placed my pastries & my patience.

she was headless & restless and she left me breadless for breakfast.

-Stef Khairallah

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

big girls don’t cry over spoiled milk My roommate’s old carton of milk, forgotten on the top shelf of the fridge in the back left corner, has been sitting there since the day we moved in— that was 3 months ago, and she only ever took 2 sips out of it.

I was afraid for a while, and I knew if I opened it the shock of what the milk had become could crinkle my nose and tickle my gag reflex.

That fear has since thickened—

I wouldn’t dare open it now.

To only find a rancid, Y’know, yogurt-like it doesn’t even hurt that I don’t chunked substance. mean What was once sweet milk as much to you anymore, had daily with my Coffee and But, News, it does hurt that you went now turned sour, back on your word. with a stale expiration date printed on top.

There was a time when I thought I’ve poured out the remnants Surely of a lot of milk cartons in my one of us would take care of life. it— But, open it up, I never would have thought smell what it had become. that our friendship would Inspect the liquid-like matter spoil, inside and I guess I never took the and promptly find a new home time for the to notice plastic shell. the printed expiration date Recycle it, maybe atop our plastic carton. as a flower vase.

That reminds me, But, gotta buy milk.

It’s been months and now when I open my fridge -m.h.f.

I don’t even notice the presence, shoved and forgotten in the back left corner.

— 33 —

furies fury

The road to her fate was treated in

amber resin, roiled from the fire, born from the flames, a boiled paradise, to call her own domain.

From her claws, a surge of snakes, to punish cowards, spineless enough to break.

Cast along the brackish waters, to trace the souls of men, whose hands were stained with fruitful relish, and shades of crimson sin.

Mercy be a distant language to the underworld’s abyss.

If one’s tongue gives to simpering, his lip she will furnish for death with a kiss.

On the day of his conviction she will drink the marrow of his bones, gluttonous as he once had, mauling mothers and daughters as Venus looked upon mad.

No flicker of hope can break her savagery.

No reason to form a pleasant state.

She laughs at attempts of praise and kindness, from men locked out of heaven’s gate.

As man saunters in his docile way, may the ramp be his lightest punishment, may the scent of sandalwood lead his trance, for this territory will forever be his haunted song and dance.

- Ellen Gibbs

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

assault, injustice & protest the birth of SHARPP & a history of UNH’s response to rape and sexual assault Raoul Biron | Contributing Writer

DURHAM - Reclaiming the darkness from sexual, relationship, and domestic violence, the crowd solemnly held candles as they listened to the harrowing stories of survivors. This should be the last place on campus were victims and advocates are made to feel unsafe.

Take Back the Night is a combined protest and vigil that dates back to the 1970’s, following a sharp uptick in documented violent crimes against women.

“UNH began these marches in the 90’s and we look forward to them every year now,” said Shannon Bryant, a UNH student and the Outreach Assistant at the Sexual Harassment & Rape Prevention Program (SHARPP) as she addressed the crowd on Nov. 15. “Tonight we are showing that sexual violence, victim-blaming and rape culture have no place on this campus.

We are also showing to those that have experienced these epidemics, that you have allies here.

As Wildcats, we care about these issues and we are working to prevent them… We ask that if you are comfortable, you join us when we begin a chant so that we are heard all over campus. While we would like to be heard, we also ask that everyone is respectful during the course of this event.”

Despite specifically asking participants to remain respectful, a group of men followed the procession, harassing the crowd as it marched and chanted. Among other things, the group of agitators inverted a common sexual assault prevention chant, shouting “Assault is hot, consent is not.”

Responding in a public statement, SHARPP called the disruptions “antithetical” to the mission of Take Back the Night.

The statement explained that “marchers heard these comments and witnessed the behaviors and felt unsafe and unsupported.” In addition, the crisis and prevention center stated that the “large event that had been going so well was quickly tainted by a small group of students who made very poor decisions.”

In May of 1987, after a highly public allegation of sexual assault in the largest dorm on campus, hundreds of students and concerned community members marched past Stoke Hall (the stark eight-story residential tower where the assault took place). They were protesting the decision of an internal hearing that cleared the three assailants of any sexual misconduct allegations, suspending two of them for one semester for unrelated violations and dropping all charges against the third. The victim of the assault was in attendance at the protest.

According to UNH alum Paul Keegan’s 1987 article for New England Monthly, “More than two hundred people showed up at a protest demonstration that was crashed by a group of about twenty fraternity members and boys from the fourth floor of Stoke. ‘Dykes!” they yelled.

‘Lesbians! Man-haters!’ Then it got much uglier. ‘Look out, we’re gonna rape you next!’ shouted one. ‘I had [the victim] last night,’ cried another.”

As the group marched to the office of then Dean of Students, J. Gregg Sanborn, they ran into him on the sidewalk. Surrounding him with linked arms and refusing to let him leave until he promised to respond to their demands, Sanborn capitulated but defended the university’s handling of the conduct hearing.

“Demonstrators marched to his office, announced they were relieving him of his duties, and hung — 34 —

a HELP WANTED sign from the flagpole,” Keegan’s wrote in his article.

The Assault

Recognizing its thirtieth year since inception, the groundbreaking prevention and advocacy program, SHARPP, is all too familiar with survivors and allies being harassed while taking a stand.

Four months earlier, on Feb. 19, 1987, a frigid Thursday night, sophomores Christopher Spann, Jonathan Fox, and Gordon Williams were about ready to head home from the bar. New England residents who loved to drink in the dingy fraternity houses that mark the road behind their dorm, the three friends appeared as normal as they come at UNH.

Despite being underage, Spann, Fox (both 20 at the time), and Williams (who was 19) had no problem getting served at the bar at that night, drinking about six beers a piece before calling it a night and returning home - a fourth-floor room in Stoke Hall.

Then, just as now, the brick and concrete building loomed over the center of campus, demarcating the line where the school ended and boozy frat parties began, just a block behind the dorm. With windowless, claustrophobic hallways lined by rows and rows of small and often crowded rooms - at times reminiscent of cells or pens - it’s easy to understand why students at the time called it The Zoo.

At the same time, just a block away from Stoke, in the crowded basement a frat house known as PIKE, a female freshman was beginning to black out.

Before reaching their rooms on the fourth floor, fraternity broth-

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

ers Fox and Williams encountered the young woman from in their hallway. Clearly intoxicated, her shirt-tail sticking through the zipper of her pants, she asked them for help finding for her friends.

Instead, Fox asked her for a goodnight hug. She obliged. Then he asked for a kiss. Again, she complied. Not wanting to impede his fraternity brother’s sexual exploits, Williams took his cue and left for his room. Shortly thereafter, Fox entered his own with the freshman in tow.

Wordlessly, he began having intercourse with the young woman.

According to Keegan’s article, after Fox was finished, he fetched Williams, telling him that he “just did it with a girl; she’s really horny.”

“We were all laughing.

It was funny in a sick kind of way”

The women laughed it off, but on their way back to their room mentioned the encounter to their RA, Andrew Prescott. Deciding to check on the state of the intoxicated woman, he headed to the room and after knocking, opened the door.

“Is she really drunk?”, Prescott asked Spann.

According to police records but denied by Spann, he nodded and laughed.

“Do you know what you’re doing could be considered rape?”, Prescott said.

“Not, it’s not,” Spann responded.

Prescott thought he had succeeded in convincing Spann to make the young woman leave, but not before Spann demanded to first speak with her in private.

Williams, still in his underwear, followed Fox to his room and approached the woman on the bed as the door closed behind him. Leaving Williams and the female freshman in his room, Fox then ran upstairs to get his roommate, Spann. They returned to find two female friends from their floor at their door, Linda Black and her roommate Laura. As Fox chatted with the two, Spann silently slipped into their shared room.

When the women went to follow him, Fox stopped them, allegedly saying “Don’t go in. Gordy (Williams) is in there doing bad things with a drunk girl.”

According to Keegan’s article, “when no one answered, he opened the door and saw two figures silhouetted on a bed. (He would later learn it was Jon, having a second round with the girl.) Prescott also saw Chris, sitting on a couch next to the bed, watching. (Chris maintains he was simply getting dressed)”.

“Despite his role as the enforcer and voice of reason,” Keegan outlined in his article, “Prescott nonetheless thought the event on his floor were entertaining so much so that he went to see two of his friends and told them what had happen. ‘‘Wow! No way! Unbelievable!’

Prescott remembers them saying.

‘We were all laughing. It was funny, in a sick kind of way.’”

As Prescott waited in the hallway with a growing crowd of residents curious about the latenight commotion, Fox emerged from the room. According to Prescott but denied by Fox, he boasted about his encounter in explicit detail, telling them he “had a train going on his room” before high-fiving everyone in the hallway.

The crowd outside the room continued to grow as the two female students from earlier, Linda and Laura, joined the group, discussing what was happening inside with the rest of the congregation.

— 35 —

“One of the boys suggested Joe [another student from Stoke’s fourth floor] could get lucky too,” Linda Black recalled in Keegan’s article.

As they continued light-heartedly discussing the morality of what was happening just outside the door, inside the room, Spann spoke to the woman for the first time. As she was getting dressed, he told her about the audience that awaited her in the hallway and how best to avoid them. She was unsuccessful, and as she stumbled into the crowd in the hallway, the demeanor of the six floor-neighbors changed.

They recognized her.

“To their astonishment, everyone recognized [the victim], the girl who lived on the same floor.

They had all assumed it was someone they didn’t know, maybe a high school girl. Suddenly the atmosphere in the hallway changed,” wrote Keegan, “Linda and Laura were outraged. “You assholes!” one of them screamed. ‘How could you do such a thing!’ No one was more shocked than Jon: ‘You mean you know her?’

It was at that moment that Jon and Chris heard her name for the first time.”

Now that the target of the Fox, Spann, and Williams’ sexual advances ceased to be anonymous, but instead was revealed to be someone from their own floor, the severity of the situation and the realities of a potential assault started to become clear.

The potential ramifications dawning on them, they immediately searched for their victim, entering her room and waking her roommate as they tried to rouse her from a drunken slumber. Initially unresponsive, they managed to wake her, prop her up and leave the room with her wrapped in a blanket.

Retroactively wanting to agree on the course of events, they brought the woman to the stairwell, hoping to establish their own ac-

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

count with her. Spann then told Fox to leave so he could speak with her in private. When he left, Spann again had sex with the woman on the landing.

According to a Boston Globe article from October 4, 1987, after speaking to several friends and dorm counselors over the weekend, the 19-year-old survivor, unable to recall the events of Feb. 19, went to the campus health center for an exam who notified the university police.

After being interviewed by officers, Spann and Fox were indicted for aggravated sexual assault by a grand jury, a charge that can result in fifteen years in prison, while Williams was charged with misdemeanor sexual assault.

When the three men vehemently denied any wrongdoing to campus police officers, the mechanisms for an internal hearing commenced. With no internal precedent for handling sexual assault cases differently than run of the mill disciplinary violations, a system designed to address minor offenses and overseen by a combination of students and faculty quickly proved to be ill-equipped to handle a case of such gravity.

“Some students have criticized the university for allowing the accused to attend classes and, until a week ago, to remain in their room in Stoke Hall, the coed dormitory where the alleged rape occurred.

Students have also accused the university of trying to hush up the matter”, said a Boston Globe article from March 15, 1987.

The Public Responds

Two weeks later, in the middle of a March that still felt like the dead of winter, students and faculty crunched through frozen early-morning snow on their way to class. It’s easy not to lift your eyes when rushing between heated buildings on well-rehearsed but precariously icy routes, but that

icy morning in Durham, students cutting through the center of campus classes stopped in the cold.

Dangling from a ledge of the picturesque, white-columned Hamilton Smith Hall were two effigies, their faces painted and nooses strung around their necks. A third sat on the ledge under a six-foot by fourfoot banner.

It read “Beware Boys, Rape Will Not Be Tolerated.” Graffiti scrawled on the path leading to then-president Gordon Haaland’s residence read “Gordon, why do you allow rapists to stay on campus.”

“We’re not trying them for rape, we are trying them for respect for others,” the Associate Dean of Student Affairs told the Boston Globe that March.

Standing by their innocence on grounds that the woman was a consenting and willing participant in their sex acts, a cunning legal defense team representing Spann, Williams, and Fox aimed to turn public opinion, succeeding in making the normally private disciplinary hearings public.

Held in the middle of the day in the largest lecture hall in Hamilton Smith, the disciplinary proceedings unfolded to a capacity crowd, with both the victim and her family in attendance.

“Linda [Black], who was one of the witnesses who recognized Sara when she emerged from the room, is transferring to another school. Last spring she took one look at the huge crowds at the Judicial Board hearings and walked away,” Keegan wrote in his article, “The next day she was convinced that telling her story was the right thing to do; now she’s not so sure. Fraternity members are mad at her, and she’s disillusioned about the social life at UNH. “I guess rape happens all the time here,” she says, sitting on the bed in her dorm room, wearing shorts and a UNH sweatshirt.”

Despite New Hampshire — 36 —

and many other states instituting so-called “rape shield” laws designed to bar slut-shaming court testimony about a victim’s prior sexual conduct, student advisors at the internal UNH hearing tried time and time again to elicit testimony about the Stoke assault victim’s sexual history on campus.

According to the Globe from May 10, 1987, “The advisers’ persistence with questions about the victim’s prior behavior angered other women at the hearing, who said in a letter to Sanborn that the alleged victim was put on trial. The woman’s father, who declined to be interviewed, made his objections known too.”

Preparing for the Grand Jury trial that would follow, the defense attorneys of the accused assailants hired a stenographer to record each witnesses’ testimony. Despite not being allowed to directly advise their clients during the proceedings, they used the internal conduct system as a dry-run for criminal proceedings in superior court.

On May 6, to the shock and dismay of sexual assault prevention activists, the hearing announced that it had cleared all the accused men of sexual misconduct charges.

Citing a breach of a mutual respect policy, the judicial committee suspended Spann and Fox for a Summer and dropped all charges against Williams, who wept with joy upon hearing the verdict . . .

READ THE REST OF THE INVESTIGATION ONLINE @

mainstmag.com

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

A Needle and the Damage Done The Story of Richard Janvrin: Living Within The Walls of Heroin, Pills, and Loss Alex Bostic | Issue Editor

As America watches its mangy rash grow exponentially, while avoiding contact and adminsitering cream periodically, the instinctive reaction is to ignore the widening edges and instead just focus on the color. Ravaging the poor and vulnerable, the problem is conspicuous but, apart from its occasional political capital, ignored.

Yet the placard of drug abuse and the opioid epidemic continues to hang on humanity and local doorways. One of those doorways falls within the town of Newmarket, NH, where, past the threshold, a mother dies from the latent effects of heroin addiction while her son watches by the bed. That woman was, and is, Richard’s mother, who after navigating the gauntlet of drug addiction, prison time, and finally getting clean, relapsed again. She died of an acute pulmonary embolism from a previously ignored infection caused by dirty needles in 2015. She did not overdose, but the end result was the same.

Richard Janvrin is a 24-year-old English student at the University of New Hampshire. He has full, colored tattoo sleeves and a scruffy, yet managed beard with a side fade on top. He is accompanied by his sixyear-old son as we sit in a dingy cafe in Durham during the early hours of an October weekday. He’s well kempt, you might even say photogenic. He didn’t always look like this, and within his family, cleanliness is an anomaly.

With a booming “Ray Romano” radio voice, he details his story and the yellow-brick steps that preceded his journey to this spot in time: raising his six-year-old son while he studies for the LSATS. The lasting product of opioid, heroin and general drug abuse is a demented image of a life lost at its lowest point: a convulsing mother dying on a bed, —38

a junkie beneath a bridge, a black bag huddled below paramedics. Do you see the chemical process? Do you see the moments, the hope or the friends?

No, they are stored within the dirty windows which are blocked by caution tape and sunglassed figures.

A child lost within this impoverished world is usually just that, lost. But Richard became aware of who his parents were (and weren’t) in fourthgrade, deciding then that he could only rely on himself. He realized the temptation that captured his parents was an abscess that had buried their emotional humanity and replaced it with coils and wire begging for a needle full of damage. He had been abandoned by his father and his mother was in a prison cell. She was on a three-year sentence for intent-to-sell.

By the time he graduated high school, he had lived in almost 30 different locations: basements, motels, closets and floors. There were “home-bases,” there were “family” homes with over ten different members occupying two-room trailers and temporary solutions. But, in the six years prior to eighth-grade, he hadn’t slept in a bed, ate at a dinner table or used a dresser. This was his life, drowning in the soup that was slowly suffocating his loved ones who didn’t show their love back.

“I gave up on my mother when I was ten years old” Richard was born to a 17-year-old mother who had just dropped out of highschool. She began dealing with headaches after her pregnancy, for which she was liberally perscribed painkillers. This is how her desent into herion addiction started - from headaches after high school. All throughout his life Richard saw those around him abusing each other and — 38 —

themselves. He moved with various family members every few months, taking with them only clothes, money and drugs. Cramming into small towns in New Hampshire or cities in Massachusetts, they were desolate and impoverished and Richard was alone within it all. He would do his homework on the floor while blurry faces rushed to and from the bathroom.

Everyday Richard would wake up with people who saw him as a formality and a chore. His only safe-haven was a middle-school friend’s family and his grandmother, who were the first people to give him a sense of self.

“They made me feel like a person... and cared enough to put my report card on the fridge.”

Without the surrogate-family in his life, Richard might not have recognized what his own had become. “I gave up on my mother when I was ten years-old,” he said. Towards the tail end of her life, they did not speak frequently. The last time they saw each other was an accidental run-in at his grandmothers house.

“She asked me if I was ever going to talk to her again, and I said ‘probably not,’ those were the last words I said to her.”

She died three monthes later. Richard is a single dad who had his own child at the same age as his mother, and was surrounded by similar temptations in painkillers (from a long surgical histroy) that plagued her and the rest of his family. Yet he persisted, and refused every innocuous bottle of pills given to him. He has never taken painkillers, drank alcohol or even smoked. He has used his family as a guide for how not to live, regardless of the circumstances. Richard escaped this story because it was already told before him. Some are not so lucky, and so the story continues.

Portsmouth, NH photos by stephanie khairallah

—

—38 —

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