Paddlefish 2018

E G E L L O C Y T R A M T N U O M

8 1 0 2 H S I F E PADDL T LI — STUDEN

TER

URN O J T R A D N ARY A

1

AL —

cover art by Abby K. Keffeler

Editor Jim Reese Associate Editor Dana DeWitt Review Editor Jamie Sullivan Copy Editor Dana DeWitt Arts Editor David Kahle Editorial Assistant Audry Miiller Abby K. Keffeler Cover Art Abby K. Keffeler - “Living Within the Pages” Book Design & Layout Abby K. Keffeler Advisory Board S. Cynthia Binder Dana DeWitt S. Marielle Frigge Jamie Sullivan

Copyright © 2018 by Paddlefish All poems and prose are used with permission of the authors, and they retain all rights to their work published herein.

Except for brief quotations in reviews, no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system,without prior written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law.

The views expressed in Paddlefish are not necessarily those of Mount Marty College.

Paddlefish Snagging good literature one line at a time.

2

Paddlefish 2018 ­— student literary and art journal —

3

Table of Contents 6

Aimee Huntley • A Snapshot of Words: Wish [Winner of the 2018 Sister Eileen Neville Award for poetry] • Happy Hours, non-fiction

10

Jennifer Vondrak • But Let the World Dream Otherwise

[Winner of the 2018 Father Jack Garvey

Award for nonfiction]

12

Abby K. Keffeler • Coffeehouse Dream [Winner of the 2018 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for fiction] • I Am Terrified That _____ Will Come Knocking At My Door

28

Gabrielle McHugh • Descent • Hiding • The Troubled Waters of My Mind

33

Kiana Hoff • Tristan’s Toys • Souls to Soles

38

Amber Leise • I am Abnormal Psychology • So Here I Am

40

Miranda Henglefelt • One Year, One Sentence, One Picture • 10 Objects That Make Me • CHICAGO SKYLINE PICTURE?

47

Alexia Jensen • Picture Day • No One Ever Asked Me

52

Joseph Brinkman • Look Again

54

Alexandra Bargstadt • A Disability Does Not Make Us Different • My Most Bizarre Job: Cleaning a House 4

Table of Contents 61

Lacee Fedeler • Lucky Lefty

65

Emma Thury • The Secret to my Success

66

Kaysia Armijo • Tattoo • Something I’ve Always Been Good At • How to Become Something

70

Kimberly Ivonne Mosqueda • Humanity • Immigrant City and the Fear of Deportation

75

McKenna Cooley • Him

78

Shiann Hansen • So Maybe It’s not Exactly Heaven • An Ode to a Love that can Change the World

83

Peyton Stolle • Self-Confidence at Its Best

87

Katie Hamil • Pieces of Me

90

Chloe Sand • Chuck E. Cheese: The Truth

93

Bede Art Gallery: Student Art and Graphic Design Work

105

Book Reviews Jennifer Vondrak • Turtles All the Way Down • Two by Two Abby K. Keffeler • Boy, 9, Missing • Thirteen Reasons Why • Odd Child Out Aimee Huntley • Dakota Poems from a Midwest Poet McKenna Cooley • Rape Joke

121 Contributors 5

Winner of the 2018 Sister Eileen Neville Award for poetry

A Snapshot of Words: Wish

by Aimee Huntley The stone heart was revealed while clearing away the Creeping Jenny and invading trumpet vine.

Inscribed with a single word WISH. How many years ago was that first wish made?

Secreted this token of an unspoken desire.

It was placed upon a quartz slate to keep out the consuming soil.

While waiting for time to reveal an answer.

This unearthed wonder filled me with questions about its portent.

A prayer for a new beginning?

A new beginning for a forsaken heart?

A wish to be discovered?

I added my own to its burden.

Left the fetish where it lay.

A guardian in the garden for future flowers to conceal.

6

7

Happy Hours

by Aimee Huntley

M

y favorite bar is closing, and I don’t know where I’ll go instead. I chose it because it was usually dead, and had a large room in back for pool.

This is where I would slip in quietly, order my Shiner Bocks in pairs, to double fist them uninterrupted while I read or wrote, unaccosted by the usual peanut gallery. The patrons were mainly retired farmers and blue collar factory guys. The farmers still attired in flannel, with ball caps, and old but clean boots, perpetually tan from years in the fields. The workers in contrast, pallid with thermals under sweatshirts, diesel dirtied jeans, callused hands and abused steel toes. They cashed in their unenjoyment checks for cheap taps and fantasy football, ordered only domestics. Nobody cared who got busted by the cops, and were later printed in the local Piddle and Diddle. Every regular had a nickname, a code for the locals. They gossiped about one another when said party was in the john, or out back having a smoke. Folks shared excess cucumbers and tomatoes from their gardens in the summer, and crockpots of spicy chili and jalapeno salsa in the winter.

The pub was old, built in 1878, but still retained its pretty figure. Original embossed copper ceiling tiles, rusted and rough in places. A scuffed, wooden floor that appeared somewhat scorched, kissed by a fire that hadn’t quite caught. The back wall, a solid ochre, clay bricks with ashen muddy grout. The dark walnut bar had stools, a baker’s dozen long, with cracked black leather seats, and seams bursting with cotton. The bathrooms… let’s just say I preferred the men’s. Neither had hot water handles on the sink, both were lacking floor trim with open portals, perfect for rodents. An occasional bat would meander in and hover above the front door, until someone killed it with a well-aimed shoe. This would result in a free beer and a round of gusty cheers.

It took the owner months of subtle questions to get my name and story.

I always paid in cash and simply said, “What does it matter? I’m not here.”

Sooner or later though, someone always knows someone, who really knows nothing and they figured me out, my anonymity lost. It was cool though, because I could sit at my usual table in back, with just enough light from the flickering Budweiser sign that still worked, to do my thing. The fixture was suspended by dusty bronze chains. The antique orb, replete with a miniature beer cart drawn by a quartet of plastic Clydesdales, and on the wagon rode the trusty Dalmatian. Once in a while they’d turn it on, a lovely carousel reminder of more prosperous times. They even had a small, portable heater, I could plug in and use in my corner, when it was chilly.

8

Sometimes in the summer twilight, I’d sit outside on the patio and light up a fat stogie. I’d come in after my night shift, to catch the infrequent band still playing and dance with a sad regular who wouldn’t remember it later. I didn’t know many, but for those few, I’d buy a plastic beer token in advance, and leave it for them upfront. Especially, if I heard they’d had a prostate exam, or somebody had died, or their car had been stolen by wayward kids in their apartment complex, impounded two states away with flattened tires and an empty gas tank.

My favorite bar is closing, another solitary oasis lost. I was a good patron, never puked or passed out, never needed a cab called, never started a fight, or hit on anyone, kept to myself and left a good tip.

Where will I enjoy a cold brew and a private smoke now and then? What will I do with all those leftover tokens?

9

Winner of the 2018 Father Jack Garvey Award for nonfiction

But Let the World Dream Otherwise

by Jennifer Vondrak

I

have spent two summers of my life working in a factory. Aside from handpacking cones and inspecting wafers, sometimes I had to help take the large black bags of trash and cardboard scraps to their respective compactors.

Taking out the trash is not a preferred chore by most people, but honestly, in the factory setting, part of me has always found it a nice break. The brief voyage through the warehouse maze is a bit of an adventure, and the task is easy once you manage to navigate the heaping cart of trash bags to the compactors.

Pull open the overhead doors, throw the bags or the cardboard over the padlocked gate into the abyss below, and either press a button or turn the key, depending on the compactor, and it comes to life. Simple as that. Sometimes it doesn’t work quite so smoothly, and you have to run it a couple times to get everything completely compacted. Occasionally, stuff, particularly large sheets of cardboard, get stuck and won’t compact. In cases like that, you do not jump into the compactor and try to push down the cardboard with your feet. A third shifter did that once. He got fired. No, instead, you use your common sense and grab the iron rod stored just outside of the compactor and use it to prod at the cardboard until it goes down and can be properly compacted. While it is not impossible, if you’re smart, you will most likely never face any danger as you fulfill this responsibility.

However, it is a bit scary to imagine the implications one would face if they were stuck in a cardboard compactor. One time I was taking out the trash with a coworker, and she remarked that it reminded her of Star Wars when they were in the garbage compactor. I remember that scene though I could not recall what episode it was or which characters were trapped. I agreed with her that it would be about right, although on a slightly smaller scale.

I like having room to breathe. Give me the open country over a busy city any day, but I would not consider myself a chronic sufferer of claustrophobia either.

That said, in the case of being trapped in a cardboard or garbage compactor, I would probably be a little claustrophobic, or maybe a lot. In fact, I think anybody who would dare to claim they would not have a problem with walls closing in around them is a liar. Imagine spending the last moments of your life being devoured by a lifeless machine. It would be an awful death. Crushed like a pop can against the forehead of the compactor and discarded like a piece of common trash.

10

Then again, sometimes I do feel like I am imprisoned in an active compactor.

Maybe not literally physically trapped but in a figurative mental battle, trying to push back against the wall closing in on me, stealing the air I need to breathe.

I can’t think without breathing. I can’t speak without thinking. I get trapped in my own head, which becomes filled with the toxins of confusion. Bombarded simultaneously by noisy commotion and silence. Silence, which is usually a good friend, who provides exceptionally necessary comfort, transforms into an enemy.

Senior year of high school in creative writing class, we each chose our favorite line out of all of the poems and songs we studied during our poetry unit. Then as a class, we rearranged the lines into a single poem we each had to present. We had to keep the lines in the same order, but we were given liberty to play with the form in order to express our own interpretations of the words. For whatever reason, probably because I went second to last and had heard the poem recited fifteen times in addition practicing on my own, I had the poem completely memorized by the time it was my turn. Even three years later, I still remember most of the poem.

One line someone chose was “Silence like a cancer grows.”

Because the silence in this room is growing like a cancerous tumor in my brain, as I fight to type out the words with my fingertips, I try to drown it out with music, but I pull out my ear buds instantly. My head throbs as I try to grasp hold of the elusive words floating in my head. I stare off at nothing, habitually shaking my legs. The words come and fill the page, slowly, but they’re not quite right. I cannot make them convey the feelings within me.

I stop and get up. I pace the room. I’m rambling now. I don’t know how to fix this. I can’t scream. I try. My throat is dry, and I can’t even get out a croak. I can’t cry either. I’ve tried that, too. No luck. The tears refuse to form and flood the brims of my eyes and streak down my face like raging rivers. Laughter would be a better medicine, perhaps, but no use attempting that. I know it will be futile.

I feel the wall closing in. Darkness engulfs me. This is it. “But let the world dream otherwise.” That was my line.

11

Winner of the 2018 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for fiction

Coffeehouse Dreams

by Abby K. Keffeler

M

mmm, hot daaaammmn!, you think to yourself when the door chime dings. You look at the clock and note that he is arriving at 10:30 right on the dot. His sandy brown hair has gotten shaggy bangs, closer to falling into his bright blue eyes, and he does this thing unconsciously swiping the new growth to his left. Walking over to his usual seat he begins to unpack his backpack.

His MacBook Air has a hard shell cover with a customized photo. He is smiling brighter than ever kneeling next to a giggling boy on a boat dock with snowcapped mountains in the background. You have memorized this photograph.

Gosh, I wish he would wear those faded dark blue skinnies more often with that graphic shirt. I wonder if he wears it because it looks cool or if he actually likes cats that wear space gear. His dimples are surrounded by freckles that move with each curve of his lip. The young boy looks excited to be with him, the boy’s arms wrapped around his waist. You wonder what the relation might be. Next to his computer, he pulls out two cameras. One is a DSLR, Canon Rebel that appears to be a newer version. I wonder if that is the newest body or one version older? T5 or maybe a 6, I think. That’s impressive. I’m still shooting with an eight year old Rebel XS. The other is a once dark blue, point and shoot Kodak, it must only be about 8 megapixles. This camera has to be at least twelve years old because the shark stickers that once covered the font of it are worn off and faded.

He pulls the card reader out of his bag, plugs both of the memory chips into the computer and approaches the counter. By the time he gets to the counter, you are putting the finishing touches on the tree in his latte art.

You have worked at Espresso Yourself for the past three years while studying at the local college. You are pursuing a degree in graphic design with an emphasis in photography. You love being creative and working in a creative environment.

Espresso Yourself provided the best opportunity when your only goal was to try making some extra cash for school, but you fell in love with the venue.

The aluminum plated picnic tables are in a line of three behind the coffee bar.

There are umbrellas both black, and white, standing through the middle of the tables. The umbrellas draw people who come with groups of friends to study together and spread out their materials. In the corner next to the bean roaster sits

12

a couple wooden tables with chairs. These are perfect for one or two people to enjoy a conversation or work on projects independently.

Espresso Yourself roasts its own coffee beans and sells them. It is common for the roaster to run all day every day. The green, plain beans come in burlap bags and are placed along side the wall. Espresso Yourself ’s roaster runs on electricity in the summer months or wood during the winter. The coffee beans are dumped in through the top of the drum roaster with an old, Blue Bunny, ice cream pail, and the beans are rotated and tossed throughout the roaster at different temperatures to create light, medium, and dark roast.

When he lays his five dollars on the counter in exchange for the treeembellished latte, he smiles and says, “keep the change, doll.” You return his smile. He picks up his mug, and immediately grins even bigger at the sight of the pine tree.

You have been practicing different designs, but don’t tell him you took inspiration from the cover on his laptop and have been practicing for weeks. You learned how to create the tree just for him. He takes his latte back to his computer next to the roaster. You watch him as you complete your tasks, because how can you not? His jeans paired with the well worn gray vans work for him better than anyone else who could have worn them. His hoodie is maroon with speckled threads of dark navy blue mixed in. His casual attire impresses all those who see him throughout the day. He has a purpose for all that he does.

I wish I knew what his name is. He always pays cash; I hope one of these days he pays with a debit or credit card so I can skip the awkward part asking his name. You start wiping down the counter and latte machine keeping everything up to code.

You take Wanda’s order of a Caramel Macchiato, her usual. Wanda is a regular customer and is always super friendly. You’ve talked to her on several different occasions, and she has noticed you eyeing Mr. Cutie Pie over in the corner, “have you talked to him yet?”, the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.

You blush, “no, not yet, I just don’t know if he’d like me, and I’d hate to bother him while he is working.”

One of your favorite things about Wanda is her joy. She is the executive director of the homeless shelter in town. In addition, she is highly involved in the community. She is on campus quite frequently, connecting with young people helping to spark their community spirit. Being the person she is, she tells you, “Oh, hun, you just need to embrace who you are. He would be honored to have a gal like you on his arm walking across campus. Take that move, be confident!” She thanks you for her coffee and rushes out the door. She is a very busy lady.

You mull over Wanda’s advice continue to check off the things on your to-do list. You start a new batch of medium roasted beans, turning the temperature to 426 degrees, pour a pail of beans into the machine and set the timer. As you walk away from the roaster, a couple tables away he smiles at you. He has been diligently working on a project that involves those two cameras, but you have 13

no idea what he is doing with them. What could he be doing with those photos? I wonder if he took them and why he would have such different quality cameras with him. I could just ask him about it. What is stopping me other than the fear that I don’t want to intrude? Nothing, I suppose. Gosh, he is just so cute with the way he furrows his eyebrows and concentrates on clicking his mouse pad in the right spots. I would hate to make a bad first impression.

You grab a rag from behind the counter to wipe down the table where a group of classmates just left from their weekly study session. You pick up some wrappers that were dropped on the floor. I wonder if the second camera belongs to the young boy? You walk over to the merchandise rack and refold some of the Espresso Yourself t-shirts your boss let you design. They come in red, heather gray, black, and cream colors with the Espresso Yourself logo screen-printed on the front.

They are a fairly popular item. You pair them with jeans, khakis, shorts, and just about any bottom for your work uniform. You are thankful you don’t have to be in a polo and wearing an apron every day of the week.

You are determined on making a wide variety of different designs in latte art so you can take special orders. They always make people smile so it is important to you to be successful. You know one of your good friends will be coming in soon so you begin working on a tulip. You will soon master the flower. If only I could learn to make this tulip as quickly as I learned his tree. Ah, you mess it up but you are getting there. One of the petals looks a little too much like a cat’s ear, but your friend will still drink it. As soon as she walks through the door, the buzzer for the roaster goes off, and you greet her on the way to the roaster, “Hi, Susie! I tried to make you a tulip again. I’m getting closer! I need to get this batch out quick.”

You flip the switches off and open door beneath the funnel and all the beans pour out into a pan with a stirrer in it. This will stir and cool the beans down as they are roasted at 400 degrees. You walk back to the bar and talk with Susie for a few minutes about homework and college life while she sips her latte.

Susie is one of the best friends you have ever had. You met through some English courses at school. She is well on her way to becoming an esteemed editor.

She has been on a winding path, but the struggles she has endured have molded her into the person she is today. Because of her background and compassionate heart—she has been one of your biggest supporters. She always finds a way to boost your courage. Your past hasn’t always been easy either. You’ve found yourself in some sticky situations, but with time you have been able to heal and move forward. Your optimism shines brighter than any struggle.

Once Susie is finishing her latte, the cooling buzzer on the roaster goes off. You walk past the boy’s table again, and you notice the young boy on his computer cover is in some of the photos on his screen. Is he actually making a Shutterfly photo book with photos of him and this boy? You empty the beans into a bin labeled “City Roast”.

14

When you walk past his table again you say, “I don’t know if you know this.

But if you move that photo a little to the left it is going to create some interesting whitespace on the page. Most people don’t know what this means, but you can trust me on it and try it if you’d like.” You shoot him a friendly smile. His cheeks blush a little, “Thanks! I’ve been on this page for the past hour and I just don’t know how to accomplish what I want. It looks so different in my head.”

“I would be happy to help you sometime just let me know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

“No problem. What’s your name?”

“Derek. Yours?”

“I’m Mandy. I’d love to stay and chat for awhile but I need to finish up and get to class. I’ll see you next time!”

“Thanks. See you later.”

Susie picks up her things, smiles at you, and leaves Espresso Yourself. You ride your bike to work when the weather is nice enough. Your bike is a vintage 1950’s, baby blue AMC VII with a basket on the front. Your dad found it at a garage sale so you, with his help, restored it back to almost original condition. Something about riding down the street beneath the trees feels humbling. Other cyclists often pass you, zooming by while you take your time enjoying the scenery. Your bicycle gets compliments on a regular basis, and you are known by the iconic set of wheels. I wonder if Derek likes to ride? He’d be so cute on a red and black mountain bike zooming through those mountaintops in his picture. You pull up to your apartment building to pick up your latest photography project before your portrait and Photoshop class. You have photographed your friend Beatrice and turned her portrait into an oil painting using the photoshop smudge tool. The richness of the red in her shirt is vibrant against the cream colored background, while the tones in her hair shine with copper highlights and burgundy lowlights. I would love to turn a portrait of Derek into an oil painting.

His eyes would look like water while his freckles would be the sand. The dimples and smile creases will provide a perfect amount of texture, allowing the smudges to be noticeable in the Photoshop actions. You pack up your things, hop back on your bike, and ride a block before you arrive at the McKinnley building. This building serves the fine arts and is named after Dr. Margaret McKinnley, the lady who first introduced fine arts to the college.

This brick building is weathered and worn creating a warm welcome to all those who approach it. However, upon entering through the front door, the space opens up and mimics Frank Lloyd Wright’s design aesthetic. The inside of the building is clean with white walls and tiled floors. The ceilings show the beams, high lights shining off the walls when the sun falls, but the skylights and windows fill the space with an abundance of natural light during the day. Your favorite part of this building is the showcase of student works in the 15

hallways. The photo you took on your mission trip to Kenya hangs immediately inside the door to the left.

The young boy you were playing with is covered in dust, but his smile is brighter than any sun you’ve ever seen. This is definitely one of your pride pieces. Other artwork includes sculptures made out of scrap metal, plaster, and paper mache.

The paintings offer variety amongst the different styles and textiles. This is one of the places where you can always come for inspiration from your peers.

You walk down the hall into your classroom and hang the portrait of Beatrice on the pegboard. She looks beautiful next to your classmates’ portraits and still photos they have turned into oil paintings. You know you’ll have one of the top grades for sure.

Non-art students know your professor, Dr. Welch, as Dr. Wacka-doodle. You can see why they might think this. His once brown hair has turned mostly gray, and he regularly wears it disheveled. Some mornings it looks like he might have just rolled out of bed. His clothing is covered in paint splatters, his big toe peaks out of his mismatched tennis shoes, and he eats onions like apples for breakfast. Despite his unusual appearance, he knows his elements and principles of art through and through. His compassion shines brightly for all of his students, and their families.

Dr. Welch starts explaining your next photography assignment. Take a candid photo of someone in a space where you spend a majority of your time. Derek.

This photo can be of a person doing anything in any element. Derek is always at Espresso Yourself. I’ll shoot a photo of him. He’s always working on his homework, reading, or working on his Shutterfly project. Not to mention the latte he drinks on a regular basis. He’ll be perfect. You go back home after class, settle in for the night and plan out how you are going to accomplish your assignment.

I will just stand behind the counter and shoot some photos of him. He always sits at the same table. I could just walk right up to him and take the photo. That’ll weird him out. I don’t want to stalk him. I can’t be the crazy stalker chick. No way.

You wake up in the morning, feeling refreshed about your newly developed plan to get the next highest grade in the grade book. You go to your first morning classes, wire sculpting and advanced design, and then ride your bicycle to Espresso Yourself to begin your shift at 10. The to-do list is pretty minimal to start out your day. Take note of the muffin case and clean out any that are older than two days, and replenish the napkins and stir sticks near the register. It is relatively quiet for a Wednesday morning, but you go about your tasks just dancing to the acoustic pop covers playing over the loud speaker. The doorbell chimes and you know it is him. 10:30 on the dot. I hope he didn’t see me dancing! I suppose I’ll go start making his latte. I’ll make a tulip. That’s almost perfected. No, that’s lame. He always likes the leaf. Tree. I’ll make a tree. That made him smile. You begin making his latte and decide to create him the tree art this morning. As you begin your task, he walks over to his usual seat and pulls out his computer. He looks so darn happy. He then proceeds to pull out the camera covered in shark stickers again, 16

but not the other. Huh, I wonder why he doesn’t have the other one? Next he pulls out a blue notebook with CHRISTOPHER drawn out in graffiti letters on the front. Who is Christopher? He told me his name is Derek!

Derek lays down his pen and walks over to the counter smiling, “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Top of the mornin’ to ya, it’s gonna be the usual today, I hope!”

“Yep. What’s my picture today?”

“Same as yesterday,” you smile at him, “I figure I better keep practicing it so I don’t forget how!”

“Thanks, Mandy. Keep the change.”

I wonder if he always tips me because it is the right thing to do, or because he never wants the 75 cents in change. The $4.25 drink is always paid for with a fivedollar bill. Maybe he likes things simple. You clean up the utensils you just dirtied to make Derek’s latte. You work on a couple more things on your to do list, but you quickly finish, aside from keeping an eye on the roaster. You’ll switch out the beans once the timer goes off.

You pull out your sketchbook for your drawing class. You sketch the Espresso machine and surroundings. The interworking’s of a coffee shop are so intimate.

You follow each line and detail as if it is the most important element in the entire drawing. You finish with it and you are happy. The metals look metal and the coffee mugs are dripping dry on the rack next to the sink. One homework assignment done, one to go. You pull your Canon Rebel XS out of your backpack.

I really hope he doesn’t catch me taking pictures of him. You kill time taking some photos of the machines and coffee labels. Not only does this give you an excuse for taking photos of Derek, but also they are actually neat photos.

You work up the courage to take a step back, line Derek up in the frame of the camera and push the shutter button. He is hunched over his blue notebook, scrawling out a note with his black pen. His brow is furrowed in concentration, but his lips curl up slightly around corners into a smirk. He looks so content even when he is concentrating. There is nothing that isn’t perfect about him. The espresso machine is in the right hand side of the frame, but it is blurred allowing the viewer to focus on Derek. The coffee roaster is cooling the beans in the background while the mid-morning light is coming through the window reflecting on Derek’s table.

I can’t believe this. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. You are listening to Ed Sheeran’s newest album Divide on repeat. There is something about music that soothes your nerves. I wonder what color he is going to wear? I hope we don’t match too much. You slip a heather blue t-shirt on over your white tank top. You are wearing your dark wash Vigoss jeans, and you’ve cuffed them in your favorite pin roll style. You won’t walk on the backs of your pant legs, and it will show 17

off your brand new Vans, solid black with a white sole. It’s half past six, and you are meeting Derek in half an hour at The Locket, a mom-and-pop diner, just a block away from your apartment building. You tame down a few of your fly-aways because you don’t want to look like “Alfalfa” on your first date. You throw on your blue and green plaid shirt over your t-shirt and head out the door. I am so nervous.

Maybe I should call ahead and tell Jamie to cancel on him. I should have just gotten his phone number, it’d be easy to call him up and cancel. Jamie is the next in line to take over the business, and you have become good friends with her through your classes and frequent stops at the diner for cheeseburgers and cheeseballs.

You get to The Locket, find a table for two and check your watch. You are about ten minutes early, but you don’t worry. Derek is always extremely punctual. He arrives at Espresso Yourself every morning, 10:30 on the dot. He’ll show. You have been looking at the menu for a while, but it’s pointless because you already know what you are going to order. You keep checking the clock hanging on the wall.

The vintage looking hands keep ticking, minute-by-minute and soon it shows 7:30 p.m. Derek is already half an hour late. You give him the benefit of the doubt, and you decide to wait when Jamie asks you about placing your order. He will show. He has to. He is perfect, right? Ten minutes later Derek walks in. Thank God! I’m glad he finally showed up. Where has he been?!

Derek is wearing his darkest, straight leg jeans paired with white high tops, and a red and blue printed button down. God, he’s sexy. I shouldn’t be mad at him. He sees you sitting in your booth, says hi to Jamie at the door and sits down across from you.

“I am so sorry! I got caught up with Christopher and I didn’t have your number to text you.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I knew you would show. I always order the same thing here, do you know what you want?”

“I come here often enough they probably start making my order when I walk in the door,” Derek smiles, “I always order a cheeseburger and cheeseballs.”

I can’t believe it! “No way! That’s MY order!”

Jamie takes the two orders and brings two Dr. Pepper’s to the table. He recently trimmed his hair. It looks so soft. I can tell he’s had it trimmed. It looks so cute.

Gah, I just want to run my fingers through it. You are still curious about who Christopher is, so you build up the courage to ask him. “So, you said you were caught up with Christopher, who’s that?”

“Actually, this is him,” Derek shows you a picture on his phone.

“Oh, I’ve noticed that is the photo that you have on your computer case.”

“Yeah! I love this little guy..”

“Is he a cousin, or…”

18

“No, I am his mentor. I am enrolled in that non-profit organization called Big Brothers, Big Sisters. I hang out with him at least once a week. Sometimes more.”

“Oh, wow. I’ve considered volunteering for that program. What kinds of things do you do with him?”

“Oh, Mandy. He’s a hoot and a half. We go to the park and kick a soccer ball or work on his homework, and we do art projects. He has been struggling because he likes to sing, but the other boys in his class make fun of him. When we are in the car, I play Happy by Pharrell Williams on repeat and I can see him dancing his little heart out in the back seat. I always sing with him, too. He loves it.”

Hearing the way Derek talks about Christopher makes you smile. He has a soft spot in his heart for him, and he would do anything to help him feel better. I was just sure he couldn’t get any more perfect. “I noticed you had Christopher written across the front of your notebook, I was wondering who that might be.”

“Yeah. I started writing letters to him, and I am going to give it to him at some point. He has struggled so much this year. I just want him to always know how much he has been valued. He’s changed my life.”

Jamie brings your orders, and flashes you an extra smile. You give her one of your, “knock it off ” looks and smile as she walks away. The two of you dive right into your meals. Your conversation doesn’t lull at all, and you begin to think Derek might just be your next boyfriend. He is quirky, snorts when he laughs, and has a big heart. You ask him how his Shutterfly project is going, and you spend some time talking about your course work and passion for photography. Not only do you find out Derek has always had a passion for art, but he is teaching Christopher.

The old, point and shoot camera was Derek’s first camera. He loved the underwater world when he was young and added the shark stickers. By the time Derek was older, the stickers started rubbing off. It was when Christopher started using the camera that the stickers rubbed the rest of the way off. Derek and Christopher take photos together during all of their adventures. They have documented soccer games in the park, hikes in the mountain ranges near by, fishing from the lake dock, and eating at the local ice cream shop.

You and Derek decide to walk down to the local park, stopping to get twist cones from Scoop Town. He continues to make you laugh and with each step you are falling in love with him. The connection you feel for him at Espresso Yourself is real. Your hand fits in his like it’s the only hand you are meant to hold. You sit on the swing set, looking at the leaves wave in the air, yet the water in the pond is very still. You eventually move to sit beneath the large oak tree.

Conversation is easy. The sun begins to set and you listen to the song birds around you. Derek sits with his arm around you, allowing you to lean into him.

The top of your head falls into his shoulder and your legs are draped over his.

19

“Thank you, doll. This evening has been perfect,” Derek says to you before he kisses your forehead. His touch is so light you barely feel it. You are overcome with emotions, and your heart beat spikes. I have never felt more comfortable in my life.

“Yes, mine, too.”

“Would you like to come to my apartment and watch a movie? I don’t want our night to end yet.”

“I’d love that!”

You and Derek leave the park and walk back to The Locket to get Derek’s car.

He drives a cobalt blue Impala. Ah, shit. Even his car is as sexy as hell. He opens the passenger side door for you. I am so excited I don’t have to work tomorrow’s Saturday morning shift. I can spend all night watching movies with Derek. This night couldn’t be more perfect. Derek walks around to the other side of his car, gets in and soon you are driving through the twisting lanes of your town. The windows are down, and your hair is blowing in the spring breeze.

You drive past the college, and see the McKinnley building you spend so much of your time in. You point it out to him, and he smiles. You keep driving until you read Bundy Lane. You have entered the rich part of town, and he pulls into the third driveway. This apartment building is beautiful. It’s five floors high, the front doors are glass, and each unit has a balcony. Holy shit, I didn’t know this guy was loaded. “Derek, this building is beautiful!”

“Come on, I’ll show you my humble abode,” he grins at you.

You follow him into the building and take the elevator up to the fifth floor. He lives in apartment 5E. When you walk in, you see white tiles in the kitchen shine, and there is art hanging above his dark leather couch. I never would have imagined Derek would live in a place that looks like this.

“Let me give you the tour…” he says as he flashes a smile at you.

Derek shows you from room to room in his apartment. You walk through the living room, past the leather couch and entertainment center. The rack of movies holds about fifty different titles. His computer is sitting next to his two cameras on his desk, which is next to the balcony door. The two of you step out onto the balcony, and he tells you to take a seat in the padded patio chair. He tells you he is going to go back into the kitchen to get a couple drinks, he will be right back. God damn, I can’t believe I am here right now. I never thought this would be happening to me. My parents are going to love him. Derek returns with two glasses of Dr. Pepper. You sip it and dismiss its off taste. This must be from a two–liter that has been open for a while. You both sit there until you’ve drained your glasses. You feel a little lightheaded. Man, I’m more tired that I thought. I hope we start a movie soon so I can lay my head down.

Derek continues to show you the rest of the apartment. The final stop is his bedroom. He opens the door and you see a full sized bed in the middle of the 20

room with a dark blue bed spread on top. He has a couple pillows that are fluffy, the best kind. He has a nightstand on either side of the bed, and photos of him and Christopher are tacked to the wall above the dresser.

“Whoa, Mandy! Are you okay? You are looking a little pale.”

“Ye-yeah…I’m oo-kaayy,” you reply to him with slurred speech.

“Ah hell yeah, I’ve got you right where I want you,” Derek whispers under his breath.

“Wha-, whaa-…what?” you struggle to ask him.

“Mandy, you know I think you are beautiful right?”

Derek leans down to whisper into your ear. He tells you that you are beautiful and you are the most important girl he has ever met. You fall into him, and as you lean against his chest he gently kisses your cheek next to your ear. He slowly moves toward your neck, and your chest.

“Der-k, I don’ tink I shhouuld. Caan, yu, take meh home?”

Derek pushes you toward the bed, but you trip over his gym bag and hit your head on his nightstand. “Get up!” Derek tells you in a commanding voice.

“I don’ feel so gud.”

“Get up!” he tells you again. His calming blue eyes turn ice cold; colder with each command he barks at you.

You start to pull yourself to your feet, but it isn’t fast enough. Derek grasps you by your upper arms and yanks you up. I’m scared. What happened to the Derek I thought I knew? He throws you on the bed and gets on top of you. He is straddling you at your waist. His hand slides up your shirt, under your bra, and he squeezes.

His other hand caresses your face just under your jaw to hold your head still and starts kissing you. I need to get out of here. “Derek, plee…ss…”

“Shh. Let it happen.”

You try to push him off but he is stronger than you. I can’t give up. I can’t let this happen to me again.

The more you fight the angrier and rougher Derek seems to get. He pulls you up and rips your shirt off. He unsnaps your bra and throws it on the floor. He kisses every inch of your upper body. “Der—, ples…stohp.” Your words still aren’t coming out clear, and he kisses you faster and harder. You begin crying because it is all you know to do.

Derek raises his hand and slaps you across the face, “Bitch! I’ll give you something to cry about!”

He immediately rocks back on his knees and tears open your jeans. The button flies off, and the zipper rips out from the material. He pulls your pants down. Shit.

Shit. Shit. I can’t fight him anymore. The tears continue to roll down your cheeks 21

silently. Derek has his way with you, thrust after thrust you fall deeper. He won. I wish someone would have told me the nice guys aren’t always what they seem. ______ You look out into the crowd of college students with tears in your eyes. Every presentation you give never gets any easier. You are now working for the local Domestic Violence Center in your college town, and you are a co-owner of Espresso Yourself. You dedicate your free time to educating people, especially young people about sexual assault and other forms of domestic violence.

“This is my story. Derek was once my knight in shining armor, who quickly turned bad. This didn’t only happen to me in my college years, but my childhood was littered with events of sexual abuse. Those that were close to me failed to recognize the warning signs.”

You can’t see far out into the auditorium, but the girls in the front row have been crying. They realize this act of malice has taken place in their college town—the place they feel safe.

“I wish my family members would have believed me when I told them my uncle touched me in places I didn’t feel comfortable. They dismissed my night terrors, withdrawn behaviors, and my constant anxiety. I eventually got tired of living in fear. I learned to cope with it myself—that’s how I found my love for art and creativity. The art was only what I decided it was going to be, I had complete control over the message it portrayed to my audience. I truly believe counseling would have helped me heal quicker and healthier.”

You give your audience more details about the years following your fateful night, in and out of counseling to battle the depression that swallowed you up again. You tell them about the errors you made in your process to get Derek convicted.

“I wish I would have known the proper steps to provide enough proof to file a police report. I showed up at the police station but it was too late. I had already washed my clothing, and showered several times. I felt dirty and I wanted to wash it all away. I wanted to feel clean, but I tried to wash my sorrows down the drain with it. I tried to salvage my clothing because the shirts were my favorite at the time. Eventually I gave up and threw them all in the trash. At the point I realized I couldn’t file the report I was feeling helpless, and ashamed. I felt as if everything that happened was my fault.”

Wanda and Susie were by your side through your entire recovery. They are true friends for you—the three of you are the reason the Domestic Violence Center was started in your town. Every presentation you give, those two ladies are right by your side. “I eventually learned that the events of that night weren’t my fault. I had no control over the drug he put in my drink. Sure, I could have done things a little differently—I didn’t have to go to his apartment, or continue drinking the Dr. Pepper that tasted a little funny, but who knows what would have happened if I refused. There is no way to answer all the “what if ’s?” in the world.”

22

You give these students a call to action. “If you ever find yourself in this situation, call the number posted outside the auditorium. Come find us at the center. It can be scary, but there are resources out there for you and you do not have to do it alone. Let us be your Wanda and Susie; let us help you heal.�

23

I Am Terrified That ______ Will Come Knocking At My Door

by Abby K. Keffeler

“I

’m going to kill myself. My roommate might have alcohol poisoning. I don’t like my bathroom-mate. I’m going to transfer. I need a vacuum. I want a different roommate. I hate that RA. The toilet is overflowing. I have mice in my room. I am failing all my classes. My brother just died. My boyfriend broke up with me. I need a hug. I’m stressed out. When is our next program? I want new door decs. I’m homesick. Love me. Be my friend. I need you.”

Being a Resident Assistant isn’t easy. I love this job through and through, with my entire body and soul—but it is one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever done. There are aspects of this job that terrify me. However, there is a large portion that I absolutely love.

RA’s have to learn to wear a variety of different hats because they are constantly in different roles. They are role models, friends, mediators, peer helpers, confronters, and representatives of the college. In this list, you don’t see “sheriff,” or “bad guy.” The student body often deems the RA staff as the bad guys, the ones that seek out policy violations. I can’t speak for every RA, but for me, I don’t do this job for the sole purpose of getting others in trouble.

I am an RA because I care deeply for every student on campus. I don’t need to be friends with everyone to appreciate them and their talents. Every person living in the residence halls has unique gifts that will help make this world a better place. I am an RA to help those people find their passions and ignite the fire in their soul. I am an RA to help guide the new and struggling students through their stresses and worries. I love connecting with the freshmen girls on my floor and helping them form a solid foundation for their years at college. If I could drop my classes, and be devoted to Residence Life full time, I would do so without a doubt in my mind.

Since I care so much about each of the residents on campus, it only makes sense that I have some of the fears that I do. So, let’s say I’m on rounds and I have to knock on a door. I stand down the hall, toying with the idea before I can build up enough courage to knock on that door. I don’t want to get them in trouble, that isn’t why I do this job. I am on a round and discover an extremely loud room. I knock. The residents aren’t being compliant—arguing with me and refusing to open the door. I tell them I’m going to call Campus Safety, and advise them to cooperate and open the door to talk to me. I discover alcohol.

Now I have to be the bad guy…

24

Incident Report: 10:30 pm, Redman Hall, Room 796, Noise/Alcohol/Medical As the Resident Assistant (RA) on duty was completing their first round of the night Redman 796 was extremely loud. The RA knocked then heard resident Joe Smith say, “Ah, shit! It’s the damn RA! Hide your drinks.” The RA proceeded to knock on the door several times; the last time advising them to cooperate or Campus Safety would need to be called. Joe opened the door and the RA smelled alcohol on his breath and could see some empty Bud Light cans at his feet. The RA advised him that they knew there was an apparent policy violation and they should do their best to cooperate. They turned off the music and listened to the RA’s instructions. As the students started collecting all of the alcohol containers in the middle of the room, the RA noticed Sally Johnson was lying on the futon not responding to anyone in the room.

Sally had shortness of breath, was in and out of consciousness, and was very confused. The RA concluded Sally was in risk of alcohol poisoning.

The RA turned Sally so she was on her side, to help prevent the risk of her choking on her own vomit, and immediately called 911. They then called the Student Affairs On-Call staff member, another RA to meet the emergency personnel, and Campus Safety to notify them emergency personnel would be on campus. Once Student Affairs arrived at the room, the RA took the names of those who were present and dismissed them to their respective rooms.

Alcohol containers collected: 36 partially full and empty Bud Light cans, 6-pack of unopened Mike’s Hard Lemonade, half a bottle of Everclear, and an unopened 6-pack of Smirnoff Ice—Green Apple.

I hate knocking on doors when students have the potential to get in trouble.

I stand in the hallway with clammy hands, a racing heart, and a lump in my throat trying to build up the courage to finally lay my fist on that door, because I never know what I might find when it’s opened. Alcohol? Alcohol poisoning?

Tobacco? Drugs? Injuries? Cards Against Humanity? Charades? It’d only be easier if I had x-ray vision.

Work Order: submitted by RA: Young Hall, Room 813 – Heating Residents told me their room is extremely cold, and there is no heat coming from their vent. It’d be nice if someone could come check it out, thanks!

With a heavy sigh I write several work orders for damaged, broken, leaking things. On average I would estimate that I submit around 50 work orders to facilities in any given semester. These range from having little to no heat in the 25

winter, dripping faucets, clogged sinks and bathtubs, broken ceiling tiles, damaged windows, holes in walls, to burnt out lights. I personally created a step-by-stephow-to-fill-out-a-work-order-request cheat sheet—but for some reason it seems as if my efforts have been wasted.

Program Evaluation: Chalk it Out! The Chalk it Out! program was extremely successful. Across campus there were a total of four sidewalk chalk stations so students could draw on the sidewalk at any of them. The stations were set up about 6:30 am and remained available until 10:00 pm. This program was successful because the weather was beautiful, students needed a study break, and students, faculty, and staff all enjoyed looking at each other’s sidewalk art. This is a program I would do again in the future, and I’m not sure I would change anything because it was nice to see how happy everyone got while participating in this program.

As an RA, it is within our job description to provide our residents with programs and activities to enrich their personal development. There are a wide range of activities that can be done such as stress relief, fun movie and game nights, life skills, and others. The programs are unlimited and are geared toward resident needs and wants. I have taken into consideration what my residents have requested to do together as a floor. I know it is a good day when I have 13 of my 41 residents come to a program! That number can look kind of discouraging, but I find comfort in the fact that 13 people came and took away from the program I put on. I’ve held programs where only 2-3 people have come, a little frustrating but still very worth it.

It seems as if the dance nights, birthdays, the nights where a student is having a hard time facing life’s trials, are all the nights I worry the most. I am terrified that I will have a student banging on my door at three in the morning, crying because they can’t wake up their roommate. I am terrified that I will be on rounds and find a student who is passed out, laying in their own vomit, struggling to keep a steady breath. I have been through the RA training. I am qualified to respond, but that doesn’t mean I want to. All of these negative tasks an RA can be pinned with are often outweighed by the positive. I love connecting with my residents, forming friendships, and putting a smile on their face when everything else seems to be hopeless. I don’t only care about my own residents, but the residents that live on other floors, as well. Since the student body sometimes sees me as the out-to-getyou bad guy, I am scared.

I am scared that I have the ability to make a difference in people’s lives before it is too late, but they are too afraid of me to come to me for help. I don’t want to be viewed as the “campus sheriff ”. I want to be the peer that people can come to, before things are too late and I am dealing with police officers and writing 26

an incident report for events out of anyone’s control. I want to be support for students when they feel like their only answer is found at the bottom of a bottle, and they drown the night away.

I am constantly trying to do my job to the best of my ability to keep the entire campus community safe. I have many fears tied to my job, but no matter how terrified I am it is worth it to push through because I love this job more than I could ever express.

27

Descent

by Gabrielle McHugh I’m descending.

I’m making a staggered descent down through the sky splattered in zinc white paint. My hands stretch out toward the misshapen stars that seem to reach back for me. I try to keep myself soaring, try to catapult myself higher, but find that the stars have faded into the faraway black canvas; they’ve dried up, chipped away, pulled their hands back towards their celestial bodies. I break through the layers of atmosphere, eyes constricting painfully as they adjust in the sun.

I’m descending.

I’m falling.

I’m falling in a blaze to the oak colored, wood whittled earth. My hands grasp at splintered, shredded rocks that jut out sharply to catch me but break beneath my weight. I try to slow myself down, attempt to put the descent at a standstill, hope to lift myself up, but the rocks slice open my hands, leaving slivers in their wake. I destroy mountains in my meteorite state. Grasshopper blood droplets jump away from the trout cuts swimming circles in my hands.

I’m falling.

I’m sinking.

I’m slowly sinking through the washer spun sea, centimeter by centimeter, weighed down by sloshy brown foam and scratchy chlorophyll laden seaweed. I watch my water shriveled hand roll with the waves as I hold it to the fish and reefs, silently asking to be saved, quietly begging for mercy, wordlessly pleading for a net to catch me, getting not even a gurgle or the splash of a tail for an answer. Salt crawls over my body, creeping through my clothes and parching my skin.

I’m sinking.

28

I’m lying.

I’m lying numbly in the pit of the Mariana Trench, falling no further, accepting my descent, staring into vantablack, floating hands by my sides, pressure pounding in my ears, nitrogen narcosis setting in. Muscle and bones decay to diatomaceous earth as glowing fish orbs like zinc white stars dance above my head.

I’m nothing.

29

Hiding

by Gabrielle McHugh

I

clear the bottom of my closet, pulling out a basket of dirty clothes and the laundry detergent that tends to accompany it and hiding it behind the LaZ-Boy recliner. I place in my fuzzy, black, butterfly shaped folding chair, frowning slightly when I find that it doesn’t quite fit. I take it out, brashly folding it and putting it back in its original place under my roommate’s bed, turning it like I would a flash drive until it slides under the standard metal frame.

Taking my extra sheets and blankets from the top cupboard, I fold them into squares as neatly a I can, careful to keep the loose pieces of cappuccino wood from splintering and weaving into the fabric. They fit almost perfectly in my small closet that can be no larger than six square feet. There’s a quickness as I work, hands shaking slightly with the fear of my newly found hiding place being revealed and the fear that my roommate will return in the middle of the process, the fear of her judgement an angst deep within my stomach.

I step inside, head bent below the bar, and review my placement quickly before pulling the door shut the best I can without a handle and without closing it on my fingers. I tuck myself into a ball and hide away from the world, relief coming over me as I lie down in my own space, cool in the darkness, not yet cold with the fall weather. There’s not any one specific reason for me to hide, I just need to get away and be alone.

My breathing slows into deep, long breaths. Sleep comes over me and unmemorable dreams come; their blankness is my salvation. I only wake to reposition myself in the small space, flinging my bare, unshaven legs up to rest against the smooth wooden wall and to give my torso room, making sure my shorts won’t ride up and relishing in the movement of the stretch, before I start to nod off once again.

Moments later, I stir at the sound of a slight creak as the door opens, sighing inwardly as my peacefulness is interrupted. As quietly as I can, I reposition once more. Sitting with my back in the corner of the closet, knees pulled up, wrists resting on top, I feel as if I am holding my breath. Fear makes its way back into my stomach, warming it, setting it on fire as the acid turns, this time from worry of interaction and of my own enclosed world being forced into the real one. My peace, the peace of being where I knew no one else would be, dissipates.

Thoughts swarm my mind. What if she heard me? What if she opens the door and questions what I’m doing? She probably won’t let me get by without an answer. I attempt to swallow the fear as it rises to enclose my throat with its foul acidic claws.

My phone lights up and buzzes with a text, making me wonder again if the sound would alert my presence. I wait to see if I would be discovered before opening my phone. Where are you?

30

My heart sinks, but I feel guilty with even the thought of not texting her back.

Even so, I wait another minute to get my bearings before replying, careful to keep the clicking of the keys on the flip phone inaudible and to turn my volume completely off after sending the text, grateful that I tend to keep it on vibrate and that the vibration only buzzed once.

Come find me.

She replies, Raven?

Find out.

A little while later I hear the door close. I am left to be alone again, but my Cloud Nine has dissolved and I come crashing to the ground with such a thud I’m sure it has left a person shaped hole in the universe. The guilt of hiding, stronger than my desire to hide, pulls me out of the closet and to my feet, the creaking sound of its door somewhere at the back of my preoccupied thoughts. I fix my clothing and hair, pulling down my shirt and brushing back fly aways, wiping away the signs of sleep before I prepare my backpack with a textbook and binder for homework and ready myself to face the real world, to face the people that infest it like an invasive species that is destroying everything in its wake .

Later, when she catches me in the Raven, my typical study area, she asks, “Where have you been?” Her tone giving no hint of upset over my evasion of her.

Her light brown face is quizzical and her black eyebrows are drawn at a slight downward angle, matching black hair pushed behind her ears.

“The room,” I reply as I look to the right of her, unable to say it to even a fraction of her face. I try to keep my face blank, neutral. I can’t let on that I’m lying through my parched, pink lips, that my half-truth isn’t completely formed.

My cold hands hang limply by my side like my wrists are their nooses and my arms are their rope, not even my fingers twitch with a yearning to move.

She makes a face at this, nose scrunching and pulling at her upper lip. “I was just there. I didn’t see you. I even looked behind the recliner and in that space between the wall and my bed thinking that you were trying to scare me.”

My stomach leaps again, butterflies ramming into its sides. Ignoring it, I paint a slight smile on and ask, “Did you check the bathroom?”

She looks at me, brown eyes wide and bright, her voice going higher in pitch.

“You were in the bathroom?” she halfway screeches in surprise and I agree with a bigger smile than before plastered on my face as my stomach falls back down and the guilt eats at its insides for keeping this secret from her.

31

The Troubled Waters of My Mind

by Gabrielle McHugh

M

y atoms jitter too loudly, making it impossible to focus on the management, the history, the Wordsworth and Coleridge. It’s so loud that it causes a current in my mind, swirling into a whirlpool, spinning my mind, making me nauseous, stealing my thoughts and focus. With the thoughts I manage, I think myself in circles. My eyes begin to ache and I close them to get relief, trying to focus on the words spewing from the lips of the aged man up front but slipping once again into spinning thoughts, being pulled under, silently gasping for breath as I drown in the troubled waters of my mind. The pen in my hand moves quickly in both an attempt to hide my struggle and a way to distract myself. It lasts briefly, long enough for class to finish, only releasing me as I stand with my bag to leave and step into the flow of the others. My body relaxes as my atoms settle into place with the movement, exhaustion filling my mind with a pressure and a cloudiness that lasts the rest of the day.

32

Tristian’s Toys

by Kiana Hoff

I’m scatter brained and crazy.

I have a heart, but don’t crush it or you’ll be sorry.

I’m full of imagination and I’m full of bull shit too.

I have a family that loves me. Why? I have no clue.

Cornfields and beans surround my house and me.

My room is decorated with dogs, pigs, and monkeys.

I have a wall covered in track bibs and Asic shoes, While the other is all pictures of mom, me, and so many other memories I knew.

Pine trees, mountains, and oceans are what I

dream about at night.

Someday I hope to be surrounded by nature and all of its delight.

Salmon, bears, wolves, and Alaska are what make me rugged.

They’re what make me strong when society makes me feel hunted.

Football and Christmas are what we’re all about.

Gosh, my dad gets real excited when the Queens get a touchdown.

33

I see my papa, I hear combines, he drives tractors.

When I’m with him all we do is fill the room with our laughter.

My Alaskan summers are clothed in warm flannels and mud boots.

Bristol Bay is where I set down the foundation for my roots.

Mom eats beets, carrots, baby tomatoes, and other weird rabbit foods.

She offers me some while I’m eating my box of Nutty Bars and I’m just like, ‘Dude.’

I love Alaska and its cold, crisp breezes,

But I’ll go to Florida any day and lay on its warm beaches.

Turtles, jellyfish, whales, and crabs live in places that I’ve left part of my soul.

Unfortunately, I won’t be able to live in any of them unless I get on a good payroll.

When I want to escape the world and its reality I grab Harry Potter I have the whole movie set from my grandma since I’m her favorite granddaughter.

Sometimes the world seems scary and unknown,

And other times peoples’ good sides are shown.

That’s what I shoot for, is to be good and nice.

But, occasionally, I put those characteristics on ice.

I try to be strong and brave,

But there’s times I break, and this façade fades.

When I’m feeling this way, I turn to colors and paint brushes.

Whilst I have those in my hands, the whole universe hushes.

When I’m too angry, yet too tired to go on a run,

I grab a basketball and go against the world to play some one-on-one.

I’ve torn through LeBron’s and Jordan’s, the battle of the greats.

No matter how hard I try to preserve them, my shoes always meet the same fate.

Watching my sweat hit the court amongst my frustration, 34

No matter how hard I try to preserve them, my shoes always meet the same fate.

Watching my sweat hit the court amongst my frustration, I remember my and and his mental cessation.

I remember mybrother, brother, his mental cessation.

Tristan hisname name autism is his game, Tristan is is his andand autism is his game, ToTohave happy outlook like he does, have such such a ahappy outlook on lifeon likelife he does, I can only I can only aim. aim.

He can’t talk nor speak nor ever have a wife.

He can’t talk nor speak nor ever have a wife.

When you think about it, he won’t ever have much ofWhen a life.you think about it, he won’t ever have much of a life.

HeHesits watches movies, through sitsand and watches movies, flips flips through books books without seeing their words. without seeing their words.

When I motion for him to come outside he shakes hisWhen head and signs ‘That’s the birds. ’ I motion for himtotome, come outsidefor he shakes his head I shake my‘That’s headforand and signs to me, the smirk birds.’ as I visualize his beautiful smile.

Man, I sure miss it, I haven’t seen it in a while.

I shake my head and smirk as I visualize his beautiful smile.

I wipe off the sweat with one of my thousand t-shirts,

Man, I sure miss it, I haven’t seen it in a while.

And I remember when I think I have it bad Tristan hurts, every day, much worse.

I wipe off the sweat with one of my thousand t-shirts,

He is the main thing that makes me who I am.

And I remember when I think I have it bad Tristan hurts, every day, much worse.

When people try to bring me down he makes me strong, so I don’t give a damn.

These are the things that make me, me.

But Tristan is one of the most important, because he helped set my whole heart free.

35

Souls to Soles

by Kiana Hoff

It is six in the morning. The alarm on your iPhone is blaring “Hips Don’t Lie”

by Shakira and my heart begins to sink as I remember why you are making us get up so damn early. You roll out of your bed and rub the sleep out of your eyes and attempt to wake up your brain as you vigorously scratch the rat’s nest of hair atop your head.

I try to ignore you and sink back into sleep as you stagger across your bedroom floor and practically dump out the drawers of your dresser to find your favorite t-shirt and shorts. You blindly stumble across the room as you walk to your closet to find those mid-length socks that your boyfriend hates. He calls them ‘tourist socks’. The whole while as you trudge around your room, I wonder why you don’t just turn on the freaking light. Finally, you tie your hair up in its infamous pony tail and begin to approach me. I rub the sleep from my eyes in preparation for the journey ahead of us.

Hand in hand, we trudge out the door into the brisk morning. The barely there fog that always comes with the dawn puts a translucent icing over the sunrise as it peaks over your Papa’s cornfield. You swing your sweatshirt covered arms as you try to get your blood flowing to melt the bite of the cold from the tips of your fingers. The clapping sound of your hands against your legs wakes me and wakes my sleepy eyes.

Your watch whines as it got its GPS location, it also doesn’t want to be awake this early. Your eyes roll back as your brain realizes what it was getting your body into. You get on your marks, get set, then you press start on that old Garmin watch – and we’re off. I can feel the adrenaline radiating off of you as your breath hitches with the very first step of our run. Your lungs aren’t used to the icy air yet and the bottoms of my soles are freezing. Our laces bounce up and down with every agonizing step. You start off strong and keep an eye on your form – elbows in, arms moving straight forward and backward, and driving your knees up. You are looking good like you’re going to keep a steady pace this time, but then I see your drive begin to dissipate with every passing mile.

Suddenly, your eyes get wide and your heart beats fast as you look down at your watch and see we’re on the last mile – the homestretch. I do my best to support you and encourage you as you push past every excruciating step. We’re almost there, half a mile, eight hundred meters, whatever your brain needs to think to make you keep pushing for every second you have left.

36

You’re doing it, you’re flying. You hit your kick and you sprint as fast as you can that last quarter of the mile. You have two hundred meters left, then one hundred, then five tenths of a mile. We nearly fall past your grandparents’ mailbox, the finish line, as you gasp for air. Oxygen, sweet, pure, oxygen rushes into your lungs and replenishes your aching chest. I watch, waiting for you to get the strength to get back up and hop into that warm, rewarding shower that you have waiting for you. You slowly roll over. Your sweat drenched shirt is coated in the dust and dirt from the gravel road we use as our track. I help you get to the door, picking up your feet to make them get into the house.

As you tell your grandma your new PR you untie my strings and slip me from your feet. I lay by the door, watching you with prideful eyes at how strong you are and how far you’ve come. Grandma hugs you, giddy with excitement, as always.

As you two walk away, I close my eyes again, resting after our long journey. I sleep, and wait, till our next race on our dirt track comes.

37

I am Abnormal Psychology

by Amber Leise Paralyzed, Not that I can’t move, I can.

I just CAN’T. I curl into myself, Feeling pressure on my chest.

Like the Milgram study, the authority tells me To please continue.

But the volts I’m sending are through my own body.

School has always been like a prison experiment to me.

I just took the role of somebody who was okay.

Conformity. Another tool of safety.

To keep your mouth closed, another.

Being numb is better than static buzzing inside of you.

None of you understand me.

You made me feel smaller, and now I’m trying to get even smaller.

Though I’m not hiding from anyone.

No one notices me anyway.

38

So Here I Am

by Amber Leise

My daddy didn’t give me snow tires.

But he gave me money.

I have some tools though they are rusty and bent.

No matter, he didn’t give me the knowledge to use them.

But daddy gave me money.

He didn’t tell me what to do with this money, To get new tools, or give me the insight to know myself.

But I do have money.

Can money help me now?

So here I am, Shivering on the side of the road.

Wondering if I’ll freeze tonight.

Wondering if anybody would care.

There was one man that stopped near me.

He couldn’t help me, he just sat there so I wasn’t alone.

He stopped my tears from freezing Because they never fell.

Someone did come to save my toes from freezing off.

But all I had was money.

You can have the money.

They had love.

39

One Year, One Sentence, One Picture

by Miranda Henglefelt

2. Kiddie Pool

I refused to come out of the pool.

4. Blue’s Clues Thinking Chair

My younger sister and I were obsessed with Blue’s Clues and had matching Thinking Chairs, Handy Dandy Notebooks, and clothes.

40

7. Pink John Deer Hat I saved my money to buy this hat so I could be like my dad.

9. Telescope Kit

My siblings asked Santa for BB guns.

41

12. Flat Iron I tried to keep my hair straight for a year.

18. Tassel

Graduation was my ticket to getting out of my hometown.

42

10 Objects That Make Me

by Miranda Henglefelt Name: Miranda Henglefelt Age: 19 Hometown: Alexandria, SD Occupation: Student 1. Object: Dance Shoes; pictured are jazz tennis shoes, tap shoes, jazz boots,

and lyrical shoes Significance: Dance has been a part of my life from the ages of six to eighteen.

I have gone through more dance shoes in my life than I can count. Dance class has always been the place for me to get rid of the stress in my life. There I could disappear in the crowd and dance all of the worries out of my head. By my junior year I spent three to five nights a week either practicing in the studio in Mitchell or performing at a game in the Corn Palace. It has been hard for me to leave, but I know I will always be a dancer at heart.

2. Object: Books Significance: Books have always been the things that keep me company. One of my first memories is learning to read. The books I used had stickers that you could stick in them when you finished the books. I reused the stickers so many times they were not sticky anymore. I read all the time. When I am not in class or working on homework, ninety percent of the time I am reading. I got in trouble a few times in middle school and high school for reading during class. At one point my mom put a ban on buying books because I read them so fast.

3. Object: Sweatshirts Significance: I like sweatshirts. I probably like them too much. They are a staple in my wardrobe. There are as many sweatshirts in my closet as there are t-shirts.

I just like how comfortable they are. I even wear them during the summer, which confuses my family and friends.

4. Object: Planner Significance: My planner has saved my life more than a few times. I have a tendency to remember random information that most people would forget (such as bagels were invented in Poland), but I struggle to remember things such as meetings, homework, and other events going on.

43

5. Object: Cheap Mementos (i.e. keychains, pins, magnets) Significance: Everyone has something they collect. I collect keychains, pins, and magnets.

6. Object: Popcorn Significance: Popcorn is my go to snack when I am really hungry. I always get it at the movie theater. Along with this it reminds me of my grandma. Whenever I am at her house she always asks if I want some popcorn because she knows how much I like it. If I ever say no she asks if I feel okay. Popcorn just makes me smile and brings me good memories.

7. Object: Capri Sun Significance: I almost never had Capri Sun as a child. It was always reserved for special occasions. I became obsessed with it.

8. Object: Photos Significance: I like to capture small moments that catch my attention.

9. Object: Tickets Significance: I believe that tickets are a great souvenir. You do not have to pay extra for them, and there are tons of cool ideas for displaying them. Currently, mine are displayed in a shadow box I designed that says “Admit One.�

10. Object: Words Significance: I like written words. When I am talking out loud sometimes I find it hard to convey what I really want to. Writing things down means I have time to think about what I want to say and edit out any unnecessary material. Talking out loud sometimes means I do not have a filter. When I am nervous, which happens a lot talking face to face with people, I tend to babble and say more than I need to.

Writing what I want to say eliminates the pressure I feel when talking out loud.

44

1

2

3

9

10

4

8

6

7 5

45

Chicago Skyline Miranda Henglefelt

46

Picture Day

by Alexia Jensen

H

igh School Picture Re-Take Day is a poem written by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Within the poem, the poet talks about a school’s picture retake day, and how there are many, unfortunate students who have to retake their picture because their first one was indecent. The poet is flustered because the hype of the new school pictures will be gone by the time her retake pictures come back. I really enjoyed the simplicity of this poem and how relatable it was to me.

In the second grade, my school pictures turned out way below my mother’s standards of school photos. Every year, my mother and I had the annual tradition of waking up extra early on picture day to take time to curl my hair into big, ridiculous swoops and to pick a god-awful bright pink outfit, that I would not normally wear on any other given day. I was forced to kneel down in front of her, my knees turning bright red from digging into the hard wood floor. The old, purple curling iron would stink up the whole house, smelling as if it were on fire.

This process wasn’t fast, nor fun.

I got to school, feeling cute and sassy, walking with a sway that I have never walked with before. I would shake my hips to the beat of my own drum, catching looks from the older fifth-grade boys. That was only until, I got the final product of my second-grade school pictures, weeks later. I, as a second-grader, saw nothing wrong with the photos, but my mother, on the other hand, who had worked so hard on my hair and outfit, was displeased.

“What is that on your face?” she asked me.

I snagged the photos from her hands, staring down at my smiling face. Sure enough, it wasn’t just a smudge on the photos. On my cheek, next to my pink lips, was a small spot of peanut butter. Pictures for my class were taken after lunch, so in other words, they were taken after I had devoured numerous peanut butter sandwiches from the cafeteria. Refusing to pay the retake fee, my mother stuck the peanut butter faced photo in the picture frame, regardless, and hung it up on the wall for the rest of the family to see.

47

No One Ever Asked Me

by Alexia Jensen

B

ullying has always been an issue. You hear about it all the time. Kids picking on other kids, because of what they said, what they wore, or how they look.

I never understood the point of bullying, but I can, without pride say, that I have always been a bystander. I would see bullying in the hallways at my high school, but I wouldn’t do anything. I would walk by like I didn’t see, or hear, anything that was going on. I didn’t make the situations worse, but I definitely did not help them, what-so-ever. That was until the “worst years” when I experienced bullying. I was not bullied, but my younger brother, Dieken, was.

For years, in our middle school, my adolescent brother was psychologically and physically abused by his classmates. I have seen, firsthand, what extreme bullying can do to a person. My brother used to be an outgoing, genuinely happy boy – until he was tormented daily, between the hours of eight and three.

No one ever asked me how I felt when my brother was a victim of bullying.

They all assumed I was fine. I mean, it wasn’t happening to me, was it? I would watch him come home from school, crying or mad, because he was harassed, hit, or kicked by his own classmates. I didn’t know what to do for him, and for the longest time I was just a bystander. I knew exactly what was going on, and I knew who these kids were, but I didn’t do anything about it.

“It will be okay,” is all I would tell him, as I ran my hand up and down the small of his back, as if I were trying to comfort him.

No one ever asked me how I felt as he replayed me the nightmares these boys caused him at school. He would tell me about how in gym class, balls would be thrown at him, or how he would be shoved against a wall and pinned there.

All I could wonder, is where the teacher was during these moments. Who was watching these kids? How did they get away with this? I never knew exactly what to say, and, to this day, I think that’s what bothers me most. I feel like I wasn’t there for him. I didn’t help him, and I should have. Isn’t that my job as an older sibling? To be there, during the best times, and especially, during the worst ones?

But, where was I? I don’t think I fully understood the severity of his situation at school. I wouldn’t blink twice when he would stay home for consecutive days, every week, instead of going to school. I never wondered why he was “sick” so many days throughout the school week. I didn’t worry when he didn’t want to do anything anymore, or when he didn’t speak anymore. Did I even notice that he was depressed and hurting? I don’t think I did. I was selfish. I didn’t care about anyone, but myself.

I would just sit there, when he would tell my parents and I how he was shoved against lockers, and the boys said that he deserved this because he was stupid, or because he’s gay. What I didn’t understand is why kids said this to him. My 48

brother is very intelligent, and a lot of times he helped me, with my homework.

My brother isn’t gay. It just didn’t make any sense to me. He was made fun of because he wears glasses. Half the population of the United States wears glasses, and now, half of those boys, that bullied him, wear glasses. He was picked on because he wore sweatpants. Why? Why did he deserve to have balls thrown at him, to be pushed down in the hallways, to have books knocked out of his hands, and to be judged and laughed at for his choice of clothing?

No one ever asked me how I felt. The truth is, I didn’t know how I felt anyways.

So, I guess it didn’t really matter if they would have asked me. I wouldn’t have known what to say. I never knew what to think about the situation my brother was in. I never knew what to think until the day we were eating spaghetti at the supper table. He wasn’t eating, and all I could notice is how he was physically there with us, but he was gone, somewhere else at the same time. He would move his noodles around on his plate with his head hanging low.

“How was school today?” my dad asked us.

I mentioned how school was fine, the usual answer. We all knew Dieken didn’t have a good day, but my father always asked anyways. I don’t think this helped any, but it was an opening for my brother to let his feelings out. I remember him banging his fist on the dark brown, oak kitchen table and standing up. His spaghetti filled plate fell to the floor. He yelled at us, and then suddenly within that moment, I started to understand.

“I want to die,” he yelled. “Life isn’t worth this. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Instantly, my favorite spaghetti dinner, became one of the worst things I have ever eaten. I cried into my marinara sauce and angel-hair noodles, as I thought that I was going to lose my baby brother, my best friend. It was my fault. I saw these kids every day. I should have done something, but I never did. But that day, the worst day, my eyes were opened. I didn’t fully understand, but I knew I had to do something.

No one ever asked me how I felt after that day. Nobody ever wondered if I was okay, or how I was doing when it felt like my whole world was crumbling beneath my feet. No one ever offered their shoulder to cry on, or a listening ear for me to vent to. No one ever talked to me about it. All I wanted was for someone, anyone, to listen to what I had to say.

After that day, the worst day, my parents called the school. I talked to the principal, the counselor, the superintendent – but we were all fooled. What were they going to do? We live in a small town, only eight hundred people. Everyone here, grew up here. If you didn’t have the right last name, you were toast, bottom of the totem pole, unfortunate.

“We will talk to all the boys,” the principal assured me.

She never did. Dieken was forced to stay in from recess, because she thought this would help him. I guess, you can’t get bullied at recess if you aren’t there.

49

Needless to say, nothing changed. I became very depressed and felt as if I had failed. Before, I failed because I didn’t try, but now, I failed when I even tried.

My brother was still missing days, upon days, of school. His grades were slipping, and we weren’t even sure if he was going to make it to the fifth grade. My parents were fed up with receiving no help from the school, so they decided to transfer my brother to a different school district. Upon arriving at the new school to sign papers for him, the administration told my parents that it was past the cutoff date to transfer. My parents begged and begged, tried pleading with a case of bullying, and finally the school allowed him entry.

My family thought that this was the end. I thought we were all allowed to breathe again, but this didn’t last long. My brother was an avid baseball player.

He loved the game. The new school district he was in did not have a baseball team, and my dad was asked to coach, again, for my brother’s old town. My dad thought it would be fine, so he and my brother, coached and played for the old district. We didn’t think that there would be any issues, since my dad was in charge. We were wrong.

Parents would complain, because my brother played first base, and they wanted their kid to play first base. My father would explain that he was always doing what was best for the team. Soon, practice became hell for him. Baseballs would be thrown at him. The same boys would trip him while he was running, or hide his things so he couldn’t play. It was really sad to see the sport of baseball, ruined for him.

When baseball season was over, and my brother was relieved from the bitter, coldhearted, and gut-wrenching words and taunts, I noticed he wasn’t the same.

He didn’t laugh much, and he would hide away in his room all day long. He didn’t want to go anywhere, or see anyone. I knew he was depressed. I worried for him every day, every hour. I was always worried, that when I would walk into his room, I would find his lifeless body. I was so afraid that he was going to take himself away from us.

No one ever asked me, if I was okay. I wasn’t okay. I had failed him. My duty as an older sister is to protect him and his happiness. I let that slip away, and I will never forgive myself for that. My brother and I do not have the best relationship anymore, and I can’t help thinking that it is because I failed him. I failed him, and he knows.

How could I ever make it up to him? How could I ever make this better?

My once, outgoing, happy brother had been ruined. He isn’t the same, and I don’t think that he ever will be. I used to be able to joke around with him, play with him, have fun with him, and talk to him. It is all different now. I have to constantly watch what I say, or one slip-up could be a reminder of the worst years.

We don’t talk about the worst years. The worst years are behind us.

No one ever asks me how I am now, or even, how Dieken is now. People act like it didn’t happen. Almost as if, it was all just a big joke that we played when he was in middle school. There are days when I struggle, like looking through old 50

pictures, and I can see the old him, before the worst years. We were so happy, the best of friends. But now, it’s all different. Nothing is the same anymore.

No one ever asks me if I am okay, or if I want to talk about it. Nobody ever wonders how I persevered through the God-awful, worst years of my life. All I wanted was for someone, anyone, to ask, but no one ever did. No one ever asked me how I felt, and it is selfish for me to say that. I wasn’t bullied. I wasn’t picked on. I wasn’t scared to go to school every day, and I wasn’t pushed down, or kicked when I was at school. Dieken was, and for me to think these were the worst years of my life, is wrong of me. I am wrong to wonder why no one asked me if I was okay. How many people asked my brother? I didn’t. I know I didn’t. Why? I was afraid. I was scared to hear what he was going to say. I was fearful, because I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know how to comfort him. I didn’t know how to fix things. The solutions to this problem, the solution to the worst years, was so far out of my reach, that I didn’t even try. I should have tried.

Since the worst years, I take bullying quite seriously. I can, honestly and proudly, say that I am no longer a bystander. I hope that one day, with my Bachelor’s Degree, in Elementary and Special Education that I can make a difference in someone’s life. I hope that my future students will feel comfortable and safe when they step into my classroom. I wish for students to be able to talk to me about anything, and I pray that I will know exactly what to say. I will no longer be afraid to listen, or to respond. I may not be able to end bullying, but I can teach my students that a bully’s actions are completely unacceptable. I will, one class at a time, one student at a time, teach the next generation the importance of kindness, because I refuse to see another child go through what my brother had to go through. One kind word, one kind act can change a person’s life, just as easy as one hurtful word or one hurtful act can.

I want to believe so badly that the world can be a better place and that all people can be kind. I want to believe that my brother will find the strength, and courage, to be himself again. I want to believe that the worst years are, in fact, behind us.

And most days, I want to believe so badly that he doesn’t feel pain in his heart anymore, the way I do for him.

51

Look Again

by Joseph Brinkman

Y

ou know it’s funny the way we look at pictures. We flip through them so fast because we think that we have so many to look through or show someone. Our society is all about living fast, and the next biggest thing is becoming faster and faster. We are all about speed, but never slow down for the things that may be the most important. Life always seems to be about the bigger picture. When you think of college, what do you think of? Most likely what field you are studying and going into in the long run. But how are you going to do that?

What is going to be on the journey to get you to where you want to go? Family, friends, people that you never thought you would meet? Slowing down and taking time to think about what is most important to us tends to be hard because we have to narrow it down. We have to stop and figure it out. The following picture and reflection is just an example of how slowing down and looking again is so important to who we are.

52

It was this picture that stamped the weekend. Volleyball in the foreground, a Ping hat, stained with the dirt that rubs off it from my hands, my sunglasses that I put on when I walk outside don’t mean anything. What meant something was something I was not aware of.

The right frame of the sunglasses, my left if they were on, that was what meant the most. Family and friends, simple. Volleyball was the bigger picture, getting to the games on time and how to get there was the bigger picture. All of that matters, but what of that is going to matter at the end of life? Volleyball is just a variable that can only be around for so long. The Ping hat is only going to be around so long. And it is only a matter of time until the sunglasses are lost, broken, or sink to the bottom of the lake. The little things are what matter. The little things such as family and friends are what matter the most.

Grace means more to me than anyone else in my entire life outside of my family and she just happens to be taking a picture with my little sister in the sunglasses sitting on the back of my hat. It’s funny how in this picture I am looking forward at the volleyball matches and paying attention to how the games are going. I was always looking ahead, watching Molly dig balls that most people wouldn’t be able to, or just waiting for time to pass by. Little did I know that behind me, which would require me to look back—something our society seems to struggle with— were two people who are extremely important to me. Volleyball games are played to a certain score, end a certain way. What doesn’t have an ending or needs to end a certain way are the smiles that are on the faces of two girls that are changing my life one experience at a time. Every night I lay down to thank God for my family, and putting me in the position to be the leader of my seven younger siblings.

Following that is thanking Him for putting Grace in my life. I am blessed beyond measure and I do not know how to explain why God does what he does, but there is a reason for it. And one of his reasons lead to the picture of my little sister and my girlfriend, smiling without a care in the world into the lens of a pair of sunglasses sitting on the back of a worn Ping hat at a volleyball tournament, while I’m too busy looking ahead, waiting for time to pass. Slow down, recognize your blessings, and thank God for them. So I challenge you, look through old pictures, see what you find, try a 1" picture frame sometime.

53

A Disability Does Not Make Us Different

by Alexandra Bargstadt

M

y brother, Josh, and I are two people who were raised in the same household, but we have lived vastly different lives. This is not due to age, gender, or parenting. The only reason for this difference is because while growing up Josh had epilepsy. Some may say that children with a disability live much different lives than “normal” children, and for the most part, they are correct. I witnessed almost every step of my brother’s life, and the differences range from few to many. Physical, educational, and numerous other contrasts are exhibited between Josh and me, but what is truly surprising is the number of similarities that are masked by all the variances in our lives.

Josh began having seizures when he was only six months old. The countless stitches and staples, five brain surgeries, numerous other operations, and thousands of doctor appointments took its toll on Josh and my parents. Josh was a trooper. He went to every appointment and sat through every long, boring meeting about his brain even though he didn’t understand anything the doctors said. I am three years younger than Josh, but I could see the struggles that were apparent in his everyday life. When Josh was in fifth grade, he had his second major brain surgery; the surgeon decided to remove a large section of his brain. This ended up putting him into a coma for two weeks. My parents lived at the hospital that winter, and Josh, with wires and tubes sticking out of every part of his body, fought hard to recover from that dreaded surgery. Unfortunately, the surgery was not successful, and it left him with weaknesses in his right side that are still present today. When he was sixteen, a new doctor brought him in for his final brain surgery. It was a long road for him; by the time he was fully recovered from the last surgery, the doctors wanted to do another. It was difficult seeing Josh laying in hospital beds and not being able to walk for weeks after surgery.

However, in October 2017, he was five years seizure free. He was overwelmed with joy when the doctors told him he would no longer have seizures. Today, Josh lives every day to the fullest; his smile is contagious, and he is one of the loudest and most supportive fans at volleyball games.

Josh and I have many things in common. We both were raised on a small farm eight miles south of Winside, Nebraska. We both learned how to drive a four-wheeler when we were six years old, and both of us enjoy many of the same activities. Fishing, playing cards, and watching sports are some of our favorites. We have always been best friends; as kids, we would play every second 54

of every day together. Our parents took us camping as kids, and we both love to have fun. Josh has a huge heart; he is always trying to make someone laugh or smile. I think this is a similarity between us. We both are caring toward others, and I think this is probably the best quality we share. Some people don’t think of kids with a disability to have so much in common with normal kids, but they do. Josh has two part-time jobs, and finished high school with good grades. He talks to everyone he meets even if he doesn’t know them; my mom calls him a social butterfly. My brother and I have more in common than I could have ever imagined, but we also have many differences.

When Josh was growing up, he was not able to enjoy his childhood like a normal kid. He was meeting with doctors, having surgery after surgery while I could go to school and play whatever I wanted. For most of his childhood, he was assisted while walking down the hallways in our elementary school and had to wear a blue skateboard helmet. He was not able to go to the bathroom alone, walk on and off the bus by himself, or sit at a desk without assistance from a teacher.

He wore a walking belt, and our school nurse, Mrs. North, helped him walk from place to place. This difference restricted Josh from having the freedom that I experienced as a child. As Josh got older, he was bullied by the other students in his class. They thought he was weird, retarded, and different, so they gave him the nickname “Seizure Boy”. This experience made Josh lose trust in kids his age. He sought to find new friends, but the only people he trusted were young children that he could entertain or adults who would never judge him. The kids in his class could not understand what Josh was going through like I did. I saw every event that happened in Josh’s life, so I understood how he felt. These experiences, in some ways, changed Josh’s personality.

I could easily see the emotional changes Josh went through during his childhood; however, I don’t think his emotions are much different than mine. I would say that we are both happy people. We both have had hard times in our lives, and Josh has had more than me. When we were children, Josh had a lot more falls than me, and I can say that his pain tolerance is much higher than mine. For example, when we were younger we liked to climb into the back of my dad’s four door, long box, black Chevy pickup. One time, Josh had a seizure and fell head first on top of the ball used to hook up trailers. He had a massive gash on the side of his head but didn’t shed one tear. If it had been me, the water works would’ve turned on before I knew what happened. Josh’s emotions are not any different that anyone else’s. He cries when he is sad and laughs when he is happy.

I think this is the same for anyone with a disability like Josh’s. We all feel the same emotions in our lives. Whether it be sadness or happiness, we all have the capability of feeling what someone has once felt; it may not be to the same extent as the other person, but we all have feelings. This similarity brings us to another contrast in Josh and my lives.

Josh looks perfectly healthy; however, he does experience some physical limitations. The most noticeable limitation is Josh’s right hand and foot. He 55

can walk fine; unfortunately, these appendages curl up when he moves them in a particular manner. This is because the surgeries performed were all done on the left side of his brain; due to the fact that the left side of the brain controls the right side of the human body, Josh’s right side was affected. My family always says that Josh is the least athletic person on the planet. We know this isn’t true, but we all get a good laugh about it because the rest of us are pretty good at sports. My two other siblings and I play numerous different sports and are decent at them as well. This difference between Josh and I is probably one of the most noticeable.

I believe that people with a disability appear to be much different than “normal” people because they physically look or perform movements differently.

Probably the biggest difference between Josh and me or a person with a disability and a person without one is education. Education differs for everyone; some people are born incredibly intelligent while others lack book smarts. Some people can recite every element on the periodic table, and others may not know what the periodic table is. I believe this is due to the amount of schooling they are exposed to and their innate desire to learn. Due to the endless number of appointments, and multiple surgeries Josh went through, he got behind in school. He wasn’t present during most classes, and brain surgery takes a toll on the patient. Josh had trouble remembering the names of some of his friends after each surgery, so it is easy to identify why he might have gotten behind on some courses. To ensure Josh received the proper education, he stayed two extra years in high school while I finished high school after my senior year and continued my education at Mount Marty College. On the other hand, Josh will probably never get to experience college. He is twenty-one now and living independently in my parents’ house. This point is a similarity and difference that we share. Josh and I are both independent now, but Josh lives with our parents, and I do not. Our lifestyles are similar even though we are in two different places.

Josh and I share a lot in common and have numerous differences as well. I believe a person with a disability such as Josh’s is just like any “normal” person, whatever the definition of normal may be. However, a childhood for someone like Josh is more difficult than most could imagine. Josh never experienced the freedom that a child should, and he never got the chance to enjoy his childhood to the fullest. I do not think Josh is any different than me on the inside, but it’s the disability that everyone notices, on the outside, that makes him seem so different.

56

My Most Bizarre Job: Cleaning a House

by Alexandra Bargstadt

J

ob experience has always been pretty simple for me. I grew up on a farm, eight miles south of Winside, Nebraska. When I was tall enough to reach the clutch pedal of my dad’s John Deere tractors, I was allowed to help with field work. Later, when I started driving to school, I began to babysit for my neighbors.

Then this summer, I told my parents I wanted to work more, so I went on a hunt for jobs. I ended up finding mowing jobs for a local bank and at Winside’s Pleasant View Cemetery. I also continued to babysit weekly for a family friend.

These jobs kept me pretty busy, but I had time to work more. One day, my dad came home and described how one of his buddies had recently bought a house, and he was trying to find some workers to clean it up before he could rent it out. Now, when I thought of cleaning, I thought maybe it would include a little dusting and scrubbing some floors, so my siblings and I took the job without hesitation. However, this house was the most disgusting place I had ever seen.

The previous owner was nothing but a slob. This three-day job was the hardest task I have ever had to complete.

The first day on the job was filled with surprises. After meeting with my employer, I gathered work gloves and two boxes of heavy duty garbage bags, and drove down to the house. A quarter mile long, winding gravel lane took me to an acreage which sat down in the middle of a section of farm land. It was actually a nice little farm with two barns, a garage, and a large farm house. The house was a faded yellow with a maroon lattice-covered front porch. The front yard was a combination of trash bags and pop boxes entangled in three-foot-tall weeds. The only visible path to the porch was a poorly built, wooden wheelchair ramp. Climbing the steady incline to the porch, I gazed upon the piles of trash towering against the rails of the eight by sixteen-foot porch; it looked as if the trash on the porch alone could fill an entire dumpster. Taking a scoop shovel, I placed all of the trash into the garbage bags I was provided. Once this was accomplished, I headed inside. The first room I witnessed was a small mud room stacked high with Bud Light and Mountain Dew boxes, old shoes, and cans. I trudged through this mess to enter the living room. This was one of the most disgusting scenes I have ever laid my eyes on. Half eaten microwave dishes, moldy French onion dip containers, dog feces, peanut shells, and cigarette butts were scattered across the floor. A musty aroma of cigarette smoke and rodents lingered in the air. I had no clue where to start. Very few pieces of furniture were in the room: a couple desk chairs, a lamp, and a television stand. Gnats swarmed around the worst smells in the room, but I had to start cleaning. Luckily, my younger brother, Jake, came along that day. We took turns picking up the trash as the other held the garbage bag. After each bag was full, we hauled it out to a pile of bags outside of the house.

57

After completing the living room, we moved on to the kitchen. It was a beautifully arranged kitchen and the perfect amount of cabinet space for any sized family. The darkly stained, wooden cabinets extended to the ceiling of the floral wall papered room. Countertops lined every wall; unfortunately, they were covered with mouse poop and mold. The sink was green with scum, and the oddly carpeted floor had been stained by different colored substances spilled over it. On one counter, two dead, rotting mice lay in mouse traps; each one had its own collection of maggots crawling on top. We threw each mouse and all of the food into garbage bags and took them straight outside. My brother opened the refrigerator and started to clean out the moldy food that had been left inside.

As he was doing this, I took a peek into the dishwasher. When I opened it, a revolting odor hit me like a truck. Four inches of thick green sludge and water sat in the bottom, and thick spider web-like mold was strung from each piece of kitchenware still placed in the once white racks. I took a deep breath and quickly snatched up each utensil and chucked them into the nearest trash bag.

Next, we moved to the laundry room, bathroom, and bedroom. We uncovered multiple mouse nests made of yellow cushioning in the laundry room. The washer and dryer were full of clothing that had never been taken out. The man that previously resided in the house must have shaved over the sink because it was full of short stubbled hair. The toilet, sink, and bathtub were all a mint green color and very close together in the tiny room. I could tell none of them had been cleaned in a long time.

Furniture was nonexistent in the bedroom; only some pieces of clothing and blankets were laying on the floor until I opened the dresser. When I opened the wooden door, I heard something shift on the inside; suddenly, a cream-colored plastic leg jumped out at me. I jumped out of the way as it fell to the floor. It turns out the man that lived there had a prosthetic leg, and I had discovered its hiding place. I quickly threw the contents of the closet into a bag and ran it out to the pile. After finding the leg, Jake and I decided to stop for the day. By the time we left, our pile was looking more like a mountain. The black bags covered at least a twenty by twenty-foot area, and we had a long way to go.

On the second day of work, my brother did not want to come back, so I brought my dad along. When we got there, a musty aroma still lingered in the air, so we opened every window to let some air flow throughout the house. That day was one of the hottest days of the summer; the house felt about one hundred degrees. I was dripping with sweat and so was my dad, but we decided to clean the upstairs. Starting in the living room, a steep, wooden staircase ran to the upstairs to four bedrooms; each was medium sized and carpeted differently. The hallway had old green and black patterned carpet, and each bedroom had its own personalized carpet. One bedroom located on the south side of the house was cleaned out. A bed frame and some jackets lay on the floor, but those were easy to move. The next room, on the north side, had a mini trampoline and a treadmill on the inside. A few mouse nests lay in the corners as well.

58

I moved to the next and filthiest bedroom. I walked in and immediately smelled smoke. Piles and piles of cigarette butts were strewn throughout the room. Peanut shells were scattered in the carpet, along with empty pop and beer bottles, cans, microwave dishes and more dog feces. A small space heater was placed in one corner of the room, and a stained mattress lay vertically to the far wall. A mound of boxes and trash lay at the foot of the bed. This was the most horrific bedroom I had ever laid eyes on. I started picking up as much as I could.

I could hardly breathe because of the carpet’s stench, so I cleaned as much as I could at a time before I had to stand up and take a breath. The walls of the room were painted white, but on the west side of the room, something brown and red had been splattered against the paint. This disgusting stain covered almost half of the dented wall. The foot of the bed and the side nearest the wall were the messiest. Ripped blankets and old food containers lined the walls. I started picking up the blankets when a hot pink object fell to the floor. I looked at it stunned; it was a male sex toy. I evacuated the room as fast as I could and told my dad I did not want to be in that room any longer.

Later that day, he explained that when he lifted the mattress off the bed frame, the entire bottom of the mattress was gone. We realized that this was the material the mice had been using for their nests, and it had been taken all over the house.

After finishing this bedroom, we both moved to the final room on the upper level. This was used mostly for storage. Bedframes and old shelves were placed in the room, along with some mementos from an older couple that once lived in the house: pictures, bowling trophies, dancing shoes, and coin collections. The upstairs took a lot longer than expected, so we hauled out the trash bags and called it a day.

It would only take one more day to finish cleaning this horrific household.

Coming back for the third time was not an easy task, but this time, I brought along my dad and my sister, Andi. Surprisingly, after the stories we told, she was willing to come along and help. The only part of the house we had left to clean was the basement. This unfinished basement had cement floors and block walls.

The temperature drastically changed as I descended for the first time into the dark dungeon. Only one small light worked in the very back of the large room, and from the dim light I could make out a few objects. However, after my dad returned with a large work light, we could see more. In the very back of the room were some materials used for carpentry. Tools were scattered throughout the entire room. Halloween and Christmas decorations were hiding in large boxes and bags. A life-sized scare crow with overalls and a cowboy hat sat atop a wooden workbench. Lying under its feet was a small tin cattle tank. The tank had a heat lamp connected to one side as if little chicks were once raised in it. As we stepped closer, an odor arose, and we noticed that dead chicks were rotting and decaying in the bottom of the bin. I picked up the four red feathered chicks and threw them into a box which my sister then hauled outside. I started filling trash bags and boxes with anything that would fit. As I was hauling a load outside, I heard my dad say something was disgusting. When I got back down the rickety 59

staircase, Andi held up what appeared to be a dead rabbit. It had been hidden under a pile of old coats, and most of the fur had already fallen off. When we finished picking everything up, we turned to an enormous cabinet placed against a wall. It was filled with hundreds of canning jars. Some of these jars were full of canned foods and others were empty. Most had been exposed to botulism and other harmful bacteria. It took us over an hour and countless trips outside to haul all the jars away. Andi and I would take turns grabbing jars from the shelf and placing them in boxes. At one point a little furry mouse ran across Andi’s hand and she let out a loud yelp. Later, I pulled out a jar that contained what I thought was a dead bat. When we were all finished, we had a giant collection of black garbage bags, furniture, and glass canning jars.

That was the final day I went back to that house. This work experience was definitely an eye opener for me. Before this summer, I did not know that anyone would ever live the way that man did. A beautiful farm house was destroyed by one man’s laziness. I did not know the man, but I heard that he only lived on this farm as a caretaker of his elderly stepfather. After his stepfather passed away, the man lived there until relatives kicked him out. Did he make his stepfather live in these conditions? Why would he live like this? How could anyone be comfortable with this lifestyle? This job was the most bizarre and disgusting job I have ever accomplished, and it is hard for me to understand what would make anyone live in these conditions.

60

Lucky Lefty

by Lacee Fedeler

N

ot many people know this about me, but I am blessed, and cursed, with being left-handed. Being a lefty is not all that it is cracked up to be.

Sure, you get some advantages in sports since people are not used to a left-handed player, but there are also some disadvantages. Personally, I love being left-handed. It is a great conversation starter, and it is just something unique about me. Approximately ten percent of the world’s population is lefthanded, so it is definitely unique.

However, there are some things about being left-handed that are not particularly enjoyable. One of the first things that people will ask you as soon as they realize that you are left-handed is, “Oh my goodness. Are you left-handed?” as if they did not just see you use a pencil with your left hand. I have been asked that question 2,036 times to be exact, and each time is more annoying than the last. It astonishes me how that is the first thing that they ask you. Did they just decide to block out the last six seconds from their memory where they saw me use my left-hand? They had visual evidence to prove that I am, in fact a lefty, yet they choose to ask anyway.

Another typical response that I get when people realize that I am left-handed is, “Oh you’re left-handed? That is so cool. I have a *insert relative’s name here* who is left-handed, too!” I have yet to formulate a proper response to that statement.

My go-to response for that situation is, “Oh cool!” What else am I supposed to say in that particular situation? I most likely do not know the person who is talking to me; also, I surely do not know who the relative is, so I cannot make conversation about that either. Sometimes I will mention that I got my left-handedness from my grandmother. I might also mention that both of my parents are right-handed, yet both of their children are lefties. The response to this is usually, “Wow, that is so odd.” and then we both continue with our lives as broke college students and Starbucks baristas.

One thing that I particularly enjoy about being left-handed is all of the random facts about lefties that I have come across. First off, did you know that lefties die up to nine years earlier than righties? It is kind of a morbid and scary thought, but also quite interesting. I came across this fact my junior year of high school, and not being satisfied with just a fact and zero explanation, I decided to research as to why lefties die sooner. For example, if a lefty and a righty are driving on a road 61

and something jumps out in front of them, lefties will want to swerve to the left directly into oncoming traffic resulting in tragedy. However, righties will tend to swerve to the right into a ditch resulting in minor car damage and maybe a few injuries. Basically, lefties die up to nine years sooner than righties, because they are more prone to accidents. This seems like a 100% fact taking into consideration who I am as a person as well as other fellow lefties I know.

Another interesting fact about lefties is left-handed college graduates will become twenty-six percent richer than right-handed graduates. A study was conducted and proved that lefties make around ten to fifteen percent more than their righty counterparts. Scientists hypothesize that this is due to lefties being more creative thinkers and working both parts of the brain better than righties.

We lefties are living in what we call “A Righty’s World,” so we need to be able to adapt. Not every utensil is made for use for the left-hand, so lefties adapt by learning to use their right-hand. By using their right-hand, they are activating the other half of their brain. This allows both sides of the brain to be almost equally strong. With an increased thinking ability, lefties can be seen as more useful and valuable in the work field, resulting in an increase in wages. (Kerns) One last interesting fact about lefties is that they become angry easier than righties. This could come from the world being against them and that everything is designed for righties, but there is some actual science to it. Lefties have more negative emotions due to the set-up of their brains. According to an article in Time Magazine, lefty brains have been shown to “have a greater imbalance in activity between the left and right brains when they process emotions.” (Cloud) This means that us lefties have a harder time processing emotion, which results in anger issues.

Scientists are not sure if we become angry from the inability to properly process emotions or if we are more on edge due to it being a Righty’s World. Either way, I found this fact very interesting, because it informs me why I have anger problems; in a sense, I cannot really help my hotheadedness, it is just in my genes.

As I have mentioned before, we live in a Righty’s World. Almost every utensil known to man is crafted for a right-handed user. Scissors, can openers, pens attached to the signing machine at banks, computer mouses… the list goes on and on, but one thing remains true. It most certainly is a Righty’s World. If you do not agree, then take a nice, little stroll through the softball glove section or the school supplies section at any store. Take count of the number of lefty softball gloves and lefty scissors you see, then get back to me. You can now see how the world is setup for righty success. As a child, I was always jealous from the endless options of beautiful softball gloves crafted from the finest types of leather. However, for a lefty like myself, there were approximately two options for gloves – brown and darker brown. How lovely.

The complication of never having options for basic needs continued into the classroom. I have so many memories from elementary school from playing Harry Potter every recess for four years straight, to playing a hipster version of “Pom Pom Pullaway” my friends and I called “Catch the Pretty Ponies,” there were 62

many great times attending Madison Elementary School. However, I have one memory from elementary school that was not all butterflies and rainbows, and that is the memory of scissors. A majority of our crafting projects included the use of scissors. I loved drawing, painting, and gluing things back then, but I never particularly enjoyed using the scissors provided by our elementary school. The reason for this is that there were never any bright, colorful options for scissors as a lefty; there was only a sad, dark green option, no matter what grade you were in.

Many people do not believe that lefty scissors are an actual thing. They see this as a scam to make lefties feel better about themselves as well as trick them into spending more money on a useless tool. All I have to say to that is, become left-handed and try to use scissors designated for righties. The outcome is always dreadful. Not only do your hands hurt after using them for a long period of time, but also the lines are more crooked and jagged than Donald Trump himself.

Aside from softball glove and scissor troubles, historically, lefties faced a lot of discrimination and hate. Around the seventeenth century, the left hand was associated with evil and the Devil. You can see how this led to problems with our left-handed ancestors. It was believed that the Devil baptized people with his left-hand. The Devil and other evil things were portrayed as lefties in a lot of paintings and drawings. It was also believed that the Devil watched us over our left shoulder. People were instructed to throw salt over their left shoulder to help ward off the Devil. (Left handed myths and misunderstandings) Having the left-hand be associated with the Devil and other evil things were not the only preposterous beliefs in the past. There were many superstitions about the evil qualities of the left-hand that people actually believed. For example, it was seen as bad luck to step out of bed with your left-foot first. If you did this, it was believed that you would have a terrible day. Greeks and Romans believed that wedding rings worn on the middle finger on your left-hand would defend against the evil spirits that were associated with the left-hand. It was also believed that if your right-foot itched while hiking, you would have a great journey while if your left-foot itched, your journey would end in despair. Lastly, the right-hand was mentioned positively over 100 times in the Bible, while the left-hand has been mentioned twenty-five times, all negatively.

As you can see, lefties have been bashed on from century to century. However, I try to be an optimist and believe that there is good in everyone and everything, even lefties. Although I have written about most of the lows of being left-handed, I actually love being a lefty. First of all, you have an edge when it comes to most sports. In tennis, a lefty has a different kind of spin on the ball while serving as well as ground strokes. A majority of lefties choose to utilize the spin serve more than anything else due to the unique spin caused from using a different hand.

There are a lot more righties playing tennis than lefties, so nobody is used to returning a lefty serve or ground stroke. Almost every opponent I have played against complains about my left-handedness to which I respond with, “Hey, don’t hate the playa, hate the game.�

63

Another sport in which I have an advantage in is bowling. I will try to explain the basics of oil patterns in a paragraph or less to help everyone get on the same page of what I am referring to. In bowling, there are many different oil patterns on the surface of the lane, and each oil pattern has its own name. Non-bowlers believe that regular bowlers are making things up when we say there are such things as oil patterns. They think that we are just making things up in order to strengthen our case of why bowling should be a sport. However, oil patterns are indeed an actual thing and each pattern contains its own tricks and challenges.

As the games progress, the lanes start to “break down.� This means that the lanes become drier in some areas and oilier in others. This is caused by people throwing in relatively the same spot, therefore causing the lanes to become drier in those areas. I cannot name a single tournament that I have competed in where my righty companions have not complained about the break down of the lanes.

Lefties, on the other hand, do not experience the break down of the lanes on the same scale. By this, I mean that the lefty break-down is hardly noticeable, if it is present at all. This is a huge advantage for us, because the break down of the lanes makes bowling that much more difficult. For example, if you miss your spot on the lanes by even one, one-inch board to the right, it could cause the ball to hook immensely resulting in a nasty split or missing the head pin altogether. It really pays off to be left-handed in bowling because of the lack of traffic on your side of the lane. This makes it an all-around better experience for us.

Altogether, being a lefty is amazing. You have a special bond with other lefties that cannot be explained. Even though lefties were thought to be associated with the Devil and evil, we have progressed as a society to believe that lefties are somewhat normal people. It is also amazing to be a lefty because of the advantages you receive in almost every sport that you play. I will take all of the negatives of being left-handed, because the positives far outweigh them.

Works Cited Cloud, John. Brain Science: Does Being Left-Handed Make You Angry?

15 September 2010. Web. 9 December 2017.

Kerns, Katie. What Being Left-Handed Says About Your Personality.

20 August 2015. Web. 9 December 2017.

Left handed myths and misunderstandings. 2015. Web. 9 December 2017.

64

The Secret To My Success

Saving Money, Staying Fit, and Getting Sh*t Done.

by Emma Thury

J

oin me as I turn four blank pages into completely functional monthly spreads.

With this journal, I am able to track my finances and health habits. I also have a daily to-do list reminding me of everything that needs to get done. Are you still curious? Fall down the bullet journal rabbit hole with me and search the countless other videos done on this topic. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s5AFrsEyU20

65

Tattoo

by Kaysia Armijo

I

walked into the tattoo shop full of outcasts to soon realize my new life was staring me directly in the eyes. Fifteen, with my mom taking me to get my first tattoo, my cheeks rosy with terror and excitement. I eye the bald man at the counter, gaged ears with tattoos covering his entire neck and arms, but his eyes were a model all alone. He caught me staring at him and he walks up to me “What is a fifteen year old getting a tattoo for?” I swallow hard because not even I know the answer; I found a picture on the internet of a heart with the word “love” written in cursive inside it and let my brain come up with something that I could easily relate to. It’s October fourth 2014, exactly a year after my suicide attempt, and convincing my mom to sign for me seemed pretty simple after I enlightened her that I wanted this tattoo to remind me that I am loved, even when I can’t find the strength to love myself. I finally learned that the bald man was named Jack and his sister who was doing my tattoo was also my neighbor. She brings out the needle and I feel that I am going to pass out, I grip the top of my thighs and take a deep breathe in. You can do this. She takes me into the room and closes the curtain behind her.

I lay down on the large cream colored chair that is leaned full back with rips and tears around the inner seat, clearly a chair from the 80s that is finally being put to some good use. She places the stencil on my body and makes sure I’m happy with the placement and size, I stare at it realizing I’m finally doing something a little wild with my life and it excites me more than jumping out of a plane. I lay back down and stare at the ceiling while the sound of the tattoo gun whirls in the background.

She dips the tip of the needle in the ink and scoots her chair over to me and holds my leg down. “I’m going to touch now, take a deep breath in sweetie.” I breathe in deep and feel the needle penetrate my skin the pain intense, but strangely relaxing at the same time. I breathe out and feel the needle scratching my skin like a scalpel in surgery, but my surgeon is a middle-aged woman and my anesthetic two ibuprofen I had popped in just before. An hour later she finishes up and the sensitive skin stings and aches, but in the best way possible; the past year had been completely forgotten. As I look at my newly fresh ink I smirk at all the possibilities ahead of me and the newly found addiction I had acquired.

66

Something I’ve Always Been Good At

by Kaysia Armijo

H

ow to write down all your emotions on paper and express them no where else. The first and most crucial part of expressing emotions on paper is you must be socially awkward, not just in public speaking or class discussion, but truly awkward. Adding to that you need to develop the greatest poker face of all time, not just during competitions but everywhere, that face that nobody can tell if you’re pissed off or just have a RBF (resting bitch face).

Secondly, to be socially awkward you need to have a cause. Make your father teach you that money is the only way someone can truly be happy and that it makes up for all mistakes including three affairs and daily verbal abuse. Your friend crying after a break-up? Awkwardly pat her back with that blank expression and tell her what all the movies say, “You’re too good for him, he doesn’t deserve you.” Nailed it. Next buy her something, food, clothes, anything because money always fixes everything, especially a broken heart.

The important part about showing emotions nowhere but on paper is to develop that keen sense to overthink absolutely everything. Really pack on that excess stress; it always creates a lot of unexplained emotions. The best time to do it is when you’re about to sleep, let the thoughts consume you, “I should’ve said this” or “I should have told this joke, answered this question.” Too late now. Don’t let go of the past though; instead write it somewhere, a napkin, a paper, a document on your computer, write about it. Only let a few people in because too many would mean your writing would suffer. Tell everyone minimal details about your personal life; save the more intense stories for later so they don’t think you’re crazy. Tell them you have seven tattoos but don’t tell them what they personally mean to you including the one you got when you were only fifteen and every year since. Tell them it’s therapeutic, but don’t expect them to understand. Learn to express emotion because without it you’ll become your father.

67

How to Become Something

by Kaysia Armijo

You become something by becoming someone, walking into a room and people knowing you’ve earned your right to be there and so has everyone else.

You become something when your father tells you you’ll always be nothing, it encourages you, it drives you more than anything.

Become something by picturing who you want to be a professional sports player, a surgeon, maybe even just being the first one to hold a college diploma in you hand.

When you are criticized and ridiculed wipe it off your shoulder, hear it, but never believe it, listen, but never give into these words, let them energize you to be the bigger person and to not do wrong to those who have done wrong to you.

Be a vivacious person, be an optimist, even though you failed your first chemistry test you can only improve yourself from here, don’t take a walk down the wrong path, you need to rise above it.

68

Don’t fear what could happen, fear the regret if you don’t even try. To become something you need to picture a successful you in five to ten years and truly strive to be that individual, don’t let others take your kindness for weakness, do one thing every day that makes you happy and live to the fullest.

To become something you need to become someone to yourself and be proud of your achievements, even if you’re the only one.

69

Humanity?

by Kimberly Ivonne Mosqueda

A

ustralopithecus afarensis, homo habilis, homo neanderthalensis, homo sapiens. Two hundred thousand years later to bring you the modern human. We have survived, adapted, and evolved. We have traveled vast waters and far lands, we created fire, metal, and sculpted wood to our needs. We have survived the coldest winters and the harshest summers.

But where is our humanity? We have abandoned our brain’s foundational emotions and mechanisms. We have abandoned our sense of intuition and the ability to love. We ache for want rather than need. The want for material things that do not sustain us our health or our wellbeing.

70

Immigrant City and the Fear of Deportation

by Kimberly Ivonne Mosqueda

G

rowing up in my town or city meant you were a “hoodlum.” I was born in Santa Ana, California the little Mexico of my county. In the 80s to the late 90s, there was considerable gang activity that created social unease. Santa Ana is more specifically located in the heart of Orange County. If you have ever watched any TV shows about Orange County, or just know anything about the area it is known to be one of the wealthiest counties in California. Filled with lawyers, doctors, surgeons, models, million dollar homes on every hill and people dressed in the most expensive brands. Of course there is a high demand for the best of everything from food to landscaping so who are the people willing to do these jobs? Immigrants. Where do these immigrants live? Usually in Santa Ana. Although there is no longer much gang activity, Santa Ana still has a negative representation in the media. The wealthy try to avoid the streets closest to Santa Ana on their way to more prosperous areas. On a typical day this town is booming.

You see landscapers leave as early as 5 or 6 in the morning to work, loading their trucks with equipment and landscaping tools. Later in the morning you see every business open and every street busy. Cars lined up bumper to bumper and smog filling the air. There’s a Hispanic woman walking down the streets selling bread, and a Hispanic man on the opposite street selling oranges and flowers. Welcome to my streets of Santa Ana; it’s an immigrant’s town, and we are a community.

I moved a lot throughout Southern California, but I mostly visit this town because my father resides here. He lives in a small studio by himself with his dogs. When I accompany him to work we leave at 6 a.m. and load all the essential equipment for the day, fill up on gas and grab coffee and a donut for breakfast.

After hours of working during any weather condition, his workers gather around in a circle and we all eat lunch together. They bring up rumors of a check points on 5th and Main, and another on 10th and Broadway. We all know the cops aren’t having checkpoints for drugs but rather checkpoints to find undocumented persons. And possibly deport them. They live their lives day to day with nothing promised. They send some money to relatives in their countries that depend on them, while struggling to survive in this country.They might not get paid if the owner is racist, they might get pulled over if there’s a checkpoint and be sent to Mexico or other countries. Being born an American citizen with an undocumented father, I have to worry about my father being deported. It’s happened before and I haven’t quite recovered from it. Before I speak about my father’s deportation I would like to describe more about my city and its inhabitants.

All around me are schools. When we drive by I see happy children running on the playground. They have no idea that when they get older they will learn what social stigma is. They will also learn that they will be told that they are not worthy 71

of going to college when they are completely capable. All because we were given an image that we didn’t’ ask for. Teens won’t think about going to college because no one gave them the idea they could. Some will turn to drugs and alcohol, and others probably to jail.

Now the city natives are offended that there are growing American businesses and all the small mom and pop shops we have come to call home have been torn down or rebranded as barber shops or exotic fusion cuisine restaurants. The city is changing, it is being gentrified, it doesn’t look like “Little Mexico” anymore. It looks more metropolitan by the minute. Perhaps they are slowly making us feel un-welcomed in our own city. Adding more creamer to the overflowing cup and leaving little room for the rich brown coffee.

Out of all my dad’s workers there are two that stand out the most to me, Caballo and Gordelio. Caballo has a mullet that he has been rockin’ since the 80s.

Obviously, his hair is outdated so they call him “Caballo” which means horse or pony in Spanish. His real name is Cesar, but you forget from time to time when everyone around him calls him Caballo. He is a slender man in his late forties he has three children and a good wife. His whole life is his family. Everyday he’s the first man on the job site. Usually he has everything prepped for the other workers.

He always wears paint covered jeans that are probably over 10 years old, and a plain white tee with paint stains. He goes to work clean and showered but usually leaves work with flakes of paint and saw dust on his fluffy scattered mullet. He is known to be the jokester and the most confident of all the workers. He doesn’t laugh, he cackles. Oftentimes we have arrived at a job site just parked and we can already hear his mighty laugh. He would interrupt his own jokes with his own laughter “Ja Ja Ja jahhhhh!!! Cabrones!” My dad always had to go in there and shut him up, tell him who is the boss, while at the same time trying to suppress his own laughter. Caballo’s personality and happiness is contagious and everyone knows it.

My dad’s other worker is “Gordelio;” his real name is Juan. Don Juan out of respect. Gordelio is a big man, big because his stomach is huge, nearly exploding.

He is fairly short in height but has a heart of gold. He is one of the nicest men I have ever met. He has two daughters, grown up and married. They are away in Mexico but he often treats the other men as if they were his sons. He is the referee, the peacemaker. Whenever anyone had a heated argument, he’s the first one to stop the fighting and have the men settle their differences in a logical way. He’s a hard worker and a loyal one too. When my dad broke his leg Gordelio was my dad’s chauffeur. Gordelio of course wanted to work and didn’t like the idea of driving my dad everywhere, but he knew it had to be done. My dad is the boss of his group and the purchaser, so there were 10-15 trips a day to Home Depot to buy material or food and water. Sometimes I would accompany him; he says that the police tend to not stop him if they see a woman in the vehicle. Caballo is the only documented person in my dad’s team of guys. He tells me he finished buying a house in Mexico with his wife. “I am so tired, my body is tired, construction is no joke. My body is not as young as it used to be, I have poor health and I don’t know how much longer 72

I can work. My casita (home) is enough for me to retire, you’re welcome to come and visit whenever you like. My wife and I will pick you up at the airport.” “Thank you, Don Juan.” “De nada” he says.

About eight years ago my father received a DUI; he was detained and sent to the California/Mexicali border to determine where they would deport him. That day I was in high school and had no idea that my father was being deported. My Tia Elvira called me in a panic telling me she had called my dad all day and had not answered. My intuitive instincts kicked in, I felt an anchor’s weight in my chest, but I wanted to believe that everything was okay. So, in a calming voice I reassured her that she was being paranoid and that he must have forgotten his phone in a coworker’s car as he had done in the past. This continued for three more days until my dad had unexpectedly called my aunt to say he was in Baja California, Mexicali because he had been deported. My aunt wailed. I had a panic attack and could not calm down. I had never had to picture or think about my life without my father.

He told us not to worry and that after he visited his family and friends he would return. We did not hear back from my dad for one month. At this point he had traveled to Guanajuato, his birthplace, his long lost home. My father had not been in Guanajuato since he was 17 years old and left beloved Mexico for the promising United States. My father visited the old caramel factory by his home. He saw all his brothers and sisters and his mother, the woman that had given birth to him but over the years he had forgotten her face; he had only heard her voice over the phone. We all started to view this event as a blessing in disguise, his unexpected return to home was what he needed at that time in his life.

When he was ready to return he had hired a “coyote” a man or woman who helps smuggle others over the border for a fee. My father paid thousands of dollars to cross the border. He could only think of returning to his family. Relocating in Mexico and working there was not a choice. My father had loyal clientele from before I was born. Starting up a business was not an option, and with the low pay for construction, crossing the border seemed like the most economical advantage in this situation. Every immigrant’s journey and situation can be different. I only speak on behalf of my father who allowed me to share his personal journey.

My father spoke of taking many cars, busses, and walking on foot before reaching a point close to the border. He had to jump two fences. One of the fences was 15 feet high and the other about 20 feet. The first time he jumped he sprained his ankle and his right leg started to feel incredibly sore. On the second jump he knew that his ankle was broken and he could feel the bones separate. He waited until he could enter back into California in order to seek medical attention. When he had made it back into the United States he found himself in a small city near the California border. My father spoke of the ICE agents raiding the town to find undocumented persons. I feel that it is important to call immigrants undocumented persons and not “illegals” or “illegal aliens” because these terms are not only dehumanizing but because there is negative quality and connotation associated with them. They strip individuals of their individual merits and reasons for immigrating.

73

There was a lady hanging her washed clothes on a clothesline and found my father limping with his broken ankle. She had noticed the ICE men searching for undocumented persons. This stranger who had never met my father or had any fee arrangement acted quickly and covered my father with her empty trash can so that he would not be found and detained. When the coast was clear she allowed him to enter her home and she offered him supper. Near border towns it is common for locals to sell home cooked meals to men who are traveling to America. My father was relieved that his journey was not for nothing. He kissed the cross on his rosary and thanked God and the kind stranger for helping him with his journey. Had it not been for this woman, he would have been immediately sent back.

I remember my father calling me and telling me to come outside. I walked to the driveway. My father was much more tan, thin and broken than I remembered. He was holding a staff and attempting to walk toward me. I was relieved to be reunited with my father and hugged him tightly, thanking God that he had kept my father safe and home. Although Mexico is in his heart, California is his home In reading this story I do not expect to change your mind about immigration, or tell you how “positive” immigration could be. But I want to express and present an immigrant’s detailing on the hardships of being an undocumented person, and the duality of being a American born citizen with an undocumented parent. My parents came to this country because although they love their beloved Mexico, there was more opportunity and economic stability to be attained in America. They came with hopes to provide for their families and seek opportunities that were not accessible to them. I am my parents’ wildest dream.

I am a first generation Mexican-American, and the first generation college educated student in my family, an opportunity that was not available for my parents. My parents’ did not bring crime, they did not bring drugs and they are not rapists. I am not a criminal, I don’t have a criminal record, I am not a rapist, nor do I partake in drugs. But these are the images that the media and the president have painted of my people. I have Aztec blood that runs through my veins and I am proud to be a product of my ancestors. I am thankful for my parents struggles and all that they have done in their efforts. This story is of my father and myself. My parents are two in the many immigrants that contribute to our economy. They all have different stories to tell and hardships they endure. Some of us Americans take for granted what it means to be free in this country and the privilege that accompanies that freedom. Most of us are immigrants. We have come in different ways and taken on different customs but we all came from individuals who searched for a better life. We did this so that we could experience better opportunities than those available in our homelands . I may be an American by birth, but I am an immigrant at heart carrying the legacy and traditions of my people.

74

Him

by McKenna Cooley

“Y

ou know, you’ve ruined all other girls for me,” he said quietly, calmly, like he always did when he wasn’t talking about something he was passionate about.

“What?” I said softly, my voice cracking under the pressure of the emotion I was trying to control for another fifteen minutes, so I could fall apart in the serene silence of my car. I didn’t want to turn my head and look directly at him, because I knew if I did, then I wouldn’t be able to stop the tears from flowing. Instead, I stared at the swing set I tried to reach the sky with when I was a kid.

I could see out of the corner of my eye that the right side of his lip was pulling up. “No girl is going to give me the same experiences you did. No girl is ever going to compare to you in my family’s eyes.”

I huffed out a small laugh, letting it release the tension that had been building in my chest that made it hard to breathe. “Your mom is never going to be happy with you dating any other girl.”

He reached out and took my right hand that I had been clutching in my left, to keep them from reaching out to him. I didn’t realize until it was over how much I was going to miss the way he held my hand, or the light squeezes we would give each other as a way to say goodbye. “She’s going to be heartbroken and compare everyone else to you. My grandparents are always going to ask about you.” He said this as the other half of his face pulled up into a smile.

I couldn’t help it now, my face opened up into a tiny smile also. “Your aunt won’t know what to do with another girl’s weird eating habits. She’ll confuse the new girls’ with mine.”

He let out the same laugh that made me fall in love with him, nine hundred and seventy-two days before.

Jonathon is the first child of Jim and Brooke. He is a little more than ten months older than me, but he is in the grade above me because of the age at which you could start school. Jon is the older brother to Karenna by four years. They get along on the basis of them both thinking that their mom is crazy, because how could anyone possibly be that happy at six o’clock in the morning?

75

He has light, dynamic hazel eyes that I always used to mistake for blue, but are more on the green side. One time, I was arguing with him about it while my dad was driving us back to J’s house. My dad suddenly said, “I think the boy knows his own eye color.”

He likes to style his dark blonde hair in a messy, laid down mohawk style, while keeping the sides shaved down. He is always fussing over it and checking himself out in mirrors to make sure it looks good. This was after the far-too-long “Justin Bieber” hair-flip stage.

He has been involved with karate since he was six, and worked his way up to a fourth degree black belt. I had the privilege of being able to go watch him earn that belt and title; he told me beforehand that this was the first test that he was worried about. Not only because I was there, but also it was the first test that his grandpa Joe wasn’t. He looked like he was about to cry when he was receiving his new belt, but he held it together well enough. It is a real shame that he is no longer as involved in it as he was before he went to college.

He’s always been an emotional person. He wears his heart on his sleeve, especially when watching movies. I thought I had a movie addiction until I met him. He loves movies to the nth degree, although he had never seen The Princess Bride until a month after we started dating, which I found “inconceivable.” His favorite genre is Sci-Fi movies; he says his favorite one is Interstellar. If you ask him what his favorite movie of all time is, it will change every time you ask. He especially likes movies that make him cry; don’t ask me why, but he just really loves them, and we watched plenty of them. We went to the theater a good deal because a movie is best seen on the big screen.

Our first date was, of course, a movie; The Book of Life, which could’ve ended up a complete disaster, because my mom and brother were sitting in the back of the theater. Thankfully, they controlled themselves enough to not embarrass me while we were there.

He was being really awkward, I mean I was too, but I thought it was cute when he did it. I later found out it was because of his mom; who I had been friends with for two years, and was super happy we were going on a date. She had told him that I was my own independent woman, and he shouldn’t try to do anything too manly or old school, because I might get pissed off. I thought this was ridiculous of course, although in my head, I was kind of mad at myself for letting him pay for everything on that date. I made it my mission from then on, to pay for more dates than him, because I am an independent woman. The song, American Kids,

by Kenny Chesney, came on before the movie started, and we both started singing along to it at the same time; from that moment on, it became our song.

As we sat there watching the movie with the largest bucket of barely eaten popcorn in between us, he had his hand at the edge of his seat. To this day, I still have no idea why he chose to get the largest size since we didn’t eat any of it. I always sit with my arms folded across my chest, so of course I was like, “McKenna, you 76

idiot, he wants to hold your hand! What are you doing?!?” So I put my hand on the edge of my seat; then a few seconds later he took it and I was done for.

Later that night, he asked me if we could actually date and I said yes. We did a lot of things while we were together: rock climbing, roller skating, movie watching, book shopping, baking, working out, pinball tournaments, me trying to teach him card games and him not ever getting it down, and more. We had so many experiences that everytime I go to do something, I think of the time when I did that activity with him.

The first time I met his extended family, was a month after we started dating.

It was Christmas Eve, and his mom’s side of the family always has brunch that morning. Jonathon, his parents, and sister came and picked me up from my house. I hadn’t actually met his dad or sister as “J’s girlfriend,” so we had this awkward handshake outside of the car before we headed over to his aunt’s house.

As time went on I got to know most of his extended family pretty well, and I think that as I fell for him, I also fell for his family. We spent Thanksgivings, Fourth of Julys, Super Bowls and other fun times together. All the members of his family are so amazing and I miss them all dearly.

J decided to attend school eight hours away from the city we both lived in. I was worried, before he left, about what would happen to us, but he reassured me that everything would be fine. After all, I had told him to go to the school he wanted and to keep me out of his decision, which is what I did when I was deciding what school I wanted to attend.

When he went to college he started to go out more than he had in high school.

He became a different version of himself; his priorities changed. I remember the day that I realized he wasn’t the same boy I’d gotten to know when I was fifteen. We hadn’t talked on the phone in over a month, and he couldn’t carve out fifteen minutes of his day to talk to me, so I quit asking if he could. When he would come back for breaks it was like getting to know a new person. I never knew how to act with him.

J changed, as I knew he would. A lot of them are positive changes, and I am happy for him. But there’s always the other side of change. It led him to become distant from me and our relationship. I will never be malicious in saying that he did anything on purpose in order to hurt me, but I do think at a certain point, he stopped caring. I wish I would’ve had to the guts to tell him how unhappy I was with what was happening. Maybe it would’ve saved me some heartbreak.

I had hoped that once he came home for the summer things would get better, and I wouldn’t feel so on the outs with him. Instead, the end of my wonderful relationship with the person I care about so immensely started with, “I need to talk to you about something.”

77

So Maybe it’s not Exactly Heaven

by Shiann Hansen

I

n 1989, Kevin Costner stood on a baseball diamond in the middle of a corn field. He was Iowa’s one claim to fame. There he stood with his father, a ghost… naturally. His father asks him if he is in Heaven, and Kevin Costner replies, “No, it’s Iowa.” And suddenly Iowa erupted. Every Iowan wiped their eye as a single tear trailed down their face. A sense of pride spilled into their hearts as an eagle cried in the distance. This land of forgotten people was finally being recognized, and hope was spreading through the air. And only a true, proud Iowan knows that the crop that year was so tall that Kevin Costner had to walk on milk crates during filming to be seen above the corn. So much pride! One movie, finally, our claim to fame! Surely everyone would see how wonderful of a place it is!

Not so much. Welcome to Iowa, where we are so average that sometimes it hurts. We don’t have a cool accent like those from Minnesota or New Jersey. We don’t have anything to boast about or build our egos. People in the Midwest often consider us the bottom on the totem pole when it comes to states. I swear, if I meet another Nebraskan that replies to me stating, “I’m from Iowa,” with an eye roll and a look of disgust, I’m going to lose it. My cousin once had a friend who said that Iowa is a big box of boredom… he was from Nebraska. It seems anyone I talk to from another state in the Midwest is quick to say, “My state is so much better than Iowa.” When my family took our vacations to the West coast, we would say, “We’re from Iowa,” and the people looked at us like we were from a different continent. I have come to realize that a lot of people don’t really know a lot about Iowa, either out of ignorance or resistance. Well let me tell you about Iowa.

Here is what I think everyone else pictures when they think of Iowa. They envision an everlasting cornfield that goes on for miles and miles without any interruption. Nothing else to look at or see. All we drive are pickup trucks on gravel roads and on the weekend, we drink beer and just stare at each other, with nothing else to do. We don’t do anything with our lives and we certainly don’t go anywhere. We just wander through the corn and the fields. After all, we are just “Idiots Out Wandering Around.” All we have are Captain Kirk, Radar O’Reilly, John Wayne, Ashton Kutcher, and the caucus. Also, a movie about a baseball diamond in the middle of a corn field, because that’s super practical.

The Iowa I know is filled with good, wholesome, caring people. Those people that call to say, “Hey, just letting you know that one of your cows is out.” Or as 78

swarms of cars flood into Orange City carrying their bikes and the deacon from our church calls saying, “Hey Shiann, I was just calling because someone must have popped a tire right outside your house. There is still a hunk of rubber sitting in the middle of the lane and people are swerving to try and miss it.” As I run out to move the rubber, everyone rolls down their window yelling, “Thank you!” as they drive on past. After all, there is only one state where everyone comes together to ride their bikes from one border to the other. Only one state that has that type of community and comradery.

And yes, we do have a lot of corn. But when I look out on those golden waves, I think it’s beautiful. I think it’s gorgeous. You know what, we even like to show it off. I have a lot of family that lives in Kansas City. They all come home for the holidays for our family Christmas, and everyone raves about my mom’s “precious corn of gold.” It makes all those hours of picking, shucking, cooking, cutting, and bagging worth it. It’s the best corn that anyone will ever taste, but most people don’t get to. And we take pride in that. That pride is one of the reasons that I have a bright green “Iowa native” bumper sticker on the back of my car. In fact, whenever we have visitors that aren’t from the area, they always end up at our kitchen table with a bowl of corn on the table. And you can bet the bowl is always cleaned out by the end of the meal. But yeah, I guess some people could see it as “just a field.”

But it’s not just a field to us. One time in the middle of the summer my cousin talked his mom into letting him and five of his friends spend a weekend at my aunt and uncle’s condo right on the water of Okoboji Lake. Devin, my cousin, was 17 at the time and made the trek from Kansas City to our little, humble Iowa even though he swears that he’s allergic to Iowa. They came for a weekend and it was prime sweet corn season. I mean, I’m talking PRIME sweet corn season.

Those couple of weeks when the sweet corn is perfect! Not too young, not too old, and perfectly sweet. Just like any other occasion when there is a meal and guests are invited, corn was on the menu. Since it was during this prime corn time, however, it wasn’t the frozen stuff. Instead, my aunt served them corn on the cob.

And do you know what they did? Those sheltered kids, lost in their phones and fidget spinners, didn’t eat the corn. They didn’t even touch it! I cannot count on one hand all the times that I have craved to have my mom’s mashed potatoes and corn and they didn’t even try it. I guess to them, eating corn on the cob was too “barbaric.” Only one of them actually ate the corn, and they asked for it to be cut off the cob. It’s like going to a famous vineyard and not trying the wine. Going to Pizza Ranch and just getting a salad bar. It’s a disgrace! But, I hate to judge, because I am sure those kids felt just as out of place, out of their cities, as I do in them.

To them we were barbaric and plain, and I guess I can see why they thought that. We aren’t this grand, special place that screams of how great it is. We really are just completely average. I don’t mind it though, I feel safe with average. Safe with having a routine and very few unknowns. Safe knowing my neighbors and the other people in my town. Safe knowing that you can leave the keys in the ignition 79

and find them still there when you go back out to the car. Some seek adventure and grandeur, and I do a little as well, but I am also content in my Midwest state.

My sisters were people that crave that rush of grandeur, and they went looking for it, leaving my brother and me behind to bask in the land of corn fields.

This fact drew my family out of our great state on many occasions. My sisters have lived in places like Hawaii, Utah, Colorado, Maine, and Kansas. However, currently two of my sisters reside in good ole’ Branson Missouri. The place where country singers and country music lovers go to die. For real, it’s all old people. Oh, and two young girls starting their families; and those are my sisters.

Don’t get me wrong, Branson is great and all, but it’s not Iowa. And it’s almost as if my soul can feel that. As soon as we cross the border back into Iowa, that little tinge of anxiety I didn’t even realize I was carrying, is lifted. Same with every time I go home for a weekend or for break. I read that sign that says, “Welcome to Iowa” and without fail, a smile creeps across my face. When I was in junior high my sister, Lacy, was living in Hawaii. As a treat, my mom and dad let Dakota and me go visit her. For one month of the summer, my brother, three years older, and I boarded a plane for the first time to explore this island. A whole month in the city of Honolulu soaking up the sun and the warmth. It was great, don’t get me wrong, however, I clearly remember our last week there. There was this craving in me that wanted to see those green fields. Something I can’t really explain. In this tiny little box in the pit of my being, I felt it. Here I was looking at this beautiful blue ocean that was breathtaking. However, tall gray skyscrapers also surrounded us, I felt almost claustrophobic. I wouldn’t call it homesick, but rather a craving. A missing piece of me.

I wanted to go home. How crazy is that? I wanted to leave paradise to go back to my land of green. I didn’t want to go home just for the scenery, but also for the people. I remember Lacy calling home one night. She had been in Hawaii for about a year and half and called my mom saying, “I think I met the only other radish sandwich eater on this entire island!” Because it’s truly the little things you miss when you leave. And almost everyone in my family loves to eat a piece of lightly buttered bread with sliced radishes and salt. Another one of my sisters, Amber, says that only Iowans laugh at her jokes. According to her, no one thinks she’s funny, and I can kind of see it. She claims that only Iowans think that she is funny, and she can pick an Iowan out of a crowd of people after she tells a joke.

And maybe I can’t speak for all of Iowa. Maybe it’s just my little corner of Northwest Iowa. After all, I did grow up in a town just two miles away from one of the safest towns in the state. What’s not to like about a town that has fourteen churches to its five gas stations? My town is a little different than the land of the Dutch, also known as Orange City. We are a little more chill and laid back. Our Main Street is one block long and holds a collection of buildings. There’s not much more to say. Picture any stereotypical small town from a Hallmark movie, and you’ve basically seen every small town. But we stay here. We stay because it’s great.

Until you’ve lived there, you haven’t known it. You haven’t felt the community and 80

the spirit. You haven’t felt the sense of family and the feeling of belonging. That relaxing notion that you can always return here and be reassured it will be the same place you left. No one is going anywhere fast.

So, go ahead and make fun of us. Make your acronyms and your endless jokes.

We can take it. We know the definition of good work and you can bet we don’t back down from it. Sure, you can glance at the fields and move on to the next state. But if you do, you’ll miss the farmer that has been working the same ground since he was a boy. The family that eats every supper together gathered around the table. The grandma that cooked homemade bread until a couple of weeks before the Lord called her home. And you can see how plain we are, that’s not hard to see. But it takes someone special to look closely and see the beauty. To drive down the roads and admire the golden land as it stretches out before you.

To smile as a calf runs through a pasture trying to keep up with its mom. To see the sunrise glinting off the snow, making it look as if a fairy had covered it with glitter in the dark of night. It takes someone special, to see the extraordinary in all this ordinary. And I’m not saying you’re not special if you can’t see that. What I am saying is that you need to work on trying to see it, because life is so much more beautiful once you do. And maybe that’s why my ancestors stopped in Iowa all those years ago. They could see the beauty, and I can see it too. It’s really no surprise that John Kinsella, in the movie Field of Dreams, mistook Iowa for heaven. Because I see it too. And it’s not heaven, but I think you can find a piece of heaven anywhere you go. And I can see heaven in my Iowa, and I’ll hold that dear to my heart.

81

An Ode to a Love that can Change the World

by Shiann Hansen A lot of people don’t believe in you.

Whether they admit it or not a piece of them sees you as a nice thought or sentiment, like perhaps Santa or the Easter Bunny.

The people that do believe in you try to spread you to others who just won’t listen.

Maybe that’s why I have a hard time believing.

When I look at the news and see the pictures, I doubt any chance of our world being able to come together.

We look at the faces of the people that died, and the families that lost a loved one.

For their sake we search for you and we picture you as this big grand thing.

When rather, you are hiding inside the heart of every person on this planet.

But if we keep searching, we will see you.

You’ll shine through every kind act.

Because with every death, every shot, every random act of violence we need you more and more.

We need to keep digging, keep helping, keep acting, and we will find you, if we just keep trying! If we just don’t give up!

But we probably won’t.

We’ll probably just sit back and hope you’ll come to us.

And when you can’t get through to us, we’ll be sorry we didn’t find you before we destroyed ourselves.

Then again, maybe it’s already too late.

82

Self-Confidence at its Best

by Peyton Stolle

H

earing the word bangs makes me cringe. It takes me back to a dark time in my life, a time I never wish to relive. A time of swept to the side, slicked back swoops of little hairs that hung outside my headbands. A time of nightmares that haunt me still.

At the time, I thought they were the bee’s knees, the bangs that everybody in my little elementary school would kill to have. I strutted around the playground with an arrogance so high that nobody could dream of reaching me. Girls told me they loved my new hair, and boys seemed to be looking at me a little more than usual, if you’re catching my drift.

Every day I woke up and threw my hair into a pony, straightened those short little forehead hairs out, and threw on a headband, if only to accentuate the style.

If I was really feeling creative that day, I might even take the time to wake up thirty minutes early, and straighten my whole entire moppy mess of hair, that way my bangs blended right in, adding a certain sense of sophistication. My mom always told me I would regret it. “That look is going to come back to haunt you someday.

Just trust me,” she’d say. To which I’d reply with a smart little comment somewhere along the lines of, “You’re going to regret that jean choice someday too.”

As high on euphoria as I could feel with those bangs, all it took was one girl to tell me that they, “Just weren’t her style of choice,” to send me tumbling to the ground. One little comment and I regretted every sense of self-assurance I had ever felt. Maybe my outfit choices were never as flashy as I thought they were.

Maybe my favorite red and black striped off the shoulder sweater wasn’t quite as stylish as I had always imagined. Suddenly, I was rethinking everything about my daily choices and attire. Sitting in front of the packed closet for hours in the morning, trying to find the outfit that I thought everybody else would accept me in. And after that was the struggle of fixing my hair. Would I defy the social norms and wear my beloved bangs down? Probably not. If somebody else didn’t approve of my style choices, who was I to go against the social norms? That is right where my choice to be who I was meant to be took a tumble down the wrong side of the spectrum.

Self-confidence is something I’ve always struggled with. Always having the feeling of having to succumb to the social norms, and afraid of being judged by 83

others if I don’t, has haunted me throughout my life. Outfits I chose were always picked to precision. The jeans that I thought the girls would drool over, the shirt that I hoped the guys would love to see, and the shoes that always had to complete the outfit.

The thing is, I would have days when I would go through all that work, spend hours making sure I thought that everyone would approve, then actually get out in public and immediately regret every decision I had made about my attire that morning. It is quite possibly the worst feeling you can ever imagine. But what’s worse, is the fact that it bothered me so much, and that I actually cared what others around me thought. When I went out I was that young vision of David Sedaris confidently strutting in his new red vest, only to be crushed to pieces.

Sometimes by someone I didn’t even know.

For too many years I spent far too much time trying to figure out what to wear. Far too much time trying to figure out what people would accept me in.

And far too much time giving a damn what those around me thought. I worked effortlessly and tirelessly behind the scenes, creating this vision of myself that I wanted everybody else to think I was. While realistically, I was nowhere near the person I pretended to be. I didn’t like wearing jeans every day to school, or a nice shirt to accompany it. I didn’t enjoy getting out of bed 20 minutes earlier to fix my hair and do my makeup, wearing earrings, bracelets, and necklaces that I’d just take off halfway through the day because they were bugging me anyways.

Thankfully, over these past couple years I finally decided to stop giving a shit about what those around me thought. I wore what I wanted, when I wanted.

Leggings and a t-shirt became my daily attire. I could switch it up every once in a while, maybe throw in a different shoe choice from day to day. Mondays could be my dirtied-up pair of white Converse, that every other girl in the tristate area owned. Tuesdays, I might decide to go a little sportier, maybe toss on my brand new, gleaming white pair of Nike Air Presto’s. And on Wednesday, if I was feeling really crazy, I might even bring out my most secret weapon in my shoe arsenal.

The crocs. Those shoes always knocked it out of the park. The stares were always inevitable. Whether they were stares of jealousy or of “what the hell is she wearing on her feet”. But the feeling of being myself and being who I want to be, will always top any feeling of self-doubt I used to have.

Since deciding to follow my own path, and be who I’m meant to be all on my own. It’s taken me in a multitude of different directions. I’ve lost friends due to standing up and finally deciding to be myself. Friends that never truly accepted me for who I was, and who were poisonous to me and my well-being to begin with. Friends who have now found themselves going down a road not-sofortunate. I’ve consistently watched those I used to care for, tumble down the wrong side of the spectrum that I had found myself in years ago. Friends whose hypothetical “bang” confidence came to a head, and has suddenly landed them in a world that they have never truly been prepared for.

84

This past summer was when things all took a turn for the worst. Or the best, depending on how you look at it. It was gradual at first, subtle things that seemed so small at the beginning. Things like not getting invited to small get togethers, or what they made it seem like, as my invitation getting lost in the mail. “We thought you were out of town,” or “I thought you said you wanted to have a relaxing night at home”. But did they ever ask me? No. At the time, I just brushed it off, not knowing in the end how it would all come back together.

In the middle of all this friendship chaos I had one safe haven to look forward to, Belize. Me, my two best friends, and the beach and sand for a week. Everything went great, I had an absolute blast and we all got along fantastically. We bonded over margaritas on the beach, and late-night swims in the warm, salty ocean. For that week things finally seemed to be getting back to normal, the way they were supposed to be. But little did I know that week would be the last week I would see my so called “best friends” for a while.

That following weekend after we returned from vacation I was scrolling through my phone and ended up going through Snapchat stories. I stumbled across a bunch of stories of all of my “friends” out camping together. Something we had been planning all year long, and had done the past couple years together. But no here I was, sitting alone in my room, having my only interaction of the whole entire ordeal coming from the lit-up screen of my cellphone. In those moments of disbelief, rage, and absolute heartbreak that followed, I had only one thought; I am done taking their shit. I had had enough of sitting back and taking a beating week after week. I was tired of being the person they could step all over, and always know that I was too nice to tell them to stop. I sent a text to my now exbest friend, and from there things were finished.

Long story short, the conversation that ensued went something along the lines of; my friends didn’t like who I was anymore. They didn’t like the fact that I didn’t want to drink every weekend. They didn’t like that sometimes I enjoyed just staying home for the night. They didn’t like that I wasn’t willing to choose them and all of their dumb decisions over my family. Basically, they didn’t like who I was.

That conversation itself opened my eyes up in whole new ways concerning the people I needed to start surrounding myself with. People that accepted and loved me for me. Not the person I had to pretend to be just to fit in with those I was trying to impress. While at the time the split seemed like the worst thing in the world, I haven’t looked back even once. I’ve made those new friends that I told myself I needed to find and I’ve grown more and more ever since.

Self-confidence now has a whole new meaning to me. I now emphasize the meaning of confidence and work hard to strive towards it every day. I don’t spend hours getting ready in the morning anymore, in fact I wake up close to 15 minutes before class most of the time. I don’t spend forever doing my hair, it’s

85

usually twisted up in a bun with a few bobby pins to hold it in place. Headbands are utilized every once in a while, if my hair is just far too unruly to tame.

And per usual, my attire is never anything fancy; leggings and a sweatshirt or sweats. Though that may not mean much to most people, to me it means that I’m confident in myself to not have to be dressed and done up to perfection. I’m comfortable enough with my personality to trust that people will like me for who I am and not who I pretend to be.

Along with following up on my self-confidence, I have also continued to stay true to my beliefs and interests. I don’t go out on nights that I don’t want to, even to the dismay of my roommate. And if I do it’s because I want to. I still put my family first before everything, and make it down quite often on the weekends to see them while I have the chance. I keep in touch and always make sure my younger siblings know I’m just a text, phone call, or snapchat away. While there’s students out there who think it’s weird I’m still so involved with everyone back home – and yes, trust me there are those students – I don’t take it to heart. I know it’s who I am and how I was raised, so I don’t give a damn if they think I’m still too attached to home.

I believe self-confidence is something anyone can benefit from, and reaching its full potential is absolutely rewarding. I know I haven’t even scratched the surface of how amazing it could be to have full, undeniable faith in yourself. And it’s so hard to achieve, especially in today’s society. But I wholeheartedly believe that once you do, it can be so absolutely beautiful and raw beyond imagine.

Always remember, have the mentality that if you don’t like my sweats I wear to class every day, mind your own business. You don’t like my new haircut, is it a little too short for your liking? Well that shirt you wore last week made your boobs look really flat. But did I say anything? No. You probably spent hours picking that shirt out this morning, who would I be to tell you I didn’t like it?

86

Pieces of Me

by Katie Hamil

Name: Katelyn (Katie) Marie Hamil Age: 21 Hometown: Hinton, Iowa Occupation: Student, tutor, and South Dakota Magazine intern Quote: “Stop trying to be what society wants to shove down your throat” – Kendall Schmidt Song Lyric: “Hold on to me / ‘cuz I’m a little unsteady, a little unsteady” – X Ambassadors Hobbies: Cooking, reading, writing, throwing shot put and discus, arts and crafts, playing games, and hanging out with friends Little Known Fact: I love an adrenaline rush These are my things: Boggle, Say Anything, Telestrations, Scategories Categories, Smart Mouth, Spontuneous, wooden man figure, 4-H fair ribbons, button pin collection, track medals, valedictorian medal, high school letter, medications Abilify and Trileptal, family graduation photograph, frying pan, cooking supplies, chef ’s hat, Stuffy Bunny, crayons, watercolor trampoline self-portrait painting, abstract collage, country western collage, acrylic down the rabbit hole painting, Big Time Rush paper, Kindle, headphones, DC Legends of Tomorrow, Arrow, The Flash, Long Way Home, Under the Lights, The Bane Chronicles * “Mom!” screams my sister, who’s wailing like her hand was cut off, not like she got a small burn from the side of a frying pan. Taking her hand, I lead Amanda into the bathroom and run the burn under the water. Reaching up into the medicine cabinet, I grab the Burn-Free and dab some of the cool ointment on her hand. She is still crying, but at least the screaming has stopped.

87

Maybe I shouldn’t have let a six year old try to flip one of the pancakes I was making, but she was eager to try. I only wanted to have something in common with her, some mutual activity we could share. While it’s possible I scared my baby sister out of the kitchen for life, cooking only grew on me. I love being in control, being the one who decides whether to follow a recipe to a T or to create an entirely new dish. * Wake up in the morning like where’s my carrots? And so began the fame of my little stuffed rabbit. Stuffy bunny is a YouTube star. Well, if one-hundred and forty two views constitutes stardom, that is. Stuffy was a gift for my birthday and somehow ended up becoming the focus of an entire Kesha parody song and YouTube video. A plush toy rabbit to the naked eye, Stuffy represents some of my best memories. Stuffy is a symbol of the deep appreciation and loyalty I place on friendship. * We all lean in, trying to get a closer look at the score pad my uncle is writing on. To an outsider we probably look like rubberneckers at the scene of an accident. We’re a competitive bunch and we need to know the score before we head into the final round.

It looks like only my Uncle Scott and I are in the running for first place. We’re playing Dirty Ed, as we’ve always known it, but I’ve heard the same game called different names. It’s my turn to deal, so I slide a single card to each player and turn up the suit that will be used for trump. Clubs. I take a peek at my card. The ace of clubs. I’m guaranteed to take this round. After everyone has bid, we take turns laying down our cards.

“Dammit!” exclaims my uncle, mostly in jest, but partly in frustration. He had the king of clubs and bid one, knowing it wasn’t likely anyone would have the ace.

I shake my head and smile.

“You play, you lose, you have fun,” I say.

88

* I flash my wristband at the carnival worker with shaggy hair, yellowed teeth and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Not really checking to see if I actually am even wearing the purple wristband that is slightly too loose and keeps slipping down my wrist like a watch needing a few links removed, he waves me through the enter gate. I walk around the outer circle, my feet clanging on the shiny aluminum as I pick my chair. I choose my spot and pull down the black U-shaped harness and click the belt buckle. Once I feel the belt is secured, I settle back in the seat and smile.

Swinging my feet back and forth, I impatiently wait for the other seats to fill.

Glancing up, I see the tower we are about to climb, soaring some one hundred and forty feet into the air. Slowly, we begin to climb inch by inch towards the top of the tower. The sun is just setting and casts the landscape in a magnificent golden light. The people still walking about the fairgrounds look like tiny ants. In the distance, an escaped balloon floats towards the horizon. Just as my clenched gut was starting to loosen with the beautiful view, the ride plummets back to earth at a breakneck speed. My mouth opens and I scream involuntarily as my butt flies off of the seat and I am lifted into the air. Only the shoulder harness keeps me from soaring off into the atmosphere. In a matter of seconds all movement stops.

I open my eyes, as my body tingles with the addicting rush of adrenaline. I know I will have to try this ride again. * Take a snapshot of my life and this is what you might find.

89

Chuck E. Cheese: The Truth

by Chloe Sand

W

hen you grow older, reminiscing about the places you loved to go as a kid, you realize that childhood, not places, are magic. I used to love Chuck E. Cheese and became convinced it was a great idea to apply there for a job—free pizza, games—who wouldn’t want that? For me, the place was Chuck E Cheese, the pizza filled and arcade game loving atmosphere. I decided to apply there with my best friend Skye, and we were hired on right off the bat. The nostalgic fun zone seemed to change from when we were kids, the place reeking of puke and week-old appetizers. We weren’t sure if we made the best decision, or one that was going to send us home disgusted every night. But we decided to trek on, keeping ourselves optimistic. Our first night of work was a series of tests, which was something unexpected. Imagine—a dirty booth, still littered with crumbs and the stickiness of soda. We were introduced to a small ancient TV and stack of what seemed like the Chuck. E. Cheese version of the ACT. We sat for what seemed like years, watching these horrific safety videos where they plucked people from the street, and paid them to act. When we took the test, we had no idea what the answers were since we didn’t take it seriously. The questions were just ridiculous—for example, “What is the width that you should cut a cucumber for the salad bar?” Yeah, as if any of those hood rats in the back use a ruler to slice the cucumbers. Most questions were so bizarre and out there, like: “You are working a Birthday Party and someone’s ex-husband shows up and causes a ruckus—what would you do?” Okay, Chuck E Cheese, I appreciate the purpose of these questions, but I don’t think I need to spend my Friday night trying to come up with these roleplay scenarios. By the time our phone book sized test was filled with answers, we left for the night. If I crammed this hard for a Chuck. E. Cheese test, then maybe I could have passed Chemistry.

The real reason why they hired us right away wasn’t because they needed Birthday Hosts but rather they were in desperate need of girls. You wouldn’t believe how many grown men work at Chuck. E. Cheese. Unfortunately, they were way too excited to see us. The first employee we met was this man named Alex— he was the greeter at the front door, the one who stamps your hand when you walk in. This job is very important because it means you are basically the face of the establishment. But here’s the thing—Alex was your average college drop-out, had braces at thirty years old, and still lives in his mom’s basement. I remember 90

Alex’s eyes lit up like a Christmas Tree when he saw us. He immediately brought his hand up, wiped off the excess saliva from his mouth that his braces caused, and shook our hands, “Welcome to the team, I can’t wait to work with you.” He said, resembling Brainy from Hey Arnold with his deep breathing and wide-eyed stare. You can bet the second after that interaction, I made my way straight to the bathroom to wash my hands.

The first day didn’t go as bad as I expected. My best friend and I hosted a birthday party together. I was blessed to have been involved in theatre because my improv levels were through the roof. The kids seemed sweet while we introduced ourselves, but once Chuck E came out, the kids quickly turned from sweet angels into devils. they practically trampled me to attack Chuck E. Admittedly, I would much rather be tackled by kids than wear that god-awful suit. I’ve never been happier to be a party host. After the birthday party from hell, we had to clean everything up, and when I say everything, I mean everything. We were stuck with bathroom duty and those bathrooms hadn’t been clean since 1978.

There were no cleaning supplies, and the entire restaurant should’ve been shut down by the department of health and the two high school girls you hired were expected to make it sanitary.

You may be thinking, “cleaning isn’t that bad—everyone has to do that before they can work up the ladder” but no—the ladder wasn’t in my favor, because when they moved me up to the prize counter, it only went downhill from there. At first, I was excited to work behind the fluorescent glass that contained the classic ‘made in China’ toys, I so loved as a kid—and now I was the one to bring joy. It was a slow day, as usual, and I was leaning against the counter. I was staring out, looking at all the lit-up games when I felt a pair of hands grab my sides, tickling them. I had no time to turn around and yell at him, the boy was already out of my sight.

The hands belonged to a teenage employee, grease ball named Joshua, who had no social skills what-so-ever—hence the creepy hip grabbing. Joshua came back fifteen minutes later to tell me, “I’m sorry—I was just trying to be friendly.” No Joshua, I’m sorry that we live in the 21st century and grabbing woman’s hips isn’t going to get you a girlfriend. I also want to formally apologize to every woman whose hips have been tickled by all the Joshua’s in the world— I think we are at the point in history to ask for consent… right fellas? Joshua didn’t speak to me ever again, and for that, I am beyond grateful.

Alex and Joshua weren’t the only oddballs at the establishment. On my third day, I met a man named Adam, who appeared to be in his twenties. He had thin glasses, was tall, and had short black hair—he seemed normal, or so I thought.

You know at some stores and restaurants, they have those personal intercom systems? Well, in the training videos, we were excited to see if we would get one.

When work is boring, Skye and I could talk to each other—but turns out we didn’t get one… well, except for Adam. Adam bought his own personal intercom, and simply wore it. No, the intercom is not hooked up and no, no one else has one.

Adam literally just wears it and talks to himself—and if that wasn’t weird enough, 91

the first words that boy said to me were, “You are my Omega, and I am your Alpha.” I don’t know if this guy was on something, but all I knew was that I had to get the hell away from him.

As I moved to my fourth day, I had the early shift, and was already wanting to go home. By the end of the day, I was on kid check, which involved stamping the hands of the families that walked in. The day was obnoxiously slow. I was leaning against the wall when Adam walked over, a serious look on his face.

Adam, by no means, was my boss—but the guy sure acted like it. Adam looked at me and proceeded to say the words I never wanted to hear, “You have to be Chuck E.” He was the only Birthday Host for today, and I was the only one available—but that’s totally fine… Let me leave kid check, a job that is very important, to go inside a smelly suit.

At this point, I was terrified—I kept saying, “I’m not doing this”, “No, sorry, I can’t do it” and many other phrases as he placed the cotton fabric in my hands. I looked down at the new skin I had to wear, knowing that this was probably going to be my only peak in high school. I slipped on the costume one leg at a time, just like everyone else. I stared at myself in the mirror, wanting to cry—this was the one thing I didn’t want to do when applying here. I looked at the severed head I was holding in my hands, contemplating whether to jump ship and leave. But with Adam’s stare, I knew the head must go on. The head smelled like a million gross men. Oh—and here’s the best part. Remember Alex? I looked down into the lining of the head, seeing all these tiny ginger beard hairs that belonged to the man.

The moment finally came when my boss, Chris, pulled me into the kitchen to tell me the “Chuck E Cheese” protocol. I only had to remember three basic rules: always be energetic, dance like no one’s watching, and do not talk while in the costume. After the rules, I heard the intercom blast, “Five seconds till Chuck E!” and I knew it was my time to shine. I got pretty hyped up at the recorded children’s voices chanting my name—well, Chuck E’s name, and when it got down to zero seconds, I walked out and owned it… but it only got worse from there. A young boy came up to me with a toothless grin and yelled, “Hi, Chuck E!” and you can guess what my dumb ass did next—I yelled back loudly, “Hey kid!” breaking the most important rule and I was only ten seconds in. After the party—and almost tripping over a child, I Febrezed my suit, hung it up, and went straight to my mom’s car. If I could experience thirty minutes of hell, that would have been it.

Chuck E Cheese, the low budget Disneyland for low budget families. A place where a kid can be a kid, until they realize what’s behind the cardboard pizza, sticky games, and plastic toys that they will lose in a matter of hours. Do I think Chuck E Cheese is better off without me? No. But am I better off without them? Maybe.

92

Bede Art Gallery

MMC Student Art Work and Graphic Design

93

Floating Florals Kami Cornemann

The Open Sea Kayla Ovall

94

Nature Coral Cleveland

Geo-Thump Marissa Frank

95

A Day in the Garden Chase Vleck

“Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani” Jeremy Behrends

96

Papi

Suspended Flight

Philip Vornhagen

Madelyn Simmons

Matryoshka Katelyn Kingsbury

97

Deuces Jeremiah Mauch

A Spring Asleep Ellen Renz

98

Urban Diapers Brand Ellen Renz

Silver Bells Font Ellen Renz

99

GoTechNo Business Concept and Web Design Ellen Renz

100

Sun Dogs Jennifer Vondrak

was born in Spain in 1963 of Canadian parents. Life of Pi was translated into forty-one

New York Times Bestseller, Los Angeles Times Bestseller, Washington Post Bestseller, San Francisco Chronicle Bestseller, and Chicago Tribune Bestseller

languages, won the 2002 Man Booker Prize, and spent

Yann Martel

Yann Martel

Life of Pi a novel

list. He is also the author Vigil and Self, the collection of stories The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios, and a collection of letters to the prime minister of Canada, What is Stephen Harper Reading? He lives in Saskatchewan, Canada.

of a zookeeper, has a fervent love of stories and practices not only his native Hinduism, When Pi is sixteen, his family

“It’s important in life to conclude things properly.

Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse.”

and their zoo animals emigrate from India to North America aboard a Japanese cargo ship.

Life of Pi

of the novels Beatrice and

a God-loving boy and the son

but also Christianity and Islam.

fifty-seven weeks on the New York Times best-seller

Pi Patel,

Alas, the ship sinks—and Pi finds himself in a lifeboat, his only companions a hyena, an orangutan, a wounded zebra, and a 450-pound Bengal tiger.

Soon the tiger has dispatched all but Pi. Can Pi and the tiger

“A story that makes you believe in the soul-sustaining power of fiction.”

find their way to land? Can Pi’s

– Los Angeles Times Book Review

fear, knowledge, and cunning

“An impassioned defense of zoos, a death-defying trans-Pacific sea adventure a la Kon-Tiki, and hilarious . . . This audacious novel manages to be all of these.”

–The New Yorker

keep him alive until they do?

“Life of Pi could renew your faith in the ability of novelists to invest even the most outrageous scenario with plausible life.”

–The New York Times Book Review

Yann Martel

Cover design by Jennifer Vondrak

Life of Pi Book Jacket Jennifer Vondrak

101

Stuffy Bunny

S t u d i o s Stuffy Bunny Studios Logo Jennifer Vondrak

S t u d i o s

PRESENTS

THE

Stuffy Bunny SONG

The Stuffy Bunny Song Ad

Stuffy Bunny T-Shirt Design Jennifer Vondrak

102

My Oasis Abby K. Keffeler

MMC Exercise Science Club Logo Abby K. Keffeler

103

MMC Performing Arts Club T-Shirt Design Abby K. Keffeler

Operation: Save Foster Road Children’s Book Abby K. Keffeler 104

Book Reviews

105

Book Review: Turtles All the Way Down

by Jennifer Vondrak

J

ohn Green’s The Fault in Our Stars received a lot of acclaim, and I always meant to read it to see what all the fuss was. However, I only watched the movie, which is not quite the same thing. Maybe I will get around to it someday, but for the time being, I decided to get a taste of John Green from a newer novel of his, Turtles All the Way Down.

Turtles All the Way Down tells the story of a sixteen-year-old girl with major anxiety issues named Aza and her Best and Most Fearless Friend, Daisy, who is a fanfiction-writing Star Wars fan. A corrupt billionaire by the name of Russell Pickett has been missing since before a police raid on his home. It is the hundred thousand dollar reward for information leading to the fugitive’s whereabouts that sparks Daisy’s interest. Since Aza knows his son Davis from a camp for children who have lost parents, which both of them have, Daisy is convinced they should try to look into the billionaire’s disappearance. Aza is less sure.

The anxiety of the main character is definitely a major part of the story. As Aza narrates the story, the reader gets a glimpse into her head and experiences her thought spirals right alongside her. Her psychiatrist calls these thoughts “intrusives,” but the first time she said it, Aza heard “invasives,” and she decided she liked that word better. Aza often uses metaphors to describe her mental struggles. These spirals, as she refers to them, tighten, and sometimes she gets lost in them and can’t pull herself out even when she wants to. It was sad to see her struggle with this, but also compelling and real. I was able to relate to it even though I do not suffer from anxiety to the extent of Aza’s, if at all. I was able to understand getting stuck in your thoughts and know how sometimes they take you down roads that are better left alone.

I liked that mental illness was included in this book because I have come to find that mental illness is more widespread than I ever realized. I think John Green produced a character that readers with mental illness will be able to relate to.

However, some people might find this hard to read, so I think it is important to note that this book may not be for every reader.

I think that some readers will find Daisy to be annoying, and I will honestly have to agree. She does come off that way. However, I cannot hate her. She may not always be the absolute best friend in every aspect throughout the whole book, but she is only human. Although neither girl comes from wealth, Daisy has definitely had to work more for what she has than Aza ever has. Furthermore, she has a best friend with mental illness, which is not always easy. These girls’ friendship began in elementary school and has remained into high school. While it is not unheard of or impossible for people to become lifelong friends, mental illness can put strains on relationships. That Daisy does stay with her even with Aza’s struggles shows that she isn’t completely self-centered.

106

Overall, I think I enjoyed Turtles All the Way Down. It has a teen-focused storyline revolving around a mix of typical teen stuff like falling in love and experiencing broken hearts and less typical teen stuff like investigating the disappearance of a missing billionaire fugitive for a hundred thousand dollar reward while also struggling with the unwanted presence of anxiety or at least watching it from the sidelines. The plot maybe a little farfetched, but I found it to be an interesting read.

107

Book Review: Two by Two

by Jennifer Vondrak

N

icholas Sparks is known for his North Carolina love stories that are usually mixed with the hardships of life such as illness and death. His latest novel, Two by Two, certainly has all of that, yet I felt it had a different feel than his past novels. There is a love story, of course, but that is not exactly the center the book really seems to revolve around.

The reader hears the story from the perspective of Russell Green, whose life goes through some major changes. At 32, he has a lovely wife named Vivian, who stays home to raise their six-year-old daughter, London. He also has a successful career in advertising that helps afford their lifestyle. However, everything starts going south when he decides to quit his job to branch off on his own though tensions have been rising for a while. Two by Two explores the struggles of a life in which everything seems to be falling apart. From the marital strains of balancing family and work to infidelity, the novel showcases the sad reality that sometimes marriages do not work out. And as if the stress of divorce is not enough, Sparks also sprinkles in another common theme of his that will break the reader’s heart even more.

My first thought when reading this novel was that it was obvious that this was Nicholas Sparks post-divorce. It seems clear because the story revolves around the divorce of the main character. Sparks surely drew from his own experiences with divorce as he wrote this book, though this book does not tell the story of his own divorce.

I am not entirely sure how I should feel about this book. Nicholas Sparks books can become a little cliché for me at times, so the uniqueness of this book in comparison to his others should be refreshing. It definitely wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t force myself to finish it like some people. I think it is not so much that I did not like the book, as it was that it was the fact that it was not what I was expecting.

It honestly took me a while to warm up to the main characters. In the very beginning, Russ earned little sympathy from me. He seemed very self-centered and a bit insensitive. Then I got to know more about his wife’s personality, and I started to like him better by comparison. I probably should not have been too fast to judge him. None of us are perfect, so it is more realistic for novel characters to not be either.

I think the best part of the book was watching the evolution of Russ’s relationship with his daughter. Russ missed a lot of London’s milestones early on due to his preoccupation with work. However, as Vivian reenters the workforce, and he becomes his own boss, he starts to take on more responsibilities of raising their daughter. This allows for his love to grow into something special. The scene in the book that inspired the cover art is certainly one of the most heartwarming scenes.

108

It was heartbreaking to see the effects a divorce has on children. I am thankful I have never had to experience that, but I know there are far too many families torn apart. I am sure many readers will connect with this. The fact that Sparks and his family have gone through this struggle themselves helps give his writing more credibility. Aside from divorce, I think the central concept Two by Two revolves around is the father-daughter relationship of Russ and London.

If you pick up this novel expecting it to be another The Notebook, you are bound to be disappointed because this is not that book. You might as well set it back down and just read The Notebook or one of Nicholas Sparks’ other novels again. I believe it may be necessary for the reader to go into reading this book with an open mind for them to enjoy it. If you do that, you might find Two by Two to be a cute, bittersweet story of a man who loses a lot and learns to love what he still has.

109

Book Review: Boy, 9, Missing

by Abby K. Keffeler

B

oy, 9, Missing by Nic Joseph first compelled me to pull it off the shelf with its bright colors on the cover. The color scheme of the teal blue and the tie dye did not match the dark tone the title read. The synopsis on the back cover was accurate to the story’s plot line without revealing too much about the wild twists and turns this novel will take the reader on.

I was hooked from page one, learning about the characters, and how each of them would fall into this mysterious thriller. The main character, Francis, is compelling because he comes from a normal background. He had a great job, but when things started to get a little bumpy for him, he made choices that jeopardized his career. Between having to live with those choices and going through a divorce with his wife, he moved back to his hometown. The reader begins to feel sympathy for Francis from the very beginning. His background is believable and relatable. There were a few character flaws, however.

I did not understand how a father who just got custody of his teenage daughter would lie to her and blatantly ignore her has he went around town trying to solve the mystery of the missing boy. When Francis was growing up, his brother Lucas, died during a social gathering at his home. When the nine-year-old boy goes missing, it hits home for him. Francis spent all of his time trying to project his deadbeat father, while ignoring his own daughter. Though it might be important to some, I don’t believe this small detail detracted from the overall thrill of the novel.

Throughout the different twists and turns the author took us on, the present time was balanced with flashbacks. Francis’ younger brother died but no one knew how or why. The other boy who was said to have witnessed it, Sam, remained quiet about the entire thing for the rest of his life. The event was spoken of until Sam’s boy went missing.

The connection between the characters is outlined in such a way that the reader can connect to them, and understand their relationship. New characters were introduced that played pivotal roles in the plot line. It is believable when the psychologist is introduced to the reader, as having seen Francis’ father as a patient.

One of the many twists comes when the reader discovers she has actually been working with Francis on a project with off-the-market psychological tests to recall suppressed memories. It is fascinating to learn about this topic, and the author did it in such a way that it flows and feels like it is a part of the plot line. Even though she is in business with Francis’ father, she has a change of heart and begins working with Francis to find the missing boy.

110

Some readers might find some character less important to the plot line, but I grew to love each of the characters and their impact on the story. If the author had left out any of the details, twists, or characters we would be reading an entirely different story.

All in all, this is a great novel. The touch of romance that rises between Francis and his coworker adds the spark that many people are looking for in a novel, but it is not overwhelming. The tension between Francis and a private reporter who is writing a novel about Sam’s life and silence about Lucas’ death is not only significant but it is believable. As a reader, I personally did not care for her attitude either. Little did we know, she had important details leading to the truth no one saw coming. The underlying plot with Francis’ daughter is subtle, but essential because it adds another dimension of struggle and acceptance.

The serious topics that arise are addressed in this novel without sugar coating them. The author presents them to her characters allowing the readers to feel and experience them just as much as the characters do. Themes such as kidnapping, falsification of information, under the radar medical testing, and murder, float throughout the words in this novel. The readers are drawn in and it is guaranteed this quick read will keep your nose buried in its pages until you read the last word.

This is a novel I plan on reading again. I would, without a doubt in my mind, recommend this novel to a friend. It’s not often I find a book that captures my attention strongly enough to read cover to cover in one sitting, but this is was one of them. As I think about the plot line now, I am still in awe of the outcome and the final answer to so many questions. I would be interested to see this novel turned into a movie or television series. There is enough substance to fulfill the time, which is fantastic for the reader’s imagination as they try to make sense of some of the smaller plot lines, finding the solution to them as much as they are solving the larger plot line. I would easily rate this book 4/5 or 5/5 stars.

111

Book Review: Thirteen Reasons Why

by Abby K. Keffeler

T

hirteen Reasons Why, a novel by Jay Asher was published in 2007 by Penguin Group. I first discovered this book once I was in college, at least seven years after it’s publication. A good friend recommended this book to me, and once I started reading it I couldn’t put it down. It quickly made it to the top of my favorite reads.

Jay Asher was able to do something within the pages of his novel that I had never seen before. This setting takes place in a small town, and we view high school through the eyes of the students. With all the hype Thirteen Reasons Why has been getting, I do not hesitate to talk about the plot line. This is a story of Hannah Baker, and her “thirteen reasons” she committed suicide. Each reason is recorded on a cassette tape which are passed from classmate to classmate. They each listen to all of the tapes, and learn dark secrets about each other. Jay Asher did a marvelous job portraying this story through the eyes of a dead girl. Not only did we hear Hannah’s voice, but we experienced every tape and emotion along side Clay as he listened to the tapes. The plot was intricately woven together, and the written work wasn’t like anything else I had read. The point of view still amazes me.

When I learned Netflix filmed an original series based on this novel, I was ecstatic. I knew there was great potential for this plot line on screen. I will start off by talking about how the plot unfolded. This series was split into thirteen different episodes, one episode for each of the thirteen reasons. As I was watching, I got incredibly excited when I learned the screenwriters stayed true to Jay Asher’s novel. In order to fill out the time, we learned more of the backstory and lives of the other characters. This added a new dimension to the story, but like I said, it was one I was excited about.

While we learn so much more about the supplemental characters, the emotion I felt from them on screen was often times greater than our main character, Clay. In the novel, I feel every emotion Clay is feeling—but watching him on screen, I am left frustrated with his ignorance of the situations around him. At certain times, I wanted to reach into the screen and slap him into his reality. However, all in all, I love Clay and the person he his. He shows tremendous growth throughout the series and develops into a selfless guy who reaches out to care for a friend he has lost touch with.

Social media channels have been blowing up lately with all kinds of reviews about this show. I, fortunately, finished the series before my own opinions could be tainted with other reviews. One of the most common concerns is how the screenwriters handled the serious topics: sexual assault and suicide. While I understand how this can be a trigger for those who have dealt with similar situations first hand, I have an appreciation for the rawness and authenticity the 112

viewers felt. Personally, I think topics like these can be sugar coated and almost dismissed. I have watched too many shows and read too many books that have left me disappointed with the way they handled such topics. Jay Asher did a marvelous job with handling the topics in his novel while the screenwriters carried it over. It’s time to start discussions about suicide and sexual assault with the goal of preventing it in the future. Thirteen Reasons Why does exactly that.

As far as I’m concerned, there is only one quality about the show that I did not feel when I read the book that left me on edge. Suicide is not a decision that someone can make for another person. As a certified mental health first aider, I can say it is important that individuals realize they can not be the reason someone decides to take their own life. At the same time, small actions can go a long way for a person who is already on edge. I think that is what this novel and show is trying to portray. A simple hello, getting coffee once a week, and smiling at someone in passing can do a lot for a person is feeling low. Why not take a couple extra minutes to smile when it could change someone else’s day? Let this be the message you take away from the series—not that you could be the killer.

As a graphic design student, I was mesmerized with the transitions between scenes. This is one of the things most viewers would not be able to appreciate.

There are differences between past and present, which are noted with Hannah’s presence, of course. There is a slight color change between those scenes. Hannah brings light to the world, so the scenes with her present give off a warm yellow tint. The present is a cold, blue color. There is also a marvelous transition with the actors as each scene change is as smooth as it could ever be. Nothing feels forced.

All in all, I would recommend this series to friends and family. I know the media has given Netflix a lot of flack about it recently, but there is a beautiful art within this show. This is one of the most accurate screen productions I have ever seen in regard to following a novel’s plot line. I would caution anyone who is struggling mentally to approach it carefully, but I would never dismiss this series.

With that being said, I feel as if my appreciation for the show would be much different had I not read the novel before watching the show. Jay Asher’s work is beautifully written, and the most intricate plot line I think I have ever read. This just brings a new level to the Netflix series. Take it as you wish, and believe what you want. My biggest request though, is that you read and watch for yourself to form your own opinion. It’s time to stop letting social media taint topics that could be beneficial and inspiring for people. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, so make sure to form your own, free of judgment.

113

Book Review: Odd Child Out

by Abby K. Keffeler

A

uthor Gilly Macmillan published Odd Child Out, a Novel in 2017 (HarperCollins). I was first drawn to the cover art as this book sat on the shelf. Having some design background, I understand how important it is to have a book that is well designed from cover to cover to hold a reader’s interest.

The black silhouette over the turquoise blue creates a feeling of ominousness. This also foreshadows the canal that is involved in the mystery of the story line.

Macmillan sets this novel in her hometown of Bristol, which serves her an advantage. She also draws on personal experiences of hardship in the world of medicine. It is evident Macmillan set out to write a plot line that encompasses heartache and curiosity, as it is something she has lived through—and others can relate. The language and word choice is culturally enlightening for someone who is reading outside of England.

The format this novel is written in interesting. The novel is split up into five different days, and “the day after.” As I cracked open the book for the first time, I was immediately encapsulated. The character development is strong and unique. I wasn’t sure what to expect—I thought maybe this would be a crime thriller, but I learned quickly that aspects of the storyline can be predictable. Characteristics for the people we meet throughout the plot are what really grab the reader.

We learn about two separate families. From the get-go we learn Noah is a 15-year-old terminal cancer patient with a father who is constantly traveling the world as a photographer. Noah’s mother invests her time to Noah’s health—for as long as he has to live. Abdi, Noah’s best friend, is born into a Somalian family who sought refuge with his to Bristol, England when he was an infant. The boys were brought together through their schooling when they were both viewed as outcasts.

Each character has his or her own voice. We see the interactions between characters, but we also learn of the internal motives for some of their relations toward others and preconceived notions they might hold for certain situations. Each character provides a level of tension that keeps the reader interested. We even hear Noah through his induced coma. He gives us much of the background we might lack otherwise for events that have played out before the fateful night at the canal.

Macmillan does a phenomenal job comparing the two families throughout the story line. She does well with touching on difficult topics—difficult to talk about and especially write about in a way that is respectful to those who might pick up her book.

Without saying too much more, I would recommend this book to any reader. Although I was originally seeking a more mysterious and crime thilling plotline, Macmillan’s use of character development to drive the plot forward is 114

interesting and well done. She takes us through all the emotional toil the families experience—fear, loss, and heaps of questioning. There is heaviness in the silence, but ample hope with each turn of the page. Although it is written as a sequel to Macmillan’s What She Knew, (related by Jim Clemo) Odd Child Out can stand as an individual novel.

115

Book Review: Dakota Poems From a Midwest Poet

by Aimee Huntley

M

y first crush on Linda Hasselstrom came after encountering her poem “Mulch” about five years ago, which was recommended by a friend. I loved “Mulch” because it was smart, yet funny, honest, yet sly, casual but also complex. Since I’ve never met Hasselstrom, I YouTubed several of her readings and was entertained by her facial expressions and energy. Hasselstrom is not only a poet, but also a teacher, author, rancher, skilled raconteur and lover of nature. Her 2017 book “Dakota Bones, Grass, Sky” is a compilation of fifty new and one hundred and eighteen previously published poems. The covers of the book are photographs taken near her writing ranch retreat home, Windbreak House, and depicts a typical South Dakota sky, which changed drastically, in literally seven minutes.

The book is dedicated to Hasselstrom’s deceased step-father, John Hasselstrom.

In one of the many informative 2017 Preface notes, Linda mentions how he refused to read any of her books after discovering that she “referred to him, factually,” as her step-father in the introduction to her first book. She also clarifies the status of many of the human subjects of her poems, such as her “first husband, Dan, … who enjoys mentioning our association in ways that are complimentary to himself. And to set the record straight in another way, I divorced him.” Many of poems about Dan refer to his philandering and their divorce. Linda also talks about her deceased “second husband,” George Randolph Snell, and other friends, family members, and neighbors. Her current love, is cited as her “life partner, Jerry Ellerman, whom she currently resides with at Windbreak House.

I found all this extra information very gratifying because I’m a snoopy reader, and am always intrigued about the people and details that inspire authors to write about them. I always imagine what the back story might be, behind the scenes.

I particularly enjoy personal writing that takes a certain amount of courage to share with others, since it shows a willingness to reveal vulnerability. Hasselstrom is clearly no damsel in distress or victim. She comes across as a very capable, no nonsense, strong, self-empowered woman. I actually thought of her as a tomboy, and smiled when I found a poem on page 116, by that exact title. In it is the refrain, “I wanted to be a boy.” Examples of this ruggedness is depicted in the details of her life on paper such as “Today I mowed ten acres of hay, laid twenty tons of alfalfa down, raked it into windrows for my father to stack” and “When my horse fell and cracked my wrist, I didn’t cry.” Regardless of this toughness, there’s also a sensuality and tenderness found that comes across as while not necessary feminine, still very female nonetheless. Lines such as: “In a breast still childlike when all the other girls were women. Pain where I’ve nursed only joy. No child, and now too late.”

116

The many references to the local animals, plants, scenery and weather reminded me of Mary Oliver’s poetry, except Hasselstrom writes more often about drowning kittens, mowing over hidden fawns, butchering a crippled heifer and assorted roadkills. Despite this recurring theme of death, it is also balanced by memories of family and good lives, lived well. There is the fragrance of cowslips, alfalfa fields, and bean soup. There are the love songs of blackbirds, meadowlarks, and ex-husbands. There is also a sense of pride from days past, and hope for an uncertain future.

The book is divided into ten sections with varying numbers of entries, each beginning with favorite quotes that don’t seem to preclude the subject matter of the ensuing poems, but are still interesting to read. There doesn’t appear to be any specific chronological timeline either, with older poems mixing with new. There are stories from relatives long deceased, interspersed with everyday happenings, and tales of neighbors. If I have the opportunity to meet Linda I will ask her how she decided on the layout for this book. I was happily surprised to find my beloved favorite, “Mulch” in the first chapter, on page six. Perhaps this is like a rock band that starts off a concert, with one of their number one hits as an opener. Even after finding many new favorites like “Happy Birthday”, “Why I’m Wearing Red Lipstick”, and “How to Find Me”, I am still captivated by the lines “Strange plants push up among the corn, leaves heavy with dark water, but there are no weeds.”

Reading this compilation has been a gift. It has given me deep insight into the mind, heart and soul of an exceptional person. Linda Hasselstrom may not be an extraordinary writer. She may not be all that different from any other rancher living in the Midwest in most respects, but it is the effort in which she shares her experiences of daily life and crafts them into something beautiful, that people can relate to. Poems that make people feel. Her poems, like a well-tended garden, are thoughtfully planned, planted, pruned, and harvested with care. She saves the seeds for seasons to come, and adds or removes those which no longer serve their purpose. I greatly appreciate the down-to-earth style she has that tells it straight to the reader. There are few fancy words that are difficult to pronounce or define, except maybe “ululation” in the poem “Rankin Ridge”. She doesn’t leave you hanging, wondering, “What did she mean? What is the symbolism in that? What is she saying to us?”

This is a book I’ll probably buy for myself and share with friends. I’ve been trying not to accumulate, but this is worth keeping and referring to. I find the way the poems are listed alphabetically in the back helpful, like a trusted cook book. I like the way Hasselstrom is so selfless for the reader with motherly advice for girls such as those in “Alice Johnson” where she declares, “Young women, do not take pride in your smooth skin. You have much to learn. You’re praying to the wrong gods; sacrificing only hairspray and face paint. The Goddess calls for blood and pain.” She is generous in her admonitions for aspiring writers in “The Successful Writer”, saying that “The poet’s words will sear the page like coals in 117

snow” and “This poem says ‘Take off your dark glasses, quit lying to yourself and everyone else. Let’s get DOWN to it, baby.’ This poem wants a revolution, a body count.” Finally, Hasselstrom gives encouragement for aging stating in “Resolution: 2011“, I begin this 68th year as I mean to go on: scrub the kitchen floor…start a poem”. Even in our winter years it’s never too late to write a poem.

Meeting Linda, and going to one of her writing retreats at Windbreak house is on my resolution list for 2018.

118

Anthology Review: Rape Joke

by McKenna Cooley

Please Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poets for the Next Generation Edited by Brett Fletcher and Lynn Melnick Here are two reviews of poems that I enjoyed from the anthology that was filled to the brim with outstanding poets.

R -

ape Joke was something I went back and forth on. I realize that it is a very personal and important moment in her life, and I respectfully tried to not laugh. Patricia Lockwood obviously was very hurt by this experience and is trying very hard to not let it get to her for the rest of her life.

However, I also think she wrote the poem as a way of healing, by making fun of him. I mean there were so many characteristics she described about him that made the story funny because some of the specifics of the story are just funny.

I think you can laugh at the moments that are meant to be funny, but also be moved and remember the poem because it is a real problem that needs to be addressed throughout our world.

I come from a very large town and know people who have gone through this more regularly than it probably happens in little Yankton, South Dakota, but I think that it should still be addressed here because it can happen anywhere.

To do better you have to know better; everyone needs to be informed about this unfortunate growing reality, so that it stops here. This poem can be a great teaching and learning tool for all kinds of people. Because not only does it show the lead up, that was honestly very unassuming-how could she has possibly have known. But also while it was happening and all the things she thought and did.

Then the after, making the most of the situation in order to heal herself.

I also think that there are parts to this poem that only a survivor would understand, like an inside joke, except it isn’t a joke. The only part of this poem that I didn’t really want to relate to or think about was the fact that my dad has a goatee, which was honestly not a pretty idea to picture. I do know that my dad likes his goatee and isn’t planning on changing it because he’s known for his “dad goatee,” but my vision of goatees are ruined for all eternity.

I really connected with The Wait for Cake by Melissa Broder. Before two months ago, I always thought about suicide in the way she talked about it. “If a person wants to go/why not let her go?” I could always understand that it was a personal decision and that individual person was making it for themselves.

Although I also understood that the decision wasn’t the right one and that no one should do that, it was a reality that some people thought was the only choice.

119

Suicide had never happened so closely to me. There was one girl at my high school who jumped off one of the football light posts. they found her on Saturday, right after it had happened. It was my sophomore year, I hadn’t known her but everyone could feel the effects of the loss. I didn’t really feel much for her besides sadness that she felt it was the only way. I didn’t think much about suicide again, until August 25.

My friend killed himself. He was alone in his room and his mom found him.

Him, Avery, Kenzie, and I were in an AP Biology group together my junior year. We kind of lost touch senior year, but I considered him a good friend of mine. We took this really great picture with Avery together in our graduation gowns at grad walk to send to Kenzie, who had already graduated. Kenzie is the one who called to tell me. He was alone in his room the night before the first day of my orientation weekend.

I can’t help but wonder if there is something I could’ve done to have made him feel like he wasn’t so alone that he had let go. I miss him so much. I don’t know if I agree with this poem anymore.

120

Contributors

Alphabetical Order by Last Name

121

Originally from Casper, Wyoming, Kaysia Armijo is a freshman English-Writing major at Mount Marty College.

Kaysia normally writes nonfiction pieces, but likes to venture out of writing to share her passion for photography.

Kaysia dreams of writing and publishing her first mystery/ thriller novel within the next several years. This is her first publication, but she has received several awards for journalism throughout high school.

Alexandra Bargstadt is a student at Mount Marty College.

She is from Winside, a small town in Northeast Nebraska.

Alex is a Winside High School, class of 2017, graduate.

Joseph Brinkman is a junior at Mount Marty College, majoring in Psychology with a minor in English writing, and he is also playing golf for the Lancers. He is blessed with being the oldest of eight children from small town Jackson, MN and enjoys being outdoors as much as possible. Faith, family, friends, academics and athletics are the four main aspects of his life. He plans to deepen his faith, continue his education and improve his golf ability while attending Mount Marty College.

McKenna Cooley is a freshman English major at Mount Marty College from Henderson, Nevada. She was involved in journalism at Coronado High School, where she won second place for her editorial piece, Back gates need to be freed, her senior year at the Las Vegas Review Journal Awards. She is also involved in Mount Marty’s Archery team, where she is currently the USCA Indoor National Champion.

122

Lacee Fedeler is a freshman on campus who is majoring in accounting and minoring in psychology. Lacee’s hometown is Madison, SD, and she is the daughter of Melinda and Jeremey Fedeler. Lacee plays on the Mount Marty tennis team, while being active in STEP club and business club. She likes playing Fortnite and ping pong in her free time, while drag racing on the weekends.

Katelyn Hamil is a junior at Mount Marty College and is currently pursuing a degree in English with a history minor. Besides writing, Katelyn likes to read, create art, participate in community service events, hang out with friends, and cook meals for her family. She has been previously published in Paddlefish.

Shiann Hansen is the youngest of five kids to grow up in small town Alton, Iowa. She is a sophomore working toward her double major in English and Secondary Education along with a minor in Theater. At Mount Marty she has been involved in theater productions, various choirs, and clubs.

This will be her first time having her work published.

Miranda Henglefelt is a sophomore double major in English and Secondary Education with a minor in History. She originates from Alexandria, SD. Miranda enjoys reading. This is the first time her work will be published.

123

Kiana Hoff is a junior majoring in Exercise Science and is from Lake Presto, SD. She is the daughter of Mark & Jodi Hope and is the oldest of five. She has a great passion for art, literature, athletics, outdoor recreational activities, and sports medicine. She participates in SGA, FCA, XC & track and field, theatre, art, is an ambassador, is the president of the exercise science club, and is a tutor at Mount Marty College. In her spare time, Kiana likes to watch a lot of comedies and thrillers on Netflix, eat copious amounts of Little Debbie products, and stay active by running in circles around a track or going outside with her best friend and hugging trees while going on nature walks.

Aimee Huntley is happily employed at Mount Marty College Library, and is diligently stalking a BA in English. When not crafting oneiric poesy behind the lilac hedge on her front porch, she can be found battling crabgrass in the garden. She is the forward, flawsome, mother bear of four, and lives with her gruntled family in Yankton, South Dakota.

Alexia Jensen is a freshman at Mount Marty College, pursuing degrees in Elementary and Special Education. She has a special interest in teaching first grade. Alexia grew up in rural Irene, SD with one younger brother. In her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, and drawing. No One Ever Asked Me and Picture Day are her first publications.

124

Abby K. Keffeler is a Mount Marty College graduate from Piedmont, South Dakota, who pursued a degree in Graphic Design and Media Arts with minors in art and English writing.

She enjoys spending time outside, whether it is sleeping in a tent or hiking the back trails. Abby is a photography fanatic who loves the adventures life throws at her, and all the while; her greatest aspiration is to change the world—by changing someone’s world one person at a time. She has previously been published in Paddlefish and 4 P.M. Count.

Amber Leise is a Psychology and Human Services Major in her 3rd year of College. She would like to go on to graduate school for Business Psychology, and she is involved in Smooth Benediction programs and the Mount Marty Chamber Choir. Amber is also involved in her Catholic church back in Hartington, Nebraska as a cantor. Amber enjoys reading realistic fiction, playing trivia, and watching romantic comedies in her free time.

Gabrielle McHugh grew up in southwest Iowa with her grandparents and three siblings. She is an English major with a literature emphasis graduating in May, 2018. Fun facts, like the origins of playdough, are one of many things she enjoys learning.

Kimberly Ivonne Mosqueda is a first generation college student ad transfer student from California State University Chico. At her former university she studied Art Studio, Sociology and Social Work. She is currently studying Criminal Justice and is pursuing her career as a human rights lawyer. She is a social political painter and print maker, and this is her third publication with Mount Marty College.

125

Chloe Sand is a current Freshman here at Mount Marty College. Chloe grew up West River of the state in Rapid City, SD. Her major is Performing Arts and hopes one day to share her voice with people on stage. Her hobbies include reading, music, theatre, and taking lots of naps.

Peyton Stolle is currently a freshman at Mount Marty College and is majoring in Exercise Science, while also being a part of the Lancer Women’s Basketball team. She comes from a blended family, allowing her the pleasure (and tribulation) of having one brother, three stepbrothers, and one stepsister, all back in her hometown of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Peyton is looking forward to pursuing a career in Occupational Therapy, and hopes to keep making tons of new memories in her time at Mount Marty.

Emma Thury is a junior at Mount Marty College

majoring in English Education. She is originally from Mitchell, SD. When she isn’t busy with her studies, she enjoys playing piano and ukulele occasionally singing along with the songs.

Jennifer Vondrak is a senior at Mount Marty College

and will graduate with her Bachelor of Arts degree in Graphic Design + Media Arts with minors in Art and English with a writing emphasis. Although she is not quite sure what the future has in store for her, she is excited to start living the next chapter. This is the third year she has had work published in Paddlefish.

126

Paddlefish Snagging good literature one line at a time.

127