Paddlefish 2020

Mount marty UNIVERSITY

PADDLEFISH 2020

— STUDENT LITERARY AND ART JOURNAL —

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Editor Jim Reese Associate Editor Dana DeWitt Review Editor Jamie Sullivan Copy Editor Dana DeWitt Arts Editor David Kahle Editorial Assistant Lauren Kathol Shelby Schweitzberger Cover Art Miranda Henglefelt, Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe Book Design & Layout Lauren Kathol Advisory Board S. Cynthia Binder Dana DeWitt S. Marielle Frigge Jamie Sullivan

Copyright Š 2020 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 University.

Paddlefish Snagging good literature one line at a time.

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PADDLEFISH 2020

— STUDENT LITERARY AND ART JOURNAL —

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Table of Contents

Shiann Hansen • No Way to Treat your Mother [Winner of the 2020 Sister Eileen Neville Award for poetry] Kassondra Gooley • A College Student’s Review of the Corona Virus [Winner of the 2020 Father Jack Garvey Award for nonfiction] McKenna Cooley • The Johnson’s [Winner of the 2020 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for fiction] Javier Murgia • Letter to MMU Students Kaito Sukeyasu • The 14-year-old Playboy • Humbled • One Last Ope • Hanging Up the Spikes Miranda Henglefelt • New Isn’t Always Good • Insomnia Jonathan J. Urroz • What Makes Us the Same?

Patrick Hicks • Dear Fellow Writers Joseph Stibral • Define, “Christian” Benedictine Award Essay by Shiann Hansen • Never Alone Jaclyn Laprath • City vs. Rural Shiann Hansen • If I Had Known • The Loss of My Sanity • An Ariel Without a Voice • Different Kinds of Sick Maria Mazziotti Gillan • An Open Letter to the Students of Dr. Jim Reese Courtney Heath • Creativity 4

Table of Contents 59

Kassondra Gooley • An Eight-Year-Old’s Realistic Goals, • Sneaking into the Chapel 66 Alexandra Bargstadt • My Most Bizarre Job: Cleaning a House • Fishing Willer’s Cove 72 Hallie Parker • Battling the Beast: Fighting to Live a Normal Life with Anxiety 74 Rachel McCormick • The Importance of Empathy in Doctors and Nurses 77 Mark Sanders • Dear Students 80 Elita Eastman • Bend at the Weight of Butterflies • The Table on Maple Street 83 Aedan Huntley • The Sound of Silence • Crawdad Catching • Greed 86 Justin Paddack • Never 87 Sierra Rosales • Karaoke Machine • When I am Most Alone 90 Heather Maier • The Importance of a Liberal Arts Education 93 Bede Art Gallery: Student Art 101 Book Reviews

Kaito Sukeyasu • Unwriten: Bat Flips, the Fun Police and Baseball’s New Future

by Danny Knobler

Kassondra Gooley • A Testament to Injustice in Simone John’s Testify • Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West: A Must-read

Shiann Hansen • The Mermaid’s Voice Returns in This One by Amanda Lovelace

Elita Eastman • The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides

LeAnn DeRouchey • A Seriel Killer’s Daughter

McKenna Cooley • Bone Chalk by Jim Reese • House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1) by Sarah J. Maas 123 Contributors 5

No Way to Treat your Mother

by Shiann Hansen No Way to Treat Your Mother

By Shiann Hansen-- Poetry She’s been pissed off before, but now she’s had enough.

She calls out in a strangled voice as we shoot poisoned arrows into her side, fill her oxygen tank with smog, and pour black oil down her throat.

We set fire to her hair, and blanket her in trash and plastic.

Her polar bears go homeless while her fish tangle in debris, and her trees cry as they fall.

We’ve treated her worse than we would our worst enemy.

And yet, she is not our enemy.

She is our mother Then with one gust of her ragged breath, chaos erupts.

The roads are empty as people stay in.

She has made us cower in fear of sickness.

She rips the toxic mask from her face and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

She bends to drink purifying water from a stream.

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Winner of the 2020 Sister Eileen Neville Award for poetry

She pulls a spear from her side and watches as the grass grows back and slowly heals.

Then she pulls another. Then another.

She’s not completely healed— still bent, still ashy, still healing— but for the first time in a long time, mountains have reappeared, water is cleared, and smog is lifted.

She stands, with a mountain as her cane, and she shakes the earth.

Let the world hear her war cry.

She will not fall to the wayside, desolate and destroyed.

She’ll stand again with a mane of flowers, legs of icebergs, arms of sequoias, and a heart filled with hope.

She is trying not to die!

She is crying!

She is screaming!

Hear her!

Do not disobey her.

She is our mother.

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A College Student’s Review of the Corona Virus

by Kassondra Gooley

Winner of the 2020 Father Jack Garvey Award for nonfiction

We live out what seems to be some sort of post apocalyptic novel because of the Corona Virus scare. It’s odd how this narrative seems to create unusual situations. Churches no longer require people to attend mass; schools are asking students not to attend; and college professors who can’t even turn on the projector are now teaching online classes (much to their chagrin). People left on college campuses, who might only talk to each other every once and awhile, now spend several hours talking, taking walks, watching movies, and just sitting in each other’s presence as they allow the silence to draw them closer together. People who don’t know each other well talk about death, sickness, and God. They proofread each other’s assignments and pick up on each other’s body language. They learn about each other’s families, favorite movies, music, and about each other’s social tendencies as they face all of life’s pressing issues together from a tiny little room tucked away from the rest of society. People find the beauty and necessity of the arts as sports facilities and teams are completely shut down. Entire towns are shut down, adding to the global anxiety. Families worry about their students, about their elders, and about their source of income. Everyone seems to think that being instructed to wash your hands means to buy all of the toilet paper and no one seems to realize this won’t be so bad. Friends pretend that they are all on vacation because, honestly, no one wants to do online classes. “None of us has ever seen anything quite like this.” Yes, noble professor, you are quite right; and none of us quite knows what to do. Such is our adventure!

This being said I must say that, even though these times have created some interesting plot twists, I am compelled to dock some points for one thing: people died. I know part of a dystopian, post apocalyptic adventure is a grim sense of impending death, but when you’re actually living such a story that is the last thing you want to hear. You don’t just avoid such news because you realize it could happen to you. You avoid it because you realize the more terrifying reality that it could happen to someone you love and you would be helpless. You cannot stop what will happen. You could not heal them or take their place if something did happen. You might not 8

even be able to get there and after they’re gone you won’t be able to gather and remember them. You have to face the reality that you could die alone.

These are elements that readers enjoy because it sparks philosophy and studious curiosity, but for the characters these are the worst parts of a book. The tension of reaching the climax, not knowing when you will reach it and how it will resolve, is an anxiety laden existence. When you are confined to a space, that anxiety turns into being trapped. Social media doesn’t help being trapped, not that we don’t still use it. Honestly, nothing helps with that feeling because we were probably trapped long before the virus and now we are forced to face all of the different things that we are voluntarily and involuntarily caged by. Like I said, great for the reader but agonizing for the characters. So, speaking as a character, there are many well crafted pieces in this narrative that is currently being written, but I do resent the aforementioned aspect. Therefore, your progressing work gets four out of five stars. I can’t wait to see how it ends.

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The Johnson’s

by McKenna Cooley

Winner of the 2020 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for fiction

Okay, a light jacket to go with a slightly cloudy day. Tennis shoes and workout clothes in my gym bag for yoga after work. Coffee in my travel mug, with the lid on tightly today. Wouldn’t want a repeat of Monday morning, when I spilled coffee all over myself after the lid popped off while I was taking a drink.

Two annoying half-finished fan-fiction book proposals ready to be destroyed in meetings today are in my work bag. I think I have everything I need, including the kitchen sink in my bag. Phone and keys are on the counter.

I pick up my phone to check the time. Damn, can’t leave yet. It’s not 7:30, I haven’t seen the Johnsons.

7:28. Should I wait the two minutes, or head out early before the rush?

No, I have to wait, I have to make sure they leave their apartment building.

It’s become a part of my day to see the Johnson’s and their daily ritual.

It starts my day off right. Some people have meditation, I have people watching.

I could walk downstairs to the lobby of the building, I can see them from there. That was where I saw them for the first time a few months ago.

I had just moved into my apartment a few weeks before. I was actually on time that morning to leave at 7:30, walking out of the sliding glass doors of my apartment building. I glanced across the street to the apartments on the other side of the three crowded lanes. That’s when I saw them.

If I don’t walk quick enough down the four flights of stairs, I could miss seeing them. Or there could be something blocking my view on the street.

It’s a safer bet to stay up here.

Tick, tock. I hate the pendulum clock my mother gave me when she was downsizing. She and my step-dad were moving out of the family home we had lived in since I was seven. They didn’t need that house once my brother had moved out and I was permanently in the city.

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The clock towers over me and brushes the ceiling of my apartment. The only way I could get it here was with my step-father and brother carrying it up four flights of stairs; it didn’t fit in the elevator.

Mom found it strange that I only had an alarm clock and a phone to tell the time, so when she was deciding what to give away, this was the item passed on to me. It belonged to her mother, so she didn’t want to get rid of it.

But the thing is continuously annoying me with it’s chirping. Not that I’d tell her that.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

I go to stand by my window perch overlooking the street below and the buildings across from mine. The clouds lazily pass by, not covering the sky entirely. There are a few cars milling around with the early morning traffic. Nothing major is happening, yet.

The normal dog walkers and joggers are in their usual incomprehensibly cheery attitude. Exchanging greetings easily with each other as they pass on the murky sidewalks. The trash hasn’t been picked up yet, so no one is stopping to chat amongst the smells of leftover pizza.

I can hear a trash disposal truck picking up and throwing down the trash bins on the block over. The sounds that seem to be constantly surrounding this area are particularly loud this morning. The volume of the work probably hasn’t changed, just my reaction to it today.

I went out last night with a potential author we are looking at working with. He was nice, but his writing definitely needs some work. Luckily the story itself is interesting, he just needs some help touching it up. I decided I needed to meet him in person before giving the final okay to move forward. I think it will work out though.

When I got home, I still had to read through some of the two erotic vampire novels now in my bag. Which meant that I didn’t get to bed until late, due to the amount of time it took me to suffer through both.

I don’t mind being one of the first people to lay eyes on prospective authors’ proposals, it’s just hard having to suffer through the difficult ones. They say you know a good book within the first chapter, some might even say the first line. I try to give authors the benefit of the doubt. I force myself to read through the first chapter of every book proposal I receive.

Some are just better than others.

I much prefer the writers who are established with us at the publishing house. I already know their style and process for writing. I know how long it takes to get something decent to start out with, and once that happens, everything else just flows and comes together. At least for me it does.

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Those authors have already been through the process and know how to write what they want to say. And I already know that the story is going to be amazing. Those aren’t the difficult ones.

The elementary school bus pulls to the curb across the street, not at the Johnson’s apartment building but the one to the right. Well my right, their left, I suppose.

The usual three children come racing down the sidewalk. The brownhaired boy with a Star Wars backpack that is bigger than his tiny body is lagging behind again. The girl with the same dark hair, I figure to be his slightly taller older sister, doesn’t get too far ahead. The other boy, a blonde with big glasses and a green lunchbox, makes it to the bus first.

They all clamber up onto the bus and out of my view.

I look at my phone again and watch as the time turns from 29 to 30.

I place my phone on the window seal as the passing school bus reveals them.

Mr. James Johnson and Mrs. Jerry Johnson walking out of their apartment building. I wonder what their actual names are, the ones I made up seem a little too on the nose, but I refuse to change them. I think the names suit them in a way that even if I did learn their actual names, I wouldn’t refer to them as that anyway. Doesn’t everyone who acts suspiciously have the last name Johnson?

They both stop a few steps short of the street. They stand next to each other, their shoulders no more than three inches apart. Mrs. Johnson stands to the right of Mr. Johnson. They always stand in that way. Her closer to the street light, him closer to the children’s building.

I don’t actually know if they are married, I’d assume so since they go in and out of the building together everyday. Although they aren’t attached to each other in a way that people in a relationship are. They give each other ample space in most of their interactions.

Most young couples like them are still in the honeymoon stage. Touching each other with ease, stealing hand squeezes and quick kisses before parting ways. There is none of that sentimentality in any interaction I have ever seen. It almost seems like a tense business interaction every morning.

But they also don’t act like friends. They hold prolonged eye contact occasionally, almost like they can speak mind-to-mind. They don’t need to say whatever they are thinking, the other instinctively knows.

Mr. Johnson is looking the same as usual: black suit, black hair heavily slicked back with gel like it’s going out of style, and a black leather briefcase at his side. I wouldn’t say he’s close to 40 yet, but he’s not down there with the 20 somethings either. He’s comfortably in the 30s, but still attractive enough for everyone to admire.

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I assume he’s a lawyer, but most lawyers look frazzled and run around everywhere with a stack of papers in their hands, which is the exact opposite of Mr. Johnson. He’s always cool, calm, and collected. I’ve never seen him with anything other than that briefcase.

He stands straight backed, head high, watching everything around him with a carefully composed neutral face. He observes everything, if only to make sure that nothing is out of the normal for everyone else around them before they continue on. He is supernaturally still, only moving his head left to right and back again slowly.

Mrs. Johnson is gorgeous as usual: blonde hair up in a tight ballerina bun, classy black dress suit, and three inch heels. She carries a black leather briefcase as well. She’s younger than Mr. Johnson by a degree.

However, she can hold her own in intensity next to Mr. Johnson. She is supernaturally still as well, except she isn’t looking around. She is staring at my apartment building. Her head is tilted slightly upwards, like she is looking at something on the second floor.

I’ve never seen her look at something so intensely before. On every other morning I have watched them it is like she isn’t actually looking at anything but through them. Always stuck deep in thought. But something has caught her attention this morning enough for her to look awake and aware like Mr. Johnson always does.

I’ve wondered about what she does too. I really hope she is a lawyer.

Maybe at a rival firm and sometimes they have to go up against each other in court, sounds like a plot for a T.V. show filled with drama.

The confrontations would be so intense in the courtroom every time they met. The two of them battling it out on opposite sides of the bench, both either believing that they are right or at least fighting it out for their client.

Then having to meet up again when they get home. I wonder if they leave it all at the door. If home is the one place that is safe from conflict.

Otherwise that would be a very tense living situation constantly fighting from different perspectives against each other. I really need to stop reading bad romance novels before bed.

They stand silently. I can’t tell from this far, but it looks like the backs of their hands are touching. The usual silence is heavier than normal.

Two identical black SUV’s pull up and park next to the sidewalk in front of the Johnsons, same as usual. Mr. Johnson starts toward the one on his left, but freezes when Mrs. Johnson turns hurriedly toward him, grabbing his wrist, suddenly no longer caring about whatever caught her attention.

That’s new.

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He turns back to look at her, while she looks on at him with a somber tone. Neither say anything. He pulls his wrist away from her, taking her hand fully into his, weaving their fingers together for a moment before leading her toward the front SUV. He opens the back passenger door and watches as she gets into the car.

I can’t see if either of them say anything, but I doubt it. He shuts the door softly and briskly walks to the other car.

Strange, he has never opened her car door. They usually get into their cars at the same time. They have never gone to the same one in the morning. Not to mention I’ve never seen them hold hands like that.

I wonder what made today different. Was it an anniversary or maybe they are having issues and she just wanted to feel connected? It’s all very strange and out of the usual routine.

Both cars pull out into the street starting to flow with heavier traffic. Her car pulls into the right lane. His moves into the left turn lane. They turn away from each other as the light changes to green.

The ritual is complete.

I grab both of my bags, keys, and coffee before I leave my apartment. I double check that I locked my apartment door because I apparently forgot yesterday when I was leaving in a rush for work. The door was unlocked when I got home last night.

I turn toward the elevator across the hall from me. OUT OF ORDER. Great. Creepy stairs it is.

I walk down the hall to the Emergency Exit stairwell. As I walk past Mrs. O’Neill’s door, I can hear the usual sounds of her ten cats getting their first meal of the day. No one has bothered to tell her that she probably shouldn’t have that many.

All of the cats are meowing while she talks to them in her Snow White sing-song voice walking around the apartment putting food in bowls. They usually get about three breakfasts in the mornings. Mostly because Mrs. O’Neill is starting to lose her memory a bit, so she forgets if she feeds them or not.

I pass the Martin’s nanny, Sarah, on her way out of the stairwell. We’ve become decent friends since she is at their apartment every day. Plus we are closer in age than I am to James and Pamela, so we’ve latched onto each other for days off and weekend outings in the city.

The Martin’s live in the apartment on my right. They have three small children, twin four-year-old boys and an infant baby sister. James and Pamela both work full-time. They are currently building a house on the 14

outskirts of the city, which is why they are temporarily living here until it is finished.

They aren’t terrible neighbors to have. They invite me over for dinner sometimes if we pass in the hallways after they have gotten carry-out.

The children aren’t terribly loud either for all being under the age of five.

There’s usually a lot of cartoons and songs to be heard through the walls.

I can almost guarantee I know the words to most of the theme songs of their favorite shows. Which isn’t that terrible of a situation to be in when it comes to apartments.

The apartment on my left is vacant and has been since I moved in. The landlord says that a lot of people come to look but no one ever signs the paperwork. I wonder sometimes if there is something terribly wrong with it, like mold or something.

I get to the third floor landing when I’m again distracted by my thoughts concerning the Johnson’s. I’ve never seen them talk to anyone in the three months since I started watching them.

I’ve considered what they could do for a living: lawyers, doctors, secret agents, realtors, even professional Men in Black impersonators. I don’t know which is the most likely option.

I don’t know how they can be so regimented, who gets off work and arrives home at the exact same time everyday?

Sometimes if I get home early enough I get to see the same strange routine happen in reverse at 6 p.m. Both cars pull up to the sidewalk at the exact same time and in the same positions from the morning, which is what makes it all the more strange since traffic patterns in this city are so erratic. How could they manage it?

Mr. Johnson gets out of his car quickly with his briefcase and waits on the sidewalk for her to do the same. Then they walk together into their apartment building, her leading the way.

I also don’t think I have ever seen either of them smile. Not to each other or people who pass by them on the sidewalks. Their faces are always set in a strained neutrality, like the Mona Lisa. I can never discern any emotion off of either of their faces.

This morning was the first time I had seen her stray from that fact. It was almost like she was dreading whatever it was that she was about to do. She didn’t want to get into that car without him by her side.

I don’t get off at the same time everyday, so I guess it’s possible I don’t get to see them arrive home at any other time besides 6. Maybe they do things differently when I’m not around to see it. Not in a creepy way of course. I just find them interesting. Fascinating even.

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I also never see them out again until 7:30 the next morning. They don’t go for walks or go out to eat. I’ve never even seen them leave to get groceries so they must have them delivered.

I’ve wondered if they are robots, aliens, or maybe even host bodies like in Avatar. Where a chamber holds their body while they are in something else, connected through genetics or whatever the science was behind that movie. But all those theories seem far-fetched.

I wish they lived on the side of the building with the windows facing me, so I could see what they do in the evenings. I’ve tried to look into the apartments facing me but none of them were the Johnson’s, at least not the ones with their blinds open. But I bet their evening routine is the same. They probably do the exact same thing every night.

Get home, change into comfy clothes, cook dinner together, and watch something while enjoying their meal. I don’t think they are pet people, pets are too unpredictable in their very strict world. So it would just be them and their silence.

I reach the second floor landing set of stairs, and reach down to pull out my phone and earbuds out of my bag. I can already hear people talking through the open staircase door leading to the lobby on the first floor.

The joggers and perky morning people stop to have loud and pointless conversations. I hope there’s no one I know; I don’t want to have to stop to talk for politeness sake and be late to work.

I start frantically patting myself down while standing on the landing.

Checking all of the pockets in my pants and jacket. I plunge my hand into my work bag to no avail. Nothing in my gym bag either.

I must have left it on the window seal when I was watching this morning. Well I suppose I could go one day without it, just to see what happens. Try one of those extreme technology purges that modern day hippies are always talking about.

I really only use it to stay in contact with people who text or email me, but my computer at work is connected to both of those so I’m sure it will be fine.

I hear the second floor stairwell door open behind me. Two weighted footsteps come toward me. Then two heavy hands touch my back and give me one solid push forward.

I tumble down the stairs. Banging my head against the side railing. My stuff goes flying everywhere. The stairs bite into every point on my body that they touch.

I land on the first floor, next to the door. I can still hear all of the people talking. The pain is starting. I hear the footsteps again, coming towards me down the steps.

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They stop next to the back of my head. I can’t see who they belong to.

Should I start screaming? I don’t know I could if I wanted to.

One of the shoes is pressing into the back of the neck. It’s getting heavy.

I try to move. A leg. A hand. My lips. Anything.

Nothing is working.

Everything starts going black. I can’t hear the voices anymore.

The pain is everywhere.

Then nothing.

Woman Dies in Apartment Stairwell “Did you hear about that poor girl in the building across the way?”

“She died slowly, no one had any idea in the lobby.”

“I never heard anything. There wasn’t a scream. There wasn’t a fight.

Nothing.”

“I was the last person to see her alive.”

Young Woman Stalked and Killed “It’s all just so crazy. She had no idea.”

“She was dedicated to helping authors and getting good stories out into the world.”

“I should have done something to help her.”

The Staircase Strangler Seized!

“He’d been watching her for months. He had her schedule written down in notebooks.”

“I talked to him once, he seemed like a nice kid.”

“He didn’t even try to deny it when the police came asking. He just let them in.”

“They hadn’t even spoken to each other once.”

Staircase Strangler Planned Attack in Advance “There were pictures of her plastered around his apartment.”

“He’d been scaring off potential renters for the place next to her for months.”

“He even broke the elevator the night before to get her to use the stairs.”

Staircase Strangler Broke Into Woman’s Apartment Before 17

“He had been in the apartment the day before he attacked.”

“The nanny next door couldn’t hear a thing with all those kids.”

“They found some of her things in his apartment. Lots of clothes.”

“Her neighbors had no idea that he had been in there snooping around.”

Staircase Strangler Trial Starts This Week “Her mom cried the entire trial.”

“It takes time to kill someone in that way. He made an ample amount of time.”

“He didn’t even seem sorry. That’s when I knew he was guilty.”

Murdered Woman’s Family Speaks

“He is getting everything he deserves.”

“She’s going to be so missed.”

“Her name was Mary.”

The End.

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Letter to MMU Students

by Javier Murgia Dear Mount Marty Students, I would like to once again thank you very much for giving me the time and space to speak with you. I felt very welcomed and I am very grateful for that. I was able to spend a brief time with you to give you a glimpse of the law enforcement career and the importance of writing within it. I hope that the information that I provided may be of use to you in your respective professions. I received the letters written and had the opportunity to read each one. I have to say that I was amazed, inspired, and very appreciative of the kind words of support you gave for the law enforcement profession.

It was also interesting to learn that there were many students that have family members currently in law enforcement. There were a lot of great questions asked during class which led to great discussion. However, there were other questions asked within the letters that I would like to address at this time. I will answer the most common questions asked as well as others that for one reason or another stood out to me.

What led to me beginning a career in law enforcement? What is your favorite part of your job?

I believe that I have always had a strong interest in police work and had many opportunities to job shadow to determine whether or not this was the right career choice. I completed several ride-alongs with different agencies which certainly opened my eyes into this career. I observed the manner in which officers interacted with the community in a professional manner and knew I wanted to be a part of that. I was afforded opportunities to begin my law enforcement career in the corrections field with work in jails and prisons. I then moved on to become a certified officer and have taken advantage of the opportunities to continue to develop into a police supervisory role. The favorite part of my job would have to be the many opportunities one has to interact and develop relationships with people from all walks of life.

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What is the craziest call you have had to deal with?

This question was asked many, many times and it is difficult to answer. I would have to say the answer depends on what one’s definition of “crazy” is. I interpret this question to mean either the most dangerous call, the most absurd call, or the most memorable call. I am going to answer this question as being the most memorable. There have been many memorable calls for one reason or another but one that I never imagined I would play a role in was being part of capturing a person on the FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted. A fugitive, Lyle Jeffs, was wanted by the FBI and happened to be absconding in our community. Through investigations and intelligence his location was determined and I happened to be one of the responding officers that took him into custody. For our efforts in the capture we received special recognition from the FBI and this experience is arguably the most memorable.

What is the biggest lesson learned while being a police officer?

I would have to say that the biggest lesson that I have learned in this line of work is one that everyone can benefit from. That lesson is that people are all human beings. In this line of work we are often asked to respond to the worst of situations and are expected to bring peace and civility to chaotic times. I have learned that we as human beings all hurt in one form or another. We all experience the highs and the lows that life has to offer. I have learned that in order to overcome obstacles we need to support one another at all times. We never know what another person is xperiencing in their life and how they are affected by it. I have learned that it is important to be grateful but more importantly to be kind. I will end this response letter with this. One thing that really stood out to me in a letter I received was when a student referred to me “as a down to earth guy who is understanding.” I want to say thank you for recognizing that. It truly means a lot to be recognized as a unique individual and not simply as a member of a certain profession. Ask any officer and I’m sure they would agree. Finally, for the many thanks I received for my service and sacrifices to keep the community safe I have this to say, YOU ARE WORTH IT! Thank you and God Bless, Javy Murguia

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The 14-year-old Playboy

by Kaito Sukeyasu

I wouldn’t necessarily say that I was a smooth talker or Casanova in middle school. Sure, I had a girlfriend for most of those three years, if you count waiting by the buses just for a hug goodbye as boyfriend-girlfriend activities. Luckily, I got my first kiss before high school so I could at least hang my hat on that. Going into high school, I had no idea what to expect when it came to girls. I didn’t know if there was some unwritten rule where you couldn’t date someone out your grade, or if you’re allowed to talk to a girl taller than you – and being just 5’9” really didn’t help me with the cute girls on the basketball team. The only real “dating” rule that I knew in high school was: if you’re a guy you better have a license and a car.

I spent hours cramming the DMV’s student handbook and probably prepared for the permit test more than I did the ACT or SAT – sorry mom.

For the test, you weren’t allowed to get more than 9 questions wrong, so if you got the first 51 right, you automatically passed. I remember breezing through the test, thinking to myself just how easy it was, and was already picturing myself driving to practice, going through the McDonald’s drive thru, and waiting at a traffic light with my windows down, playing the latest rap music as loud as I can if girls were nearby. Unfortunately, I forgot to picture myself with my mom in the passenger seat next to me as I did all this as for 6 months, it felt like driving with training wheels on as she would always grab the handle on the ceiling and overreact if I ran a yellow light.

After getting my permit and then uneventfully getting my license after, I was delegated to grocery duties for my mom. I didn’t mind it; I enjoyed shopping and usually grabbed some Starbucks as an excuse to talk to the cute college age barista girl at the time. One time while I was shopping, I had just gotten off the phone with my mom, making sure I bought the right brand bread and being forced to say “I love you too” before hanging up. Phone calls weren’t uncommon, but this specific trip was special. In the same aisle, I made eye contact with a woman, a bit on the older side, probably closer to 40 years old than I was to 25. All the same, I remember that she was absolutely gorgeous, a good sense of fashion and makeup, short black hair, a fit body, and a sense of confidence and maturity that 21

radiated. She was definitely someone that could’ve been a model but not unattainable like a supermodel or trophy wife, and I thought I would be able to impress her with my beat down 1998 Toyota 4Runner, hand-medown clothes, and cheap Wal-Mart cologne.

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Humbled

by Kaito Sukeyasu “What’d I top out at?” is what I asked my pitching coach during my junior spring season of high school. It was a night game and he told us he would be bringing the radar gun out that night as a treat for all the pitchers not walking a single batter in the past three games. Lucky for me, I got the start that night and would look up at where he was standing from behind home plate after every fastball.

I vaguely remember how I even threw that night, it couldn’t have been too bad, since I lasted five innings, but at the same time, it couldn’t have been too good since I hit the pitch count limit by the end of the fifth inning.

All I really remember that night was looking up at my coach holding the radar gun, and it being so that that I was sweating through my hat. There was literally sweat dripping off the bill of my cap midway through the third inning because of how much I was sweating. Needless to say, that the girls that came to the game – they were usually the friends of the girlfriends of players on the team – didn’t want to talk to me or congratulate me much after the game.

After the game, after doing my postgame conditioning – which I always hated since running has never been my forte – I looked for my pitching coach. It almost felt like he was avoiding me with how hard it was to find him. Eventually, I was able to find him hiding with our catcher, Josh, and supposedly talking about how the game went. Finally, I was able to ask him what my top speed was. “85 miles per hour,” he said to me, “you only hit it once, but it was actually on the last pitch you threw” as he looked over at Josh. “Yeah,” Josh scoffed, “always trying to be dramatic huh, Kaito?” he said as he hit me in the chest lightly with his glove.

The number 85 has always been my reference point now. Whenever my friends, dates that are honestly only interested in home runs – I amassed a grand total of one home run in high school – but want to sound nice after I tell them I’m a pitcher, and new teammates ask me how hard I throw, I usually just tell them “I topped out at 85” with a bit of confidence.

85 is definitely nothing to write home about but it’s definitely something that not someone can just do out of nowhere. I like to tell myself that it’s somewhere between above average and elite, with elite meaning major league potential.

During the rest of my time in high school, I would talk to the younger pitchers, always telling them that it’s important to throw hard, but it’s not the only factor when it comes to pitching. I tell them this so that they think people who throw hard are impressive but that velocity alone isn’t 23

everything, just like how 85 is hard, but isn’t something like 100 mph that some high schoolers around the nation throw. Whenever I would text or email colleges coaches, I would always make sure to mention that I was a “lefty that tops out at 85 mph” as the rarity of left-handed pitchers makes it so that a left hander with velocity is like a unicorn in a field of pitching Clydesdales.

When I got to college, the first thing all the new pitchers did was get gunned to see how hard they threw. Amongst the crowd, there were answers such as, “78,” and “80”, and then an “85” from someone brought on a handful of oohs and ahs. Then, when it was my turn, with utmost confidence said, “I top out at 85…and I’m a lefty”. I could feel some other pitchers shift their weight as if they were an animal that heard a strange sound nearby. Before I could bask in my glory too long, the person next to me said, “dude nice, I throw 90 too,” as if he was completely oblivious to the fact that the difference between 85 and 90 is like the difference between a puddle and an entire lake.

Other pitchers, including the older kids who were veterans of the program, began listing off their own top velocities. The list had a wide range as guys said numbers like “77, 86, 91,” one guy who was apparently the team jokester said “seventy-poo” as a play on of 72, which in college baseball is a bit laughable, unless they’re a knuckleballer, this pitcher was not. Feeling grounded from the introductions, I began to stretch and picked up my glove as our pitching coach motioned us over to throw. I remember within the first week, he wanted to get a feel for how hard everyone threw and so he brought the radar gun to the full first week of practices. When it was my turn to get gunned, I remember gripping the ball as hard as I could, getting into my pitching motion and trying to throw the ball as hard as I could.

“74, not bad for a lefty,” our coach said as he moved onto the next pitcher. From that day on, I vowed to never judge a pitcher for their velocity or lack thereof.

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One Last Ope

by Kaito Sukeyasu It’s almost spring, but this spring is special for me. There will be a lot of things I’ll never be able to do again after this spring and just as many people I’ll never see again. I’ll never be able to play baseball again and it will probably be my last spring in the Midwest. It’s almost spring and it’s a bit exciting and a bit depressing.

It’s almost spring, which means this will be my last season as a baseball player. No pro contracts, no fifth year of eligibility, and definitely no adult league softball for me. I won’t have to wake up a six in the morning just to go stretch, run, and play catch. No longer will I have to be wary of my teammates’ throws going wild and smacking me in the head (again). But, I won’t able to throw another competitive pitch, during a game that actually means something. Never again, will I be able to be in the dugout with a group of my closest friends and spit sunflower seeds, heckle opposing players, or talk about what’s going on in the MLB. Baseball will always be there, on the TV at home or on one of the big screens at the bar, but no longer will I be there on the field, on the mound, or in the batter’s box.

It’s almost spring, which means I’m set to graduate soon, and when I graduate, I’ll have to leave the Midwest behind me. I’ll pack up my boxes and luggage, store them in my car, and start driving west, leaving behind the place I called home for four years. There’ll be no more cold, harsh winters where the temperature will actually be below 30 degrees F. I won’t have to drive over two hours just to get to the closest Apple Store to get my phone fixed. But then I won’t be able to hear arguments about which high school has the best football team this year. I’ll never again hear anyone say “ope” or talk about how the weather wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the wind. In the end, as much as I complain about the Midwest, the moment I leave, I will definitely miss being in the Great Plains.

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Hanging Up the Spikes

by Kaito Sukeyasu I step onto the field, making sure to avoid the chalk lines, Jersey on my back, and cleats double knotted.

Sprinting out to my position on the field, I get there and smack my glove.

Parents in the stands, mom waving to me, dad recording.

My first teammates are my new friends.

T-ball introduces me to the game.

I step onto the field, making sure to avoid the chalk lines, Eye black on, wrists taped up.

Jogging out to my position on the field, I get there and put my Oakley’s on.

Parents dropped me off, mom talking with the other parents, dad trying to find a parking spot.

My teammates are my buddies.

Travel ball shows me the intangibles of the game.

I step onto the field, making sure to avoid the chalk lines, No more eye black, no more tape.

I walk up to the mound, I’m now a pitcher.

Girlfriend in the stands, snapchatting and not really watching.

My teammates are my classmates and bros.

High school ball tells me that I love the game.

I step onto the field, making sure to avoid the chalk lines, Thick cotton jersey, head down.

I walk up to the mound, sweating before the game even starts.

Scouts in the stands, radar guns and video cameras out.

My teammates scream at me, cheering me on.

Summer ball shows me what I love about the game.

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I step onto the field, making sure to avoid the white lines, Now on an all-turf field, there’s no more chalk.

I walk up to the mound, wearing a blue and gold jersey.

People in the stands, I have no idea who they are.

My teammates are some of my greatest friends in life.

College ball is an unforgettable experience.

I step off the field, making sure to avoid the white lines, Hat tipped to the crowd, and a new pitcher coming in to relieve me.

Teammates in the dugout, clapping and congratulating me.

The people in the stands have let, moving on to see the next game.

I join the rest of my old teammates, who aren’t ballplayers anymore.

Baseball has been a journey, and I’ve played my last inning.

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New Isn’t Always Good

by Miranda Henglefelt Wandering through the stacks, I breathe in the musky scent of the old books as I read their titles and authors. If a book catches my eye, I inspect it and usually reshelve it. It takes me a half hour to choose a book or two. I carry them to the desk. The librarians here recognize me and want to talk about recommendations for new books—both for me and them. The entire experience is enough to brighten my whole day.

I grew up with books. My mom read to me and my sister every night. We picked the book, and she created voices for all the characters. As we grew older, she continued finding ways to make reading fun. When our level and amount of reading surpassed what our bookshelf could hold, we started going to the library.

My first library experience was in Alexandria, South Dakota. There were two libraries run by the same librarian. One was the school’s, but the community library holds most of my memories. We went at least once a week to get new books. This is where I fell in love. Eventually, I would have to stop in every other day to sustain my one-book-a-day habit. The librarian would ask me what books I wanted to read, so she could order them for the library. We discussed our cats, which prompted her to order the Warriors Series. She always paid attention to which book I was on in the series, so she could order the next one. I am certain that my name has the most stamps on the old library cards.

That library became a sanctuary for me. A middle schooler who loves to read becomes an easy target, especially if you have a new book every day and are friends with the librarian. On the terrible days, I would stop at the library. Upon entering, I would feel a rush of calm. I was home.

My junior year, the town decided to combine the two libraries into one. In theory, it was a great idea. All the books would be combined, and the librarian could have better hours. In reality, it was a soul crushing experience for me. The library itself is beautiful. There are giant windows, tons of artwork, an amazing reading area, and a new electronic checkout system. The smell of old books is still in the air. For the town, it was a dream come true. But for me, it just wasn’t the same. The hours were 28

different, so I couldn’t go in the same amount I used to. Scanning a book isn’t as satisfying as filling out a card. It didn’t feel like home anymore.

Last summer, I was looking for a specific book I didn’t want to buy. I had to look up the library hours to make sure it was open. I never used to have to search for books, because they were always in the same locations. Now I don’t know where my favorite genres are located. When I check the book out, it’s the same librarian. There are no chats about our cats, or the books we’re reading. I could’ve been any random person. Dispirited, I walked out of that library for the final time.

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Insomnia

by Miranda Henglefelt I wish there was a font to visualize the way SLEEP continues to haunt me.

I can picture it in all capitals, the letters stretched out large in order to intimidate me.

I lose the fight many nights. SLEEP is not my friend, but rather a source of anxiety keeping me from the one thing I want: SLEEP. It’s a vicious cycle: try to sleep, can’t sleep, get anxious about getting sleep, anxiety keeps me from falling asleep.

I fight an ongoing battle with SLEEP, creating an army of medications and calming activities, but no army can win every battle.

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What Makes Us the Same?

by Jonathan J. Urroz After reading Hoagland’s, “The Cure for Racism is Cancer”, I am distraught, upset, sad, and angry, all words that also describe the feelings that are felt by those who are victims of racism and injustice. These are all words that may also describe the feelings that are felt by those who are carrying out this racism and injustice felt by society. These feelings are similar, right? Why is it that we must wait until we are struck by a potentially life-threatening disease to see that we are all the same?

Afterall, it is scientifically proven that we are all 99.9% similar in terms of our DNA. We all have a basic concept of what DNA is; it’s what makes us, us; it’s what makes us human beings. No matter how hard we try, we can’t avoid the fact that we are all the same, regardless of where we come from, regardless of our upbringing, and most importantly, regardless of our skin color. We all want to grow, mature, and learn, but “we cannot be fully evolved human beings until we care about human rights and basic dignity” (Stevenson). This begins with “celebrating our differences” and being open to other cultures by “[focusing] on learning new aspects of [others’] culture; avoid rejecting what’s new, unfamiliar or goes against [our] ‘standards.’ Accept others’ lifestyles as valid, even if you don’t agree with them” (Razzetti). It shouldn’t begin with being diagnosed with cancer.

Society is abundant with racism and injustice, and in order to cure society of this epidemic, we must learn to see each other as unique, equal, and most importantly, similar.

Coming from a multi-ethnic background, my father is Nicaraguan, and my mother is Vietnamese. Although I have not experienced any discrimination, my parents both have. When my mother moved to San Francisco, California, from Yankton, South Dakota, she and her family were faced with much discrimination based on the color of their skin.

They came to the United States barely able to speak even a couple words of English and so struggled with money, putting food on the table, and the daily hardships that society would put in front of them. “Go mind your own business you gook”, is what my mom would tell me she and her family were told among the many other demeaning things that were said.

They were looked at as different and as outsiders who didn’t belong. My 31

mother and her siblings couldn’t help but feel distraught, upset, sad, and angry at the things that were said to them on a daily basis. However, they had to deal with it because that was just how society thought and they knew that they couldn’t change society’s view, society had to be willing to change its own view.

My father moved to San Francisco, California, from Managua, Nicaragua, with my aunt and my grandmother. They too were faced with similar obstacles as my mother and her family. However, one of the biggest challenges that my father had to overcome was the disapproval of my mother’s family. “Don’t you dare keep hanging out with that dirty Mexican”, my grandfather would tell my mother in Vietnamese. My mother had to keep my father a secret in order to avoid the repercussions that would result from my grandfather finding out she was still seeing “that dirty brown boy”. Isn’t it ironic? At first, my mother and her family were being judged by the color of their skin, and now my grandfather was the one who was doing the same exact thing to my father. Like my mother and her siblings, my father also felt distraught, upset, sad, and angry at something he couldn’t control. One day, my grandfather told my mother, “You either stop seeing that boy or you’re going to leave my house”. At that moment, my mother packed her bags and left to live with my father. My grandfather wished that he could take everything he said back as he begged for my mother to come back home. But it wasn’t until my birth that my mother opened her arms up to my grandfather again. Today, it is as though none of that happened. We are one big family without an ounce of judgement, hard feelings, or discrimination toward each other.

Although today’s society is more open to multi-ethnic families than it was in the past, society is still struck with racism and judgement based on the color of skin and past assumptions. Today, my family is not only one of physical color, but is also one of a colorful mind. In order for society to cure racism and injustice, we must look into ourselves and remember that we are all the same; 99.9% similar, remember? We need to realize that “our humanity depends on everyone’s humanity” (Stevenson). To be human is to be equal and “equality is about being color blind- we are all the same” (Razzetti). When we allow ourselves to see color, we are also allowing our thoughts to be rigidified. Why wait until the day that we are diagnosed with a potentially fatal disease to see that we’re all the same?

Like my grandfather, why wait until the day that your daughter leaves home to see that there’s more to someone than the color of their skin? “At the bottom of each human being there is a reset button. Undeniably it is difficult to get to. To reach it seems to require that the ego be demolished by circumstance. But reach that button and press it, and the world might reshape itself” (Hoagland).

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We all have a reset button and if it is pressed, we are allowed to change our views for the better. When my mother left her home because of the unaccepting attitude that my grandfather had toward my father, my grandfather had to choose, lose his daughter, or accept my father for who he was. Just as my grandfather had a choice, I believe that we all have the ability to make a choice, just as we all have the ability to press that reset button. Press it and watch the world change before you.

Works Cited Hoagland, Tony. “The Cure For Racism Is Cancer.” The Sun Magazine, Sept. 2018, www.thesunmagazine.org/issues/513/the-cure-for-racism-iscancer.

Razzetti, Gustavo. “Why Racism Is About the Color of the Mind, Not Your Skin.” Medium, Medium, 13 Nov. 2018, medium.com/@GusRazzetti/ what-the-color-of-the-skin-says-about-your-mind-99159c40ed1f.

Stevenson, Bryan. “We Need to Talk about an Injustice.” TED, Mar. 2012, www.ted.com/talks/bryan_stevenson_we_need_to_talk_about_an_ injustice/details?language=en#t-1388589.

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Dear Fellow Writers

by Patrick Hicks

30 October 2019 Dear Fellow Writers, Thank you for your letters. I know, I know, you had to write them, and I’m also aware that you had to read my latest poetry collection, Library of the Mind, but I was nevertheless really touched by your comments. To be honest, what I appreciated the most isn’t necessarily what you had to say about my individual poems, but it was the stories that you told me in your letters. So many of you commented on a poem or two—you mentioned a few things you liked about or were challenged by—and then you told me stories of your own lives. This is what any writer wants: we want our work to resonate with our readers and, if we’re lucky, our stories spark memories of your stories.

I was particularly moved by those of you who had adoption stories.

When my wife and I adopted our son from South Korea, we didn’t anticipate that becoming adoptive parents meant that we joined this massive secret society. What do I mean by that? Simply that adoption touches so many lives, and the truth of this didn’t really come hit me until our son arrived. To those of you who shared your stories about 34

being adopted, or having adopted siblings, or having a parent who was adopted: thank you.

It was a genuine pleasure to visit each of your classes, and I thank you for your honest questions. I know that each of you has different goals and gifts you’re pursuing, but I hope that you can see the immeasurable value of being able to express yourself with precision and care. For better or worse, we’re judged by our ability to write well, and I hope your time with Dr Reese has helped you to see poetry and fiction in a new light. As I mentioned in each of his classes, Jim is a writer of stunning talent. You’re lucky to have him in your corner.

I wish each of you a bright future. Thank you once again for your comments and personal stories. They meant a lot.

Sincerely Yours, Dr Patrick Hicks Writer-in-Residence Frederick C. Kohlmeyer Distinguished Professor

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Define, “Christian”

by Joseph Stibral What does it mean to be a Christian? A 2015 study by the Pew Research Center claimed that 31.2% of the global population identifies with Christianity. Evidently, many people would claim to know the answer to my question. If they believe the Bible is true, they also need to believe this alarming statement: Not everyone who claims to be a Christian truly is a saved, born-again person. After all, in the gospel of Matthew, Jesus Christ predicts that many will come before him saying, “Lord, Lord, did we not… do many mighty works in your name?” and he replied, “I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.” Therefore, I think it’s important to define a true “Christian” based on the principles of the Bible itself.

In the Bible, Jesus never gave a name to his followers, nor did the early Church call themselves Christians. The term most often used was “saints,” which came from the Greek word hagios, which means “consecrated to God, holy, sacred, pious.” In the New Testament, particularly the book of Acts, we see that the term “Christian” was used by outsiders when referring to this group of Christ-followers. Somewhat mockingly, it meant “little Christ.” The Christians’ ideology was radically different from that of the Jews, primarily because the gospel of Jesus was for both Jew and Gentile—it united people across the social barriers of race, wealth, and social class.

Throughout history, people were persecuted and killed for proclaiming their Christianity. The modern American picture of Christianity is extraordinarily different—often casual. I recall talking about beliefs with a group whom I’d recently met. Most of them were Catholics, and I said I was a Protestant Christian. One of the girls chimed in, saying that she was also of the faith. I asked her what church she attended, to which she replied, “Well, my family is Lutheran… We don’t go to church very often, like, three times a year?”

I’m not saying that you must attend church to be saved—certainly, one’s relationship with God is ultimately personal. However, it’s hard to imagine 36

that the girl I met was a true Christian considering how flippant her claim was. Would she hold on to that identity under the threat of actual persecution or death?

Many people say they are Christians simply because that’s what their family believes, as if they were born into faith the same way you’re born into a nationality. This is not at all what Jesus taught. For example, he said that if we love him, we will keep his commandments. If our relationship with God is genuine, it ends up changing how we act. A beautiful analogy that the Bible uses multiple times is that of a fruit tree, (Luke 6:43-45).

You can distinguish an apple tree from any other tree merely by seeing the fruit that it has produced. A cherry tree could have a sign on it that says, “apple tree,” but we know that its original seed is not from an apple unless it produces that kind of fruit. Similarly, it’s dubious that someone is a Christian if their actions don’t align with Christian principles.

That’s not to say that a follower of Christ is perfect. Forgiveness is one of the foundations of Christianity, after all. To be a Christian is to understand that we are broken, sinful people, yet we are forgiven through Jesus’ love and sacrifice on the cross. We then extend that forgiveness—that love— to every person we meet. When we fall short of God’s standards, it is a reminder that we must return to Him with gratitude for what He has done.

Our failures remind us to abide in grace and to draw our strength from our Heavenly Father.

Another element essential to true Christians is believing in truth. Jesus has said: “I am the way, the truth, and the light.” Despite that, I’ve met people that attend church but wouldn’t even argue for their theology against a Scientologist. Sure, that churchgoer may nod along during a sermon, but I bet it’d be hard to tell if they were agreeing with the message or rather just nodding off! A true Christian should know what they believe and be ready to share that good news with anyone.

I’m not claiming that a saved soul never struggles with doubt. God created us as intelligent human beings, and it’s right for us to seek the truth. Even if it’s difficult, the Bible assures us: “But from there you will seek the LORD your God, and you will find Him if you search for Him with all your heart and all your soul,” [Deuteronomy 4:29]. Christians must earnestly seek God. The focus of Christianity is not in “being religious.” Jesus spoke out against religious hypocrites such as the Pharisees. These were wellrespected religious men who would often pray aloud on the street so that they would be seen by anyone walking by. Jesus had respect for those who did good deeds in secret, knowing that God saw them. True Christians shouldn’t aim to be honored by men, but rather by God. 37

Finally, the greatest defining feature of a Christian is love. When asked what the greatest commandment is, Jesus replied: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” [Matthew 22:36-40] There are many guidelines God gives us for a happy life that honors Him, but they all come back to this. A true Christian is filled with love. A true Christian seeks to know God… and God is love.

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Never Alone - Benedictine Award Essay

by Shiann Hansen When I was a little girl, I grew up on a petting zoo. The youngest of five, I couldn’t do much work on the farm, but I was able to sit and watch my family as they shuffled around. One sister sat at a table and painted faces while another sang songs to a group of kids. My dad gave pony rides, my mom welcomed people at the gate and another sister sold our infamous kettle corn. Everyone had a job and role to play. When one person wasn’t there, the puzzle was not complete.

I didn’t know then what growing up on a petting zoo would instill in me. I didn’t know that it would show me the importance of community at such a young age. In life we often want to focus on ourselves and only ourselves. It’s so easy to get caught in that trap. Thankfully, I learned young we are all parts of a whole, and that each of us has a role to fill.

When I came to Mount Marty, these standards I brought with me were reinforced. The Rule of Benedict says we are called to serve each other and to work in communion with others. It teaches us that we are all pieces working toward a common goal.

If there is one thing that makes Mount Marty unique, it’s the community.

There aren’t many places where you find a campus of people all willing to help each other grow. A campus where the trials of our neighbors aren’t seen as burdens, but rather opportunities to build each other up. One of my favorite bible verses is First Thessalonians Chapter 5:Verse 11 which tells us, “Therefore encourage one another and build each other up.” I think this could be the motto of Mount Marty.

I’ve seen this motto play out time and time again over the last four years.

One of my fondest memories was my first college stage experience— SUDS the Rocking 60’s Musical. My first college production proved to be a challenge; there was a lot I had to learn. I recall one practice when I was struggling to hit a note. As the opening night drew closer and closer, I started to get more stressed and worried I wouldn’t be able to hit the note. One night, after practicing several times with Doctor Tice—the choir director at the time— he knew I was struggling and all he said was, “You’re killing it kid.” He saw how distressed I was, and, in a 39

His encouraging words helped open my eyes to the supportive community around me. Time and time again the people at Mount Marty have stepped up when I needed them the most. When I got a poor review on one of my teaching lessons, Jen was there to walk me through it. When I was nervous about a prestigious interview, the Business Office Ladies— my work study friends—talked me up and calmed me down. And, when I was crumbling from the stress of everyday life, Jim and Andy always had the theater door open and welcomed me with smiling faces. I’ve spent hours sitting in Jim’s office while I put off the real world.

And now my senior year at Mount Marty has been cut short. And while my instinct is to feel upset toward the college, instead, I see Mount Marty has prepared me for this moment. It has instilled in me a sense of community so deep that while I grieve senior year memories not to be made, I know it’s the best thing for the college, for Yankton, for South Dakota and for our country. Mount Marty has prepared us well for this abrupt change, but it was not through an email with guidelines, stats and information. They prepared us when we stepped on campus for the first time, instilling in us the deep sense that we are all part of a community.

When they gave me this gift, they taught me that though I may feel upset, I must put the greater good before me.

And this is something that I will take with me from this place. The sense to serve the greater good over myself. The feeling that we are all in this together, and need to look out for one other. Next fall when I have students in my classroom, I hope they know that I am there for them. I hope to pass on to them what I’ve learned here at Mount Marty.

This feeling that even in the darkest times, when I want to focus only on myself, I need to continue to turn to my neighbor to see how they’re doing.

I believe this is why I went into teaching, for the opportunity to turn to a whole group of people and say, “How are you doing?” and “What can I do to help you?” This is what I’ve learned at Mount Marty and what I know I will carry with me as I leave this place.

I would not have gotten where I am today without the community here at Mount Marty. They have truly shown me “The greatest of these is love.”

They’ve taught me to listen before I speak, love before I judge, and to pray before I worry. My only regret is that it ended so soon. That my last days with my role models, my professors, my friends, my theater family, and my Business Office family came to an end so soon. It’s heartbreaking to think of all the memories we missed out on. And yet, is that not also reassuring?

Is it not reassuring to know that we’ve found a place that made leaving early so hard? This community has meant so much to me that leaving it early felt like I momentarily lost a piece of myself. But, believe it or not, even while learning at home, I’ve felt the community of Mount Marty. I have felt love and guidance even as we all navigate through a difficult time.

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Life is not easy. Mount Marty never told us it would be. What they told us was, we are never alone. That we never will be alone. And that’s what matters. They helped us recognize even in the darkest times we are never alone and that we are all part of a community. I’m glad I found this place, this community, and this family. And as my senior class goes out into the world in an abrupt manner, to find their new norm and where they will land in this next chapter, I wish I could tell them, “You’re killing it kid.”

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City vs. Rural

by Jaclyn Laprath When I meet someone new, I introduce myself by saying, “Hi, my name is Jaclyn, nice to meet you.” Then, I am usually asked, “Where are you from?” I respond by saying “I’m from Dallas.” Then, they might say, “Wow, you’ve traveled a long way to get to South Dakota.” They also might say, “That’s a big place.” My next remark with a smirk on my face would be, “I’m from Dallas, South Dakota.” Then, they might look at me with confusion because they had no idea that Dallas, South Dakota existed or where it is located.

Dallas is a tiny town in rural South Dakota that most people have never heard of. The population of Dallas is 120 people. There are two bars, a mini mart, a legion dance hall, a fire hall and an elevator. The small rural town hosts many community events like wedding dances, drag races and holiday parties.

The fire hall is where community members meet up for dinner on Tuesday and Thursday nights. My family attended meals there when I was younger. Most of the people who ate at the firehall were over sixtyfive years old, but as for my family, we were young and different from the rest of the crowd. My family went to the meals to volunteer, for a delicious home cooked meal and to have the chance to talk with the other community members who attended. One time when we were at a meal, a lady called me “Jacky.” I was about three years old at the time. Previously, I remember my mom telling me that if someone older calls me Jacky then it’s okay, otherwise I could just ask them to call me Jaclyn. When this lady called me “Jacky,” I asked her, “Are you old? Because, if you are, then you can call me Jacky. Otherwise my name is Jaclyn.” My mom tells me this story in embarrassment, but she still finds it hilarious. Now, when I go to the Dallas Fire Hall for an evening meal, I help serve the food, wash the dishes and I enjoy talking to the other community members.

Another thing that makes Dallas a rural place is the animals that live in the town. When you drive through Dallas, you will see donkeys, horses, cows, chickens, goats, dogs and cats in people’s yards. Dallas is unlike a city because, in a city there are rules that your animals have to live inside a building. Most cities limit the number of pets you can have to 3-4 per 42

household. When you have more than that, you could be charged with “pet hoarding”, which can be a felony (Hamm). It is nice to live in a rural place and not have to worry about getting charged for having a lot of animals.

My family owns about seventeen wild cats, one dog, two horses and 300 cows.

Dallas is known for having a water tower in the middle of main street and a road that goes on both sides of it. Since the water tower is in the middle of main street, it is in the Guinnes Book of World Records and attracts some people to the town. The bars are also popular places to be at in Dallas especially during hunting season. There is “Frank Days Bar” and “Cody’s Bar” (Dallas). There are many hunting lodges in the area that host visitors from all over the world during pheasant and deer seasons. The bars become extremely busy when there are hunters in town.

The city is home to a vast array of cultures, religions and businesses.

Many more people live in cities than people who live in rural areas. A city can be classified as a large human settlement. It can be defined as a densely settled place with many boundaries whose members work primarily on non-agricultural tasks. Cities generally have a huge variety of systems for housing, transportation, sanitation, utilities, land use, and communication (Ogburn). A rural area is located outside of the city with lower populations. The economies of rural communities depend on the agricultural industry and the economy of a city depends more on tourists, and businesses. In some big cities you don’t even get to drive. People take busses, trains, subways and taxis in the city. In a rural area, the kids can start driving at age fourteen and it is normal for everyone to drive their own cars to their intended destinations.

I was telling another student that I was from a rural area in South Dakota so my family doesn’t lock our house. My dad’s philosophy is that, “If someone wants in, then they will find a way to get in, and he’d rather them not break our windows.” This Mount Marty student said, “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you don’t lock your house.” This girl is from California and she said, “We have never, not locked our house, once.”

There is definitely a big difference between rural and city living.

One of the main reasons that I chose to come to Mount Marty is because the campus is small and felt comparable to home. Yankton didn’t feel like the huge city that I thought it was. I also liked the community of Yankton, I wanted to run on the cross-country team and not be too far away from home. Ultimately, my goal was to pick somewhere that I would be happy, and get a good education. Choosing a major is another big decision that I am still trying to figure out. I am looking at the pros and cons of jobs, my hobbies, talents and the income of these careers. I have been constantly worried that I will choose the wrong thing and not be happy in life. But then I remember that it will all be okay and that God will help 43

me throughout this journey. I am considering being a teacher and a nurse because I want a hands-on job, I enjoy helping others and I love to be around people.

Growing up in a rural area has helped develop me into who I am today.

I am proud to be from Dallas, South Dakota and be able to own as many pets as I want. It is a bonus to be able to know everyone in my town and help people when they need it. Cities are way bigger and I am scared to drive to them. Some people can’t believe that I come from such a small town. They might think that there is nothing to do, but I always find myself on different adventures. Even though it may be small, it is still very fascinating and I have many memories from living in a rural area.

Works Cited Dallas SD: Bar & Grill.” Frank Day’s, www.frankdays.com/.

Hamm, Trent, and Trent. “The City Versus Rural Debate: Which Is the Better Place To Live?” The Simple Dollar, 27 Sept. 2019, www. thesimpledollar.com/save-money/the-city-versus-rural-debate-which-is-thebetter-place-to-live/.

Ogburn, William F. “Social Characteristics of Cities: A Basis for New Interpretations of the Role of the City in American Life.” Questia, www. questia.com/library/4712675/social-characteristics-of-cities-a-basis-fornew.

44

If I Had Known

by Shiann Hansen If I had known it was my last bow, I would have bowed deeper.

I would have cried and smiled while I soaked up every second.

I would have spotted my family and felt proud for how far I have come.

If I had known it was my last dorm movie night I would have laughed harder.

I would have cuddled tighter into the side of my roommates.

I would have made sure it was the best movie and thought of that night every time I watched it again.

If I had known it was the last workday in the Business Office, laughing and working with my friends, I would have worked less and shared more stories.

I would have cried when I left knowing they were tearing up too.

If I had known it was the last class with my professor, I would have stopped taking notes.

I would have just listened to him speak and soaked up as much wisdom as possible.

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I would have finally asked him about his life story.

We were never brave enough to ask.

If I had known it was the last time I would run to my friends’ dorm when I needed help solving my problems, I would have walked slower.

I would have thanked them for all their advice and made sure they knew how living with them shaped me into who I am today.

If I had known it was the last time I would leave my dorm to go to the theater for no reason other than for solace, I would have never left the comfy chair in Jim’s office.

I would have barricaded myself in the dressing room with my friends and all the ghosts, happy to be in the place that brings me peace.

If I had known my lasts were coming so soon, I would have cherished every minute.

Why do we assume we will get tomorrow?

Why didn’t we cherish every minute?

And now, having been robbed of potential memories, why do I continue to not cherish every minute?

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The Loss of My Sanity

by Shiann Hansen Who would have thought my college diploma would be a bottle of GermX. That what I would be most proud of right now is that we have toilet paper in the house.

Who would have thought my roaring 20’s would be traded in for my staying in 20’s.

Never thought a night of craziness would become my sister and I drinking wine and watching musicals online.

“You’ll still be taking classes, they’ll just be from home” they said, as if it was as simple as that.

My house has no locks on doors.

Any sound heard in one room, is heard in every room in the house.

When my niece is upset she can’t have a cookie, no matter where you are in the house, you’ll know about it.

Taking classes at home is like taking classes in a zoo but, all the animals are out, and the zoo is on fire, and your mom is there and she just wants to spend time with you.

And who has time for schoolwork, when that means missing out on family bonding?

My last bow on the stage has been traded for the many bows my niece Lyla and I take 47

after a good dance session.

My stimulating college talk has been replaced with gauging if my niece is color blind or lazy— we still don’t know.

“What color is this, Kaia?”

No. It’s not blue. Purple.

And yes, when I ask her in two seconds what color her purple pajamas are, she will say blue again.

My classroom is now my childhood bedroom— horse painted on the wall and all— except when I have to find a new “classroom” because my mom wants to take a nap and my nieces – aka my new roommates – are sleeping in the other rooms.

Even at home though, I have continued to learn.

I have learned my parents gauge the time of day based on how long until the governor’s 2:30 talk.

I have learned that, even at 36, my sister still doesn’t know what an inside voice is.

We still have hope that she’ll figure it out some day, and pray it’s before this quarantine is over.

Never have my college days of sleeping in been met with my sister screaming, “No one else in this house gets to sleep in until 10, Shiann!”

Lacy taught me that Jesus Christ Superstar being performed as a one woman show in a kitchen is not the equivalent to seeing it in a theater.

Her performance was a close second though.

I’ve learned a puzzle on the kitchen table 48

can become the most exciting thing this week, and that a phone call from a friend can become a lifeline to my sanity.

My worry-free college days have become days of sanitize, don’t leave, wash your hands.

Days of, “The numbers are increasing” and my sister saying, “Tonight we’re sewing face masks.”

Days when online classes seem trivial because of what’s happening outside.

Days when the things important to me are no longer learning lines, spending time with friends, or getting good grades.

Now what’s important to me is standing 6 feet apart, making sure my parents are healthy, forcing them to take their temp—just to be sure— and making sure my mom doesn’t get it.

She works for home health and hospice.

She has elderly patients counting on her.

That means they are counting on us to wipe down the groceries, to only leave the farm when necessary, to be healthy so they stay healthy.

What I have learned while I’ve been home is that I was not prepared for my senior year.

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An Ariel Without a Voice

by Shiann Hansen “I’ll give you three seconds to run!” my brother screamed as he came barreling down the stairs steadily aiming his nerf gun at me. I seemed to find myself in this situation often. A situation where my brother Dakota, three years older than me, was always three steps ahead of me and always six times cleverer. If I ran, my brother would chase me down, shoot me, and tackle me. One day I stood still, thinking I was finally smarter than him, and simply said, “I’m not going to run.” However, I still lost because then he just shot me and tackled me anyway.

My brother has always been smarter than me. Not just because he’s older; he’s just ridiculously smart— though I would never tell my brother for sake of his head getting too big. He never studied for tests and when I asked him how he did it he said, “I can just see the notes in my head during the test.” And when my mom would go over spelling words with him, he would spell them backwards just to make her mad.

With an older brother so smart, it seemed that every day of my life was a fable like the ones I read in school. One where a cunning rabbit or a smooth-talking fox convinced some poor creature into a crappy situation.

My brother was always the cunning one and I was always the turtle being fooled. Except in every fable the cunning one ends up on the bottom defeated by his own smarts, right? That was never the case in my life. My brother was the cunning one, I was the one that was fooled, and I never seemed to come out on top in the end. In our kingdom of two, he was the ruler and I was the servant he deemed lucky enough to be in his presence.

Because we spent all our time together, we were constantly bickering and fighting. The moments when we got along and played together seemed fleeting. But we seemed to always get along during the fifteen minutes before bed. Those fifteen minutes when my mom took us upstairs but got distracted by laundry or getting herself ready for bed and we were able to play. Every time we got those few minutes of play time, it felt like we had held off the fates like heroes or magicians. We were so careful not to fight with each other, knowing it would result in us losing that little nugget of play time we deemed a blessing.

One night my mom got extra distracted doing last minute chores and my brother and I were quick to take advantage of the situation. We were jumping on the bed singing along with the 80’s and 90’s country songs that had raised us; in our house the radio was always on. We are firm believers that whistling while we work makes the work go faster. Though now the radio is replaced by an Alexa who plays any song we ask for, then 50

it was just a radio with songs we had no control over and commercials that went on for far too long.

We had been getting along for quite a while as we danced and pretended we were on a stage in front of millions performing the song. After singing several songs together, my brother got fed up with me singing along. I tell myself it was because he felt threatened because I am a better singer than him—because I am—but he was probably just tired of again having to share the spotlight. During a commercial break he devised a plan; like I said, he was the cunning one. “Shiann, how about I sing the songs the boys sing, and you sing the songs the girls sing.”

I was old enough to know that boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider, and that girls go to college to get more knowledge, so there was no doubt in my mind girls were better than boys and I was ready to prove it to him.

“Fine, since girls are better anyway!” The commercial break ended, and the next song was sung by a boy. Per the rules we just laid out, I let Dakota sing while I was silent. No one said anything about dancing though, so I continued to jump on the bed and dance while he sang at the top of his lungs. At one point I joined in and he reminded me, “You can’t sing this one!” I imagined this is how Ariel felt when Ursula took her singing voice.

That feeling of having a song course through your body with no outlet— trapped.

Slightly defeated, I knew I would get the next song. However, as the song ended and the next started, it was another song sung by a boy and another one I knew every word to. By the time the third song sung by a male came on, I was pissed. I had stopped jumping and tried to sing with my brother again, sure that he was not smart enough to remember the pact we had made just minutes ago, but he had remembered. He told me I couldn’t sing, and I was seconds away from jumping off the bed and finding something to do on my own.

However, finally a female’s voice drifted through the speakers. I hastily pushed my brother out of the way, quick to rub in his face that now he had to be quiet for a whole song. As an incredible amount of confidence coursed through me, I took center stage. However, instead of insisting he sing along like I had done when it was his turn, he just told me, “That’s okay, I don’t like this song anyway.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and waited patiently for his turn.

It was unsettling and made me realize I too was not a fan of the song.

It was a sappy lovey-dovey slow song. I didn’t want to sing that. I wanted one of the strong don’t-mess-with-me songs that my brother had been able to sing. However, I was not going to show Dakota any ounce of my inner battle and sang along.

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When it was over, Dakota stood back up and I tried to stop him, “I probably have another to sing now since you had a lot in a row.” He knew better. We waited for the last notes of my song to fade out, and then the next started. We both knew right away it was another song for him.

Instead of complaining, I decided to act as Dakota had and just sit down quietly.

At this point, he had gotten to sing four songs by himself, and I had only gotten to sing one. Then his song ended, and I heard the opening chords to the next song. It was one of those songs so deeply rooted in us that all we needed to hear was the first two notes and we knew what it was—Toby Keith’s “Whiskey for my Men Beer for my Horses.”

I got up and started to sing the opening words with my brother. He allowed it for a second before eventually cutting me off. “Shiann, this is my song! I didn’t sing when you were singing, you can’t sing while I am.” I was speechless. I felt defeated.

I tried to explain that since it’s our favorite song he should let me sing along. The more I talked, the less he could sing though, so he ignored me while he belted our favorite song. “It’s not fair! You get more songs than me!” I screamed at him. He was too lost in his performance to care though. I jumped off the bed and ran from the room in search of my mom.

I didn’t know what to say to her, so I just settled with, “Is it time for bed yet?”

My mother realized how late it was and quickly tucked us into bed and Dakota didn’t get to sing anymore songs. He maybe could have performed for another half hour had I not said anything. For once I felt victorious.

This slow turtle finally won the race. And yet, at the same time, I didn’t feel like a winner at all.

52

Different Kinds of Sick

by Shiann Hansen “Mom, I really don’t feel well.”

I said time and time again as a kid.

More time spent sick than healthy it seemed, I would have to convince my mom of my illness.

“No, my head really does hurt” or “My stomach really is uneasy.”

I was sick so often that unless she saw proof— fever, puke, cough— she was not quick to believe me.

But she would listen when I had physical signs— temp, flushed, no voice.

I used to think, If I could just puke, she’ll believe me.

If only outside symptoms portrayed my inside turmoil.

Now I sit here with an ache in my chest.

I feel dull on the inside from the weight of the world.

Sad but no tears to cry.

“You look like a negative Nancy,” my mom says.

“I think a nap is all you need to feel better,” she tries.

But I’m a tired sleep won’t fix.

Not physically tired, rather an exhausted soul.

I almost wish my internal battle would show physically.

Would she believe me if the internal became external?

I can’t find the words to tell her how I feel.

I wish she could see the sick I feel now— tired, anxious, stressed, unsettled.

But if I don’t tell her, how can she know?

“Mom, I really don’t feel well.”

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An Open Letter to the Students of Jim Reese

by Maria Mazziotti Gillan An open letter to the students of Dr. Jim Reese: First of all, I want to thank you for your wonderful letters to me. Letters like yours make me feel that I have accomplished one of the main goals of my writing, that is to reach out and touch other people. Physically, you are very far away from me as I am in New Jersey and you are in South Dakota. But, I feel very close to all of you after reading your letters. For some of you, this may have been your first introduction to poetry and to writing poetry. I am grateful to you for opening yourselves up to a totally new experience and to be willing to try something that would not have originally been your first choice.

To the young woman who told me that she liked my prompts and that they helped her find topics to write about, I say thank you for that. I hope that she will think about her life as the subject of poetry and writing. In a way, if she can write about her life and the people she knows, and people she loves, her writing will save them better than a photograph.

Also, on a separate note, I was intrigued by the young woman who was very frightened by the idea of writing. After reading my book, she said she gained courage. At one point, she began to cry when she called her mother to read her poem to her and she also started to cry. I always say that when you start to cry while you’re reading one of your poems, it means that you’ve hit the cave, that place where all poems hide. I always feel that’s a breakthrough for me and I find that later on, that’s the poem that many people respond to most directly.

I love the story of the young woman who read her poem about her brother, to her brother, while they were in the car. She said he’s a strong, tough man and he never cries. But when she read the poem to him, he did cry. I think it made her realize how important writing can be when it makes a connection between ourselves and the people we love. We’re really writing about being human, what it means to lose somebody, or to love someone, or not know how to say it.

To the young woman who asked me a number of questions, I’ll answer them here. I was in grammar school when I wrote my first poem and I 54

sent it out to Saint Anthony’s Messenger, a magazine that was given out all throughout the world in Catholic churches. It took about four years for the poem to actually appear in the magazine. I was nine when I wrote it and it was a terrible poem. By the time it was published, I was in high school and I was studying great poetry, so I was very much aware of how bad the poem really was.

I found that I love the sound of poetry, love to read it out loud, love to find new poets, and new poems to read. I think poems can be about just anything and that it’s important to look at the world through your own eyes, listen to it with your own ears, and hear a difference in sounds, in voices and in accents. The more you can recreate that, the more you can make your own world come alive. I think that’s what every writer wants.

I wanted to be a writer from the time I was a little girl, but I was seventeen before I said it out loud. And I could tell from the silence in the room that the people didn’t think I could do it. We were poor and my parents didn’t speak English. For that matter, I didn’t speak English when I went to school. So, it was an impractical ambition for an immigrant kid, but one I never gave up on, and one that’s made a huge difference in my life. For a while, I thought my whole life was going to be constrained by the alley between two tenement houses, but poetry provided a way for me to get out into the world, a way for me to speak when I was the most shy, a way for me to be heard. I have traveled around the world reading my poetry and my writing has been translated into many languages. It’s an amazing feat and feeling for someone like me. I have been very fortunate because I have lived my life doing things I love; one is teaching and I love my students. The second is writing. And I’ve now written twenty-three books, plus anthologies, plus the book about writing. If you told me this when I was a child, I wouldn’t have believed you. It seemed totally out of reach for somebody like me. If I had to give one word of advice, it would be that we are own worst enemies when it comes to fulfilling our dreams.

We have to keep the censor in our own head from telling us we can’t do something that we dream about doing. I always think it’s a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, and keeping on, keeping on, until you believe that you can. But what I wish for all of you, is that you find the things that you love to do and that you make your life based on those things, because that makes all the difference.

To the young woman who asked about love. I love your questions. I have to tell you that I fell in love with my husband the first minute I saw him. I was dating his best friend, and suddenly when he walked into the room, I stopped seeing anyone else. My husband died ten years ago, but sometimes I just talk to him and I swear he’s sitting in the corner of the room. Sometimes in the evening when I’m watching television, he’s there to keep me company. I love your description of the first car you owned and 55

why it meant so much to you. I don’t know if you know it, but you have a very sensual way of writing that is very moving and very open.

To the young man who wanted to know how to add detail to his writing without just babbling, I say, look at the world around you, try to really make a list of what you see: colors, sounds, sights. What’s important if you were looking at a cherry tree blossoming outside your window? What would be important about that cherry tree, the colors, the softness of the leaves, a movement in the breeze, the delicacy of the branches? What did they make you feel? It is as though you’re coming to a process of adding details that are important to you and you’re asking yourself questions about those details. That’s when you know you have the right details included.

And the young man who was afraid of sharing personal details or didn’t want to, didn’t want to be vulnerable, and that, I certainly understand. I was very afraid in the beginning, when I first started writing and tried to hide behind images that would keep my real life hidden. Writing about personal events is not for everyone, but what you are doing is being honest which I think is very important in any writing that you do. You can write a short story and you can use what you’ve learned about being alive and being human.

One of you asked me how to stop the crow. Be honest. It’s hard. It took me a very long time to come out from behind everything I was hiding, but once I did, it was freeing and so wonderful. But what I learned was that courage comes to you in dribs and drabs, and you grab onto every bit you can hold onto, and try to move forward.

To all of you, I say thank you for your courage. Thank you for being so honest in your letters. I felt I met each one of you. And I want to thank Professor Reese for all he has done to open you up to the glories of language and to the beauty inside each of you. Your letters were a kind of poem, and I think you should thank Dr. Reese for what he’s brought you in his class, and the things he’s taught you, that may take you years to realize are so important to you, and the way for you to live your life.

Sincerely, Maria Mazziotti Gillan

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Creativity

by Courtney Heath From watching Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk entitled “Your elusive created genius” I learned a new way to think about creativity. In the beginning of Gilbert’s TED talk she laid out the groundwork of how creative workers are looked at today. She said that there is a lot of worried and fear-based thoughts concerning her job. People tell her that it’s going to be hard to beat her last work because it was so good. Saying how creative workers are the ones who are usually mentally unstable. The stigma society puts on creative workers is all around negative.

I agree that the way people think about writers, dancers, and painters isn’t the same way people think about wood workers, accountants, and superintendents. They seem to devalue the people who are doing the creative work, when really the creative work is what makes this world worth living in. I can’t imagine a world without movies, books, or paintings. It would be so boring and incomplete. There would be no joy or excitement in the mundane, routine day in and day out. There would be no different way of looking at things in order to make them seem more exciting.

The cool thing about creativity and imagination is that you can change the situation in your mind to be anything you want it to be. A doctor’s visit can be a journey to castle filled with kings and queens. A sick day at home can be a car ride into the future where you have to stop to throw up on the way. Your teacher conferences can be a treasure hunt to find the gold in each of the rooms you have to visit. The experiences and stories you could tell are endless.

At one point in Gilbert’s talk she explained how people from Greece and Rome looked at creativity. They believed that creativity was a divine spirit that came to them, rather than just something they formed themselves. I believe that this is something to look into. How do people create brilliant thoughts and images? Is it because they want the credit for it? Is it because they believe that they are great enough to produce something amazing? A lot of times people forget that the inspiration to create their work came from outside of them. Whether it’s a person you saw that day at the coffee shop or a dance you watched online, it didn’t come from you.

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When you think about it, we didn’t create our own life. It’s hard to believe, but we weren’t formed on our own. In earthly terms, we had parents who gave us life. From the moment we came into this world we grew and had things given to us freely. Life is a gift, and so is creativity.

By looking at imagination this way it takes the pressure off of creating by ourselves.

So many people, try and pry their brains to create the “next best thing”.

But what they don’t realize is that the “next best thing” comes when you’re least expecting it. Creativity isn’t something that you try and force.

It’s more of something that you just let be. It comes naturally on its own without anyone or anything telling it what to do. There are no rules and regulations. Just possibility and attentiveness to the idea at hand.

Last year at my very last dance recital I had the honor of performing a senior solo. My dance teacher told me that the dance could be to any type of dance genre and to any song. At first, I got really anxious and worried.

I thought, “what am I going to do?” “I want this to be really good”. Since it would be my last time on stage performing in front of a crowd, I felt a lot of pressure to do some amazing dance. But at the time I had no clue what it was going to look like. I felt intimidated because the door was wide open. There were no rules or regulations. No moves that had to be done like in my other dances. It was just going to be me and my dancing shoes, and a bunch of other strangers all looking at me. The pressure was definitely there.

For a while, it was all I thought about. I would search for songs during class endlessly on my iPhone. I hoped to find something remotely appealing. I wanted a song that would showcase my skills as a dancer and leave a lasting impression.

Then one day it came to me what song and dance style I wanted to do: a modern piece that I would dance with my dad to the song, Cinderella by Curtis Chapman. It was like everything clicked. It was as if someone had specifically told me what to do.

Developing the dance came almost effortlessly. And every time I practiced the dance, I felt like it was a part of me that was being shared with others. I had never enjoyed learning and practicing a dance that much in my entire life.

When recital came, I performed it with no worries. Afterwards people came up to me telling me that they had cried over what such a beautiful job I did. The funny thing was I felt as if I had done nothing at all.

Creativity is like that though. It’s so beautiful and magical that it just overtakes you in such a way that you feel you are a whole new person.

Gilbert’s TED talk was a good reminder that the pressure isn’t on me but on my ability to let the creative work come through me.

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An Eight-Year-Old’s Realistic Goals

by Kassondra Gooley At eight years old I had realistic goals; I wanted to be a vampire. The first year with my dad he wanted to do the full Halloween experience: trick-or-treating, making the costumes, the works. So in early September of 2008, he asked my twin sister and me what we wanted to be for Halloween. I knew right away that I wanted to be a bloody, gory, scary vampire. “Are you sure?” Dad asked, impressed that I already knew.

“Yep!” I said with all the confidence of an eight-year-old who knew her dad secretly liked the idea.

“Okay,” he said. Little did he know what he was agreeing to. So for the next three or four weekends when we window shopped in the mall we looked at vampire costumes, talking about which pieces we liked and what we could do to make ours better. After completing our research, we ended up going to The Dollar Tree where we bought magnets, a black table cloth, a stage make-up palette, and a set of fake teeth. We worked together to make the cape out of our tablecloth and magnets, and then he asked me to figure out our vampire attire. Soon I found a regal, white button-up with large, diamond-like rhinestone buttons, a silky white cami to go underneath, and black bootcut jeans.

The time seemed to fly by as I counted down the days to Hallow’s Eve. My classes all referenced the holiday: math asked how many pumpkin seeds, English requried us to write about our traditions, et cetera. Finally, the day arrived and it was all I could do to sit through the school day.

When the bell rang, I sprinted for the hall and grabbed my red, blue, green, orange, black, and blue tie-dye book bag and bolted straight for the gate of Mark Twain Elementary School hoping Dad was at dropoff. I saw my grandpa, a welcome sight, so I made my way through a sea of fifth graders to schluff my stuff into the car. The faster we left the faster I got my homework done and the quicker Halloween could begin. Mak must not have been as eager as I was for Halloween because it took ten minutes for her to emerge from the school and after emerging she slowly plodded to the car. She opened the door with a composure no elementary schooler should have on Halloween, got into the car, and slammed the door as hard as she could. My joy was abated only momentarily by her somber 59

mood, but eventually, a grin stole across my face as I thought about finally wearing my vampire attire.

When I got to Grandma and Grandpa’s I headed for my room. It was there I planned to do my homework because, when you can’t read, does it really matter where you attempt to do it? Apparently the answer is yes because almost immediately my grandma’s spikey voice cut through the air like a chainsaw, demanding, “Kassondra? You’d better come to the table and do your homework like a good girl. You’re no exception to the rules, little miss. You…” Normally I’d have listened as her demand turned into disparagement, but that day was different. That day was Halloween and no one was going to steal my joy. So I made my way to the kitchen table and feverishly started working. After I completed my math Grandpa checked it. Most of it was wrong, but with saintly patience, he walked through it with me.

After hours of laborious waiting, Dad’s girlfriend finally arrived. She brought us back to the apartment where the fun could begin. I got the vampire’s casual wear on and asked Miss Ann to pull my hair back, but Dad had his own idea. He told her she should grab his hair gel and slick it back. After a few minutes and some faulty information regarding the gel’s location, Miss Ann returned heralding the product. Once my hair was adequately slicked back it was time to do the makeup. My dad applied a base layer of white and after allowing it to dry he freehanded purple veining. Just a little bit of it! Once that dried he added the finishing touch: fake blood. It dripped cold, gooey, and gross down my face and onto my neck. Soon it dried in place, making my skin feel as though it was crawling beneath itself.

After a little while longer my dad and Miss Ann were ready to trick-ortreat, so our journey began. We hopped into my dad’s black Chevy Blazer and headed back toward Grandma and Grandpa’s neighborhood. We got to our grandparents, where I’m sure someone took pictures, and then we played a little. Once it got dark our journey got rolling. The only problem was my teeth kept falling out; they were too large. To be fair, it’s not the kind of thing stores just let you try on and I’d never bought a pair of teeth before. My parents would ask me questions just to laugh as I attempted to speak without losing my teeth. Finally, I said, “Look, I probably need dentures, but that’s so embarrassing. I’d like to see you with your original teeth at three million years old.” Everyone, even Mak, erupted in laughter.

For the rest of the night, my vampire’s backstory only lengthened, but that wasn’t all that happened. We also gathered a rather large sum of candy and made memories not soon to be forgotten. Those memories eventually led me to the theatre, and since then I have never looked back.

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Sneaking into the Chapel

by Kassondra Gooley Sitting in the dimly lit chapel the chilled breath of history filled my lungs.

How long had I before someone would discover me? As I spoke aloud to my lord and savior, begging Him to lead me to His dwelling, I could feel the porous sandstone walls against my cracked skin as I blindly felt my way across the chapel. I could hear the licking peel of my tennis shoes meeting the smooth, polished marble floor and then kissing it goodbye as I took another uncertain step hoping to find the tabernacle. I felt one of the sandstone pillars begin to bend and just around the corner I saw a tiny flame dancing and shouting of God’s presence. My leap of faith was-plunk. “Ouch!” I whispered into the pitch black, empty chapel. I had made it to the tabernacle but had not anticipated the steps. So I crawled, able to see the shadows of the steps, feeling the silky smooth marble beneath my fingers. Christ awaited me. There I was a rule-abiding, small-framed girl sneaking into the chapel amidst the darkness just as the thief of night long after the chapel had supposedly been locked because I wished to steal a moment with the Lord. It just happened by some miracle of God that someone forgot to lock the chapel before 10:30. I fumbled aimlessly as I attempted to find a light in the gigantic, unfamiliar structure. But then, by some act of grace, I tripped again and found a light switch. I turned on the lights, but after falling a second time I lost all composure.

I just began to sob and fell helplessly to my knees upon that unforgiving marble floor, literally unable to support my own weight any longer. I had borne so much on my own two shoulders for so long that I couldn’t bear to be the strong, smiley girl anymore. I violently sobbed, rattling my body with fearful frustration. As I gazed upon the tabernacle I cried out into the dark cavern of peace amid my consternation, “Why did you bring me here! What was your plan!” I began to settle into a rolling, melancholic sob. “Why would You bring this all up now ? I don’t have time to fail. I can’t feel You, hear You, or see You. I haven’t for over a year… well, save for the day I visited the Mount. Did you bring me this far to leave me?” I instantly felt my heart warm, even though the rest of my body still felt slightly chilled, as a voice told my heart the answer I already knew. Of course, God hadn’t left. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have ended up here. I knew God’s love had never left, but it just seemed to be so. He is a God of gentle whispers and caressing winds. His messages are so easily overlooked when one is not looking for them, so I decided to just sit and listen. I hoped that I would suddenly get some answers, that God would stop icing me out and let me again feel His hugs in the sunshine and know I am loved. I had come hoping the peace that used to envelope me after a hardy and 61

contrite confession would return, but I knew it wasn’t that simple. When is anything that simple? So, I just sat waiting for a sign that God was ready to talk. Perhaps I wasn’t really listening, perhaps my expectations were in the way; but nothing happened: no whispers, no wind, no flaming bushes, and no manna from the sky. But after a year and a half of struggling to find God, I had no problem sitting in His house, bitterly weeping as I awaited his healing presence.

As I waited I just stared at the miniature shrine I had plopped myself in the middle of. I was tucked away in the left-most corner of the chapel, where I had crawled my way up four brown marble steps that were horizontally striped with white, shimmery flecks. After turning on the dim light overhead, I had collapsed into an eight-foot square. The outermost piece of the square was a medium brown marble speckled with white shimmers and black, light-absorbing specs. The next layer was a lighter brown with the same specs, and inside that was a dark brown again with the same specs. In the center of the square was a brief speckled cream filled with a larger green square containing what seemed to be an infinite amount of both the shimmery and light-absorbing specs. It made ponder why God permitted light and then allowed it to be taken. I quickly shifted my focus to the semi-octagonal base of the altar that had green with shimmery streaks and then cream with black, horizontal stripes. Again God had allowed darkness amidst the light. Continuing to lift my gaze in a leisurely fashion my eyes fell upon the solid, large wooden table that held the host. The bottom edges were carved in a stacked, decorative manner.

Then, about halfway up the table was a square, gilded completely around its perimeter. Inside that square was a smaller square, with some raised spots along its perimeter. The raised spots were gilded. Another square was carved within the other two so that it curved in and flattened out to reveal a plain, quietly undecorated box. Carved in this box were a fleurde-lis on the top left, an anchor in the middle that reached from the top of the box to the bottom, and another fleur-de-lis on the right. However, the anchor was not plain. Adorning the top of the anchor was the crown of the queen of heaven and right before the anchor forks off into its two branches the Marian M held the middle together. At the time I wasn’t sure what captivated me so much about that image. I stared at that anchor for a long time, wearing the anchor bracelet Sister Mary Beth had given me on Mission Day. I realize now that I was comforted by the image. The most captivating pieces of this altar were not the gilded pieces or the fancy woodworking. Rather, they were simple pieces amidst the noise of the decorations. They were the pieces that I connected to. I am not some gilded masterpiece in the father’s house. I am plain, with uneven edges and maybe some gilding here or there, made pleasant to behold only by the imprint of the creator and held close to him by his mother. Creation has always been held in God, gilded, beautiful and perfect in His entirety.

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I began to feel at ease, slowly becoming grateful. My tears were changing from tears of bitterness to tears of lonely longing for the one who knew and fashioned my heart to bring me to Himself. But, I was not ready to hear I was lovable even though it was the message I yearned for most, so I diverted my attention.

Above the anchor image was an indented rectangle that spanned the length of the table. Inside that thin rectangle were raised cylinders, each gilded in an earthy gold that almost matched the wood in the dim lighting.

Two thinner indented rectangles lay above that one, and the table’s topmost widest rectangle sat upon the stack and triumphantly curled into sharp corners that signified the ends of the table. The grainy table had a tiny square screwed into the center that was made of almost white wood.

Sitting atop the upstage portion of this square was a container shrouded in a green liturgical cloth. The outer ends of the cloth were a lighter green and the center was a royal, forest green. An indistinct floral pattern was embroidered throughout both fabrics. However, in the center of the dark green fabric a cross was embroidered. It was perfectly symmetrical and blended into the floral embroidery upon first glance. Behind and slightly above the shrouded host container was an ornate depiction of the child Jesus wrapped calmly in His mother’s arms. Ornate wooden carvings of the fleur-de-lis framed the masterpiece that could be hidden with wooden shutters, painted in a sort of red and green plaid of the fleur-de-lis.

Looking at the actual depiction I instantly noticed that the blessed virgin was not in her signature blue, but rather in a muted red, shapeless gown and Christ was in all white. Even though they were the plainest aspect of the depiction, they overshadowed the silver-gilded clouds, the cherubs holding the silver-gilded pedestal upon which Mary stood, and the goldengilded rays of glory behind them.

It was at that moment that I realized it was never about the events that God had allowed to happen. Although my life was a complex and intricate story, it did not overshadow the essence of existence. I was not overshadowed by the events in my life and I never could be. Moreover, those events and every fiber of my being were meant to magnify the Lord.

Mary did just that when she said yes. How did Mary continually say yes even when God’s plan was painful and unclear at best? Why couldn’t I just know what God wanted as clearly as Mary had? I grew frustrated and hurt by the confusion and the feeling of being completely and utterly alone. As I felt that anger bubble first from my chest, then up through my throat, my shoulders, and into my face I shouted, “Why can’t you just tell me what you want?” I felt the anger drip down through my legs and into the floor. “I followed You here, expecting to give up all of my dreams and join the ranks next door, but in Saints and Social Justice You said, ‘Perhaps not.’ You put him in my life to force me to listen to Your will and 63

test whether or not I was genuinely open to whatever plan You have! Do you know how agonizing that’s been? Do you understand what it’s like to go to bed every night questioning who you are and where you belong? Do you know what it’s like to question if the family that has taken you because some of their blood courses through your veins regrets it? Resents it?” I knew instantly that he did, which made me feel guilty for asking. The guilt made me even angrier, so I just continued to shout every feeling I had at God. “Do you realize how awful the timing is? I am in my first year of college, beginning to relive the worst years of my life during my slumber, questioning my abilities, and praying to get through school and you throw this in?” By the end of the sentence, the anger had begun to fade into more of a dismal frustration. I cried waiting for God to pick His daughter up off of the floor and tell her that everything would be okay. I waited for Him to say that this too would pass. I waited to feel something, anything, but instead I felt absolutely nothing. The fact that I felt nothing bothered me so much. I worked so hard to genuinely find faith and to commit to all that the Catholic Church taught that once I had everything in my life changed.

I had come to realize my dependence on God for each step I took, for each breath I drew. I could no longer live without God and after some of my encounters with His immutable love, I became accustomed to feeling God’s presence everywhere. I became accustomed to finding Him. He let me get comfortable with His reality, led me to trust Him and then, out of the blue, He just left without a trace?

I could no longer contain the frustration, and it finally burst into flames of righteous anger. “WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? THIS IS SO BEYOND RUDE AND ANNOYING!” After screaming at God I just sobbed limply.

There was nothing else I could say. I allowed my emotions to rattle me for the first time in months. I allowed myself to become weak and to be conscious of the pervading sense of listlessness that seemed to seep into every piece of my being. Slowly, I felt the last joules of energy draining from my body as I continued to weep in front of the blessed sacrament.

First, the energy ran from my head, then escaped through my fingers, and finally poured through my legs and out of my feet into the chapel floor leaving me cold and alone. I just sat there, powerless, helpless, and cried into the knees of my light blue jeans for what seemed like an eternity. “Okay,” I cried in a barely audible whisper. “Okay,” I exhaled as I straightened my spine. “I’m sorry. It’s just… did I do something? Do you still love me? What are the answers to… all of this?” I continued to weep, this time in a contrite, gentle, and soft relinquishing of pains, hoping He was ready with balm to heal my wounds. After a solid ten minutes of silent, rhythmic weeping I heard the chapel door. I hurriedly wiped my eyes and glasses. I saw a flashlight and instantly knew it was security. How much trouble would I be in?

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“Hello?” I female voice called out into the darkness.

“Hello!” I called back. There was no need to frighten her.

She made her way to me and said, “You know it is quite late.”

“Yes,” I meekly replied.

“You need to go.” Even though abiding by the rules had always been my modus operandi I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

“Can I just have a couple more minutes?” I pleaded with the old lady.

“No,” came her stern response.

“Alright,” I sighed as I choked back another sob. I grabbed my book bag asking the Lord for anything, pleading with Him to be with me and then the candle went out. That candle never goes out. The candle is the signal that God is present and only goes out when He is no longer present. I have never seen one of these candles spontaneously fizzle out, but that night the candle did. I blinked back another round of tears as I picked up my water bottle and followed the security guard into the Bede hallway. She had pearly white hair with pink streaks in it, a gentle face, and kind eyes.

I knew at that moment she meant no malice in removing me from the chapel. I bid her a peaceful night and walked back to Corbey alone and desperate for God. But the despair quickly turned into dread as I passed Doctor Long’s office. He would undoubtedly hear about the girl who broke into the chapel after hours and I would surely be called upon to answer for my transgression. Would I be kicked out of school? These thoughts all swirled through my head as I sprinted up the stairs of Corbey, where I would shower off this incident and forget about it until Monday.

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My Most Bizarre Job: Cleaning a House

by Alexandra Bargstadt Job 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 threeday 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 66

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.

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.

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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.

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 house.

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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 darkness. 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 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 bazarre and disgusting job I have ever accomplished, and it is hard for me to understand what would make anyone live in those conditions.

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Fishing Willer’s Cover

by Alexandra Bargstadt A little lake known as Willer’s Cove is located two miles south of Pilger, Nebraska. Right off Highway 15, this lake goes unnoticed to traffic, but the few residents and landowners of Willer’s Cove know the great beauty of the lake.

From a fisherman’s perspective, Willer’s Cove is one of the best. The diversity of fish in the lake and the habitat and vegetation on the lake floor leads to the incredible fishing in this lake. The boat traffic along most of the lake is limited for most summer days; however, the private access, and variety of fish bring the fishermen to Willer’s Cove. The lake is populated with multiple kinds of fish: small mouth bass, large mouth bass, brown trout, catfish, alligator gar, carp, grass shad, walleye, sunfish, blue gill, and crappie. These fish differ in size, but the lake contains large fish that we refer to as “keepers”.

Willer’s Cove runs from east to west; the main part is on the west side of the lake where it is shaped like an oval. The east part of the lake is broken off into a cove about half the size of the main lake and is connected by a short, narrow canal. On the east side, the lake turns to the north into a smaller channel that wraps around a four-acre piece of ground. Out of the 100 acres of water surface, the narrow channels are the best for fishing.

These channels are no deeper than ten feet, which is the perfect depth for young fish to thrive and grow throughout the summer months. These fish draw in the attention of predators searching for a nice dinner. Most of the small fish that live in this area consist of young bass and blue gill, and the bigger fish that come in to prey on them are usually large bass and crappie.

At the very end of the channel, it is only a few feet deep; however, this is the perfect area for carp to spawn in early June when the cotton starts to fly. Carp normally do not prey on other fish; most of their diet contains algae in the water, and they love to eat the cotton from cotton wood trees when it floats on the surface of the water. Because the channels are surrounded by cottonwood trees, cotton gets trapped along the banks which lures the carp into the area when the spawn. Fishermen usually catch carp with corn as bait, but most Willer’s Cove residents believe bow fishing carp is the best was to catch them.

Due to the depth of the water and the lack of habitat, fishing is not as good on the main portion of the lake. However, in the cove many of the residents have built habitat and sunk it to the bottom of the lake. During the winter of 2015, the Willer’s Cove fishing board which consists of my 70

dad and one of our neighbors decided that our lake needs more habitat for fish to live in the bottom of the lake. This decision was made because the previous summer, a wildlife manager tested the fish population of the lake. To do this, he shocked certain portions of the water, stunning all fish within a set area. After totaling the data, he discovered that the fish in Willer’s Cove were not reproducing as well as they should. He told the members of the fishing board that the fish needed more habitat in the wider parts of the lake. That winter they built habitat by stuffing pine trees, sticks, and other shrubbery into crates and pushing them onto the ice where they would later melt through and sink to the bottom of the lake. This idea has helped the fish populations to increase by outstanding margins in the last two years. Along with the fresh habitat, orders of new fish have been delivered and released into the lake. This upcoming spring, they plan to stock the lake with a new batch of walleye. Since they have been stocking the lake with a wider variety of fish every year, the lake has become repopulated. These new strategies to have helped the competition between different species of fish along with the growth of population in all types of fish in Willer’s Cove.

Depending on the type of lure used, a fisherman may catch a variety of fish. For example, if a fisherman is looking to catch a catfish, the best way is to cast out a line with a weight and hook from the shore and use shrimp as bait and leave is set until a fish bites. Another instance would be if a fisherman is trying to catch walleye, he must troll a deep diving lure behind a boat at a slow speed. Each species of fish has a different preference to the lure, area, and time of day it will bite. I have noticed that most bass are active right before dark and in the morning, but at night they hardly bite. Crappie like natural colored lures such as brown or green; they will not bite a bright orange lure. Also, alligator gar like the rocky area of the lake on one of the shores of the main lake. Each fish has a very specific desire to where, when, and what they will bite. Some fish are pickier than others, and some will not bite at all. However, on any day of the year, a fisherman has a great chance to catch something.

I would say that Willer’s Cove is an extraordinary lake to fish on. The variety and abundance of fish is just one of the many great qualities of the lake. Willer’s Cove is the epitome of a fisherman’s dream. I have seen multiple master anglers caught each summer. A bad fishing day does not exist when we’re fishing at Willer’s Cove. Even in the winter, fishermen still rack up the numbers of fish caught through the ice. Fishing is one of my favorite things to do, and in my opinion, this lake is the best lake I have ever fished.

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Battling the Beast: Fighting to Live a Normal Life with Anxiety

by Hallie Parker “I had no idea. You handle it so well that I was surprised when you told me about your anxiety.” Little did my friend know of all the hardship and pain this anxiety has caused me over the years. I began showing the signs of anxiety in the early stages of my life. I had the most absurd fears that affected me more than they should have. These fears passed through my head every moment of the day and sent my life into chaos.

As time went on, it became more than just silly fears or a “phase.” I had extreme difficulties with tasks like going to the doctor, walking into school, and even trying to fall asleep at night. I cried often and wanted to be near my parents as much as possible. My parents tried to accommodate to my needs as well as they could, but in the end, it began to be too much to handle. My parents decided it was time to seek professional help, and to this day I know that it was one of the best decisions they could have made for me.

After discussing all the problems I had been facing, my doctor suggested that I start seeing someone who I could talk to about what was going on. The uncertainty of my first visit made me nervous; I had no idea what to expect. However, I concluded after the first visit that this was the worst possible solution. Talking about my worries did not make me feel better, it made me feel so much worse. I was extremely difficult for weeks because I did not want to follow through with the whole plan.

It got to the point where doctors had to walk me back to the office while I was crying and sometimes even screaming for my mom. Once again, I was seen as the little brat who wouldn’t cooperate, but I know now that I was not trying to be difficult. By avoiding my problems, I was creating an even deeper anxiety of going to counseling.

It took me months of counseling visits and “homework” to break through the fears and anxiety that dominated my life. Things got much worse before they got better. It was extremely stressful at the time, but so much good came out of those dark times. I used to be ashamed of my anxiety and the fact that I had to go to counseling, but after starting 72

back up with my counselor in the past few months, I have realized that it is nothing to be ashamed of. Mental health is often overlooked, and I want people to know that it should not be. I have so much respect for the work that my counselors have done to help me through my most difficult moments.

Over the years I have learned that things come and go, however, anxiety is a constant I can always rely on. Every time I felt good about the work I was doing in counseling, something else would pop up that would knock me right back into a cycle of fret. Sometimes I could handle it on my own, but other times I knew it was time to go back and seek professional help.

The best part about this constant battle is that I have come a long way.

I never had a moment in time where I was free of the grasp of anxiety, however the work that I completed in counseling helped me to make up a new routine. The fact that I am able to notice the times in which I am anxious or having “symptoms� is also big part to my successful rehabilitation. In the past twelve years I have learned so much about myself and I continue to every day.

I know that each day is an obstacle living with anxiety, but now I know that it is exactly that: each day is worth the fight to live a life I want to be a part of. I want to live each day to be a light for someone new and help others through the struggles they face each day. I am not perfect, and I can tell you for a fact that I have not been magically healed through this journey of counseling. I may not always feel like I am making progress, but I have learned to take any victory that I can: big or small.

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The Importance of Empathy in Doctors and Nurses

by Rachel McCormick How often throughout your day do you feel you are receiving empathy from those around you? For some people it might not be as common, but there’s something probably worse than not finding empathy in daily life. How often do you find empathy in doctors while they are treating you? It may not seem like it but empathy is one of the most important things in our lives. It helps us all be better human beings and helps our society thrive. It is important for everyone to be empathic so that we can properly communicate with one another. Not only is it important for everyone but it is most important in the medical field especially with doctors. “Every patient wants their doctor to be academically prepared—to know the medicine that they need to know. But equally important, they want their doctors to have personal attributes that contribute to their professionalism—what a patient might call their ‘bedside manner.’” said Darrell Kirch, president and CEO of the Association of American Medical Colleges (AAMC Suttie, 2).

Most doctors express their empathy toward patients everyday but there are definitely some that do not. A 2011 survey, of 800 recently hospitalized patients found that only 53 percent of them felt that their physicians were empathic and caring. Another videotaped study found that doctors provided empathic responses only 22% of the time (Suttie, 1). This should not be happening in a medical workplace and needs to be changed.

Patients should be receiving a good experience as well as being treated for whatever they came in with. I feel like some doctors go into the field with a thought process of ‘I need to assess the problem and treat it.’ While this is the job you are hired to do it’s not the only thing you should be providing.

I also feel that another main focus is the money, which is understandable because money is important but not as important as the care and comfort of a patient.

Since empathy is so important in the medical field, I think retraining/ teaching empathy should be part of a curriculum in order to graduate.

Most kids are taught empathy growing up by looking at how their parents 74

interact and treat others in situations. However, some kids don’t get that aspect of learning when they are growing up, and they don’t really teach you about empathy in school. In the UK they understand the importance of having empathy when dealing with patients and situations. Their medical schools choose prospective medical students with empathic attitudes in addition to good grades (Papageorgiou et al. 3). Any medical school should adopt the idea of teaching future doctors how to use empathy so that they can treat people as effectively as possible. Medical students need more training in “cognitive empathy”- an understanding of experiences, concerns, and perspectives of the patient and the ability to communicate that understanding (Suttie 4). Ways to do this would be to get simulations that provide different experiences and emotions so that students will be able to use their empathy and know what is needed in particular situations, as well as getting the experience to work with real patients in a real setting. Schools should assess students on their response to different patients, ability to undergo stressful situations, and how they make decisions. Another important thing would be to show them how important it is while treating patients, and how much of a difference it truly makes.

Using empathy in a medical setting helps the patient in many ways.

Believe it or not if a patient receives empathy from their doctor they will most likely heal/recover faster. If a patient knows they are being taken care of by a doctor who can show emotion and address their concerns they feel like they are in good hands and it relieves some of the stress put on them while being treated. They will overall feel satisfied with their experience and treatment. Not only will they like their treatment but they will be more likely to comply with conditions related to their illness. If you are explaining an illness to a patient you need to be able to see their emotion toward it. If they seem confused or scared you need to be able to explain in a way that they will understand and that’s not so scary. If they have questions about anything you must answer them truthfully and in a manner that is compassionate so they feel heard and understood. If the patient understands what will be happening and they feel safe they will know to complete the treatment because it is what’s best for them.

Research evidence over the past 20 years has established that doctors’ ability to empathize with their patients is a crucial component of effective health care (Papagerogiou et al. 3). Using empathy doesn’t only affect the patient but it also has an effect on the doctor. Like the patient, a doctor has a lot of stress to deal with but being able to communicate with a patient helps minimize the condition. Communication improves doctors’ competence in consulting with patients and their ability to make accurate diagnoses and efficiently utilize resources (Papagerogiou et al. 3). Doctors who don’t empathize or show concern for patients will be less satisfied 75

with their job and more likely to burnout. If a doctor doesn’t like their job how are they supposed to take it seriously and provide good care for patients?

The world needs more empathy whether it is out on the streets or in workplaces. It has so many benefits especially when you look into the medical profession. We should all know and understand what empathy is and how to use it effectively for the well-being of others those around us.

Being able to empathize opens so many doors to satisfaction. Everyone wants to be heard and understood when being treated and every doctor needs to know how to address the emotions and concerns of their patients. It is vital for doctors to be able to empathize.

Works Cited Papageorgiou, Alexia. Miles, Susan. Fromage, Michelle. “Does Medical Students’ Empathy Change During Their 5-year MBBS degree?” EbscoHost, http://web.b.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail/ detail?vid=2&sid=71018ad7-18c8-4c05-af65-413487772318@pdc-v-ses smgr03&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbGl2ZQ==#AN=136789535&db=a ph Suttie, Jill. “Should We Train Doctors for Empathy?” Greater Good, greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/should_we_train_doctors_for_ empathy.

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Dear Students

by Mark Sanders Dear Students, First, thank you for reading Landscapes, with Horses. I appreciate Dr. Reese’s value of my work and his thoughtfulness for sharing it with you all, and, more importantly, I much value your good reading of my poems.

I realize—and realized when I wrote the poems—that horses and country life would not always resonate with my readers. Thus, I am aware that I must depend upon the patience and goodwill of my readers when they come to the territories and things of my experience. Decades ago, when I was a young, young poet (I cannot imagine, sometimes, ever being that young), my teachers instructed me to write about what I know, to look out the backdoor, to stand my ground and survey the space that encompassed and owned me. These were lessons for life.

I have found myself most productive and creative when I have paid attention to the lessons. Although I was raised in a small Nebraska town, I ended up living about a third of my life in cities. I found that the busyness of the city encroached upon what I knew most and best, that being so busy kept me numb. I eventually found my way back to the small things where, outside my home, there is a huge space where horizons are not broken by buildings, where meaningful silences are not broken by the sounds of machinery or gunfire, and the earth is populated by the small cousins and the giants of the earth. The poet Wallace Stevens, in a poem called “The Snow Man,” writes about how a person must be cold a long time to see the “nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.” There is all around us, if we aren’t distracted, and in that space the nothing means absolutely everything.

I wrote the poems for Landscapes, with Horses over the course of about five years. I wrote the poems because I had been distracted by grief, and somehow found my way—and my family’s way—through horses. The book is less about horses than it is about the universality of whatever it is that may save us. Poet and critic I.A. Richards once wrote (more than 50 years ago) that poetry may save us. I know this is true, and I also know 77

that it is true the things of proximity may also save us because our notice of them, our understanding or love of them, may draw us out of our selfcenteredness and indulgence, to a place of health and spirit. In my case, the wild, untrainable horse was the thing that brought me peace and trained me to wrestle with grief, to sing it to quiet. I think that any one of us may come to writing in such a fashion. What are your subjects? What are you landscapes? Have you wrestled with them much enough to know yourself?

I appreciate that so many of you recognize that the individual poems lead a progress to the completion of a journey. This was the design. I had wanted the book to move from the crisis to resolution, while all along the way the persona of the poem is watching how the horse has a part in all of it. What better news is there for the world (to borrow from William Carlos Williams) than love and commitment renewed, which is where “The Horse as the Letter L” and “On Horseback” take the reader.

I may not know the answer on how to put a book of poetry together, but it has always seemed to me that a book ought not to be just a gathering of poems but that there ought to be an overreaching arch. The lyrics individually should tell a story (I believe that all lyrical poems have a story in them), and that the combined effect of lyrics compiled should also be a story. Your comments make me feel as if the concept succeeded.

I hope that Landscapes, with Horses gave you room to think about and embrace your own personal symbols. For me, the horse, the sky, the terrain, and so on, all stand as emblems of endurance and patience, hope and calm (even if the weather we are immersed in is stormy and deadening), and love discovered and love renewed. The Landscapes where you live aren’t such a bad place to be; your “local” is surprisingly universal. It seems, from your writing about my book, that all of you have a storehouse of images and experiences that you can make use of to write your world for others: -Horses “running through the damp grass, having their hooves wet, listening to the quail.”

-The realization that “nothing in this world comes without pain or trials, but we persevere . . . ” “You stay calm, squeeze your legs to keep balance and grip, and speak to the horse so it calms down.”

-The description of grace as being “the blinding light that would pierce through my windshield…”

-The description of girls crawling through a barbed wire fence to paint a rock.

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-The description of the seven year-old girl who calls her father to the cellar while a storm passes over.

-And so many, many more wonderful accounts.

Every one of your papers hold the events of your life, sprung from the reading you did of Landscapes. The poet Richard Hugo wrote about triggers. The things you’ve written about for me are triggers for your own writing; make use of them—write your poems, your stories, your creative essays, and tap into the wealth of your world. There is nothing outside your notice.

Mark Sanders

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Bend at the Weight of Butterflies

by Elita Eastman Just because you are small, considered insignificant and delicate, doesn’t mean that you are weak.

A butterfly by itself flutters around seemingly aimless by itself.

But there is strength in numbers.

You work for so long to get somewhere, to make something of yourself, to be somebody.

Finally you finish your journey.

So you land on the tree you’ve been searching for, and thousands of others land on the same one.

And just like that, ancient trees bend at the weight of butterflies.

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The Table on Maple Street

by Elita Eastman Lynda’s table held our coffee as we held our conversations. Hot and sometimes bitter, we’d talk about my day and hers. She’d tell me about the things she knew, the things she didn’t know quite yet. Her laughter would spill over the table like the cream I spilt during my first visit. When I expected her to shout, she grabbed an old towel and dabbed it up while laughing, “It’s not the first time that’s happened, and it won’t be the last.”

This table is where we would eat her enchiladas, my cucumber sandwiches, her fried chicken, and my egg drop soup,and of course her famous “Second Place” Chili, with her award plaque hanging in view.

It’s where my friends and I would go to smoke cigarettes when she wasn’t watching, we knew she couldn’t smell them over her own Pall Mall menthol one hundreds. The ash and trays were the only thing decorating the table. Sometimes she’d have me dig for placemats that were for “special occasions” or as I understood it, any calendar holiday.

It’s the table where new friends and I would play games and laugh louder than we should have at a quarter to midnight in a retirement community. My dad and I sipped coffee while everyone else helped themselves to a stronger drink. My friend, Steph, told me she was pregnant after she turned down her usual screwdriver.

It’s where Dippy ran under the very first time she met me. Lynda said, “A young girl’s gotta have a cat.” I felt a pang of guilt that the only thing I could think of was that there was another thing I had to take care of. After bribing the kitty with food, she came out from under her shelter.

It’s the table that I had to move by myself to make room for the stretcher as an ambulance came to take her husband to the hospital. I hovered over the table, trying to keep myself calm, wondering where we were going to get the money to pay for this ambulance ride. I didn’t move the table back for days. It’s where I cradled her when we knew he was never coming back.

During his funeral, my brother placed his keyboard, my mother placed her chicken salad, and my fruit salad on the table. It held flowers brought by his life-long friends that I’ve never met before, and haven’t seen since.

It was where I strategically placed oranges, vases, and candles to reference and paint onto a canvas. I explored colors and shape, and finally ended up with something I liked. I gave it to Lynda, and she hung it up right on the wall next to the table. She had me take a picture and she sent it to all of her friends on FaceBook.

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This table was where I hooked Lynda up to the oxygen tanks before we’d go out on a trip to the grocery store. I could never get the damn thing to work. I’d test each of the eight tanks to see which one was full enough for an afternoon venture. Soon enough, she needed the oxygen when we were at home too.

The table is where I’d do my homework after school, and she’d still be sleeping in her bedroom across the house. I could hear her snoring from there.

It’s where I’d go at 3:00am to get a glass of water after helping her up after falling out of bed, she’d fall again at 5:00am and that’s when I’d stay up, make coffee, and scratch Dippy’s ears.

This table is where I decided with my Papa that we’d better take her to the hospital. As we left her house on Maple Street, left her old oak table, got into my dad’s car and drove to the hospital, we couldn’t help but be silent. I watched her eyes through the rearview mirror and that’s when I knew that she knew she wasn’t going back home to that strong, oak table.

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The Sound of Silence

by Aedan Huntley What does silence sound like?

Silence sounds like horror.

When you’re at home, the quiet is kept away.

Fans, appliances, and family make noise signaling all is fine.

But when confronted by true silence, every noise that breaks it is suspect.

Was that the house settling or a murderer coming to your door?

What is most likely the wind could also be something sinister tapping at your window.

When outside silence is just as dangerous.

The hum of the birds and insects means business as usual.

But when the birds, and cicadas, and the crickets go quiet, It’s not for your benefit, but theirs.

And if they feel the need to be silent, to hide, Maybe you best do the same.

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Crawdad Catching

by Aedan Huntley They’d be caught by their whiskers, never the tail.

Forcibly dropped in a bright yellow pail.

Dumped into a distant puddle, We’d watch them return with a scuttle.

Back to their homes, a darkened muck, Where once again they would be plucked.

We’d perpetuate this pointless trial.

A game to us, to them survival.

We enjoyed the measure of control.

Forcing them from their watery hole.

Why we returned day after day, Like the crawdads I couldn’t say.

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Greed

by Aedan Huntley Since the dawn of man certain traits predicted success.

Being tall, strong, or able to oppress.

But the tall and strong and cruel still starved So out of mountains and hills, great vaults they carved.

These people built up magnificent hoards.

With food, and gold, and life-saving stores.

And when the sky fell on everyone’s heads.

These fortunate few slept softly in their beds.

Content to ignore thousands suffer.

While they had enough food for a million suppers.

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Never

by Justin Paddack Never.

It’s an absolute statement. Like always, yes, or no. Like the true and false questions, you answer on a test.

Never. You say we would never work together. But why? You NEVER state your position as to why I’m not good enough.

Never. Never leave a brother behind. Never give up on your family.

And never back down.

Never. Is it because I was never a Catholic? Is it because I never asked about your family as much as you did mine? Is it because our friendship never left the friendzone?

Never. Was it because I never told you how I felt from the beginning?

Was it because I never started college on the straight and narrow?

Never. Never give up and never surrender.

Never.

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Karaoke Machine

by Sierra Rosales At 12 years old, my Grandma Telles gave me a karaoke machine for Christmas.

In a cardboard box two Kidz Bop CD’s with popular songs from the 2000s.

I couldn’t wait to use it.

I remember thanking my grandma, it was the most amazing gift I started with Kelly Clarkson’s song, “Since U Been Gone”.

I sang every lyric as hard as I could, not caring that my dad was in the living room next door.

I was the best singer ever.

I didn’t bother to close my door because he never liked it when we did, this time was no different.

I cried out the chorus with as much passion and sense of heartbreak a 12-year-old girl could muster.

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I had to learn and practice “We Belong Together”

by Mariah Carey endlessly.

I wanted to master it.

I would spend hours on my karaoke machine.

The best part, besides my karaoke machine, was that my dad never told me to quit.

He understood my passion, even if I wasn’t good.

I could be as loud as I wanted, and he would never care.

He would still be there, on the couch, unbothered.

All I would have to do is just close my door, “Leave it cracked”, he says.

Afterwards, I’d come out and I’d ask him, “Did you hear me sing?”

Without any pause he’d say, “Yes, I did, keep singing.”

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When I am Most Alone

by Sierra Rosales I am stuck within the walls of my college dorm room.

It’s yellow stained brick walls and pale green counter tops.

I walk over to the window and open the dust covered blinds and look out.

I see, in the middle of the night, two girls riding in the bed of a rusted Ford truck in the parking lot. Finding out what to do on a Saturday night.

They’re yelling, cheering.

Must be nice, to not feel alone.

To have someone ride out in the crisp January air with you.

The next day, I watch as the sun begins to set behind the hills.

As the light slices through the blinds, it starts to fade.

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The Importance of a Liberal Arts Education

by Heather Maier Being educated should not be defined by having knowledge of a single subject. Being educated should be defined by a well-rounded individual who has been exposed to many different academic experiences. A liberal arts education should not be taken for granted, rather it should be desirable to have. A liberal arts education yields more than just writing papers and learning about history. Having this type of education sets one up for being well-educated for many different areas of work. Those who take a liberal arts education seriously have more than just a diploma.

They have the ability to actively use their imagination, think critically, be different, and creative.

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination.

Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited.

Imagination encircles the world,” said Albert Einstein (Nafisi 11). A wellknown scientist is capable of understanding the power of imagination, which is something that most Americans struggle to grasp. A liberal arts education is underestimated by most Americans because when we think of going to college, we think the purpose of college is to prepare for our major. A liberal arts school not only prepares a student for much more than just their major, but also the opportunity to have multiple intelligences.

Students never know what the future has in store, and I guarantee that at the age of 18, most individuals will not have their life planned out. Even if you think you have a plan, you don’t; because you can never know the unexpected. Some of the littlest life events can change your future entirely.

For example, hanging out with people who have different mindsets than yourself can change your life’s perspective for the greater good or not so good. Another life-changing event is not being accepted into graduate school or being fired from the job that you went to school for. All of these unexpected events can have a major impact on your future and change your career path. Having a liberal arts background can ensure that you are well prepared for finding another job because you have multiple skills.

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A liberal arts education is nowhere near a “waste of time”, although it can be viewed that way by many parents and students. From my own experience, both my mother and father frowned upon the idea of me attending a four-year college because it’s expensive and I can get a two-year degree in half the time and focus on my major. I was debating on attending a two-year college because like every child, we trust and value our parent’s opinions. However, knowing what I know now about attending a liberal arts college, I know that I made the right decision to follow my gut instinct and do something out of my comfort zone.

In America today, especially high schools, the focus is on testing rather than educating our youth. The main focus on education has been subjects such as mathematics and science. Of course, math and science courses are important, however, the core of liberal arts courses need to come first. The core of a liberal arts education is being able to read, write, and think outside of the box before we can begin to learn math and science.

All Americans should be aware that the United States scores lower in the education rankings today than in the past. Most Americans don’t understand that a liberal arts education is important to be well-rounded.

America has become blind to the fact that we need to make a change in our education systems. Instead of taking the time to teach youth the importance of reading, writing, literature, art, music, and history, which are essential for the basics of understanding, the United States spends more time on math and science courses. Another problem with the United States education system is the increase in testing. Yes, testing is important to make sure children are learning the information that is being taught, however, if they aren’t learning, what is the point of testing.

An icon who argues the importance of reading literature, developing imagination, and a liberal arts education is a professor, best-selling author, and my inspiration for this paper, Azar Nafisi. Nafisi knows that Americans lack imagination because they are deprived of an actual wellrounded liberal arts education. Americans are fortunate enough to have the freedom to be able to read literature unlike Nafisi, who had many books banned in her country where she grew up. She has taught me that Americans take books for granted, and without books, we have limitations on knowing our imaginations full potential. Imagination is not interpreted in the way that most people think. Imagination is not something kids use to fill their mind during play, but a way of thinking abstractly, critically, and logically. Not only does Nafisi shed light on the importance of literature and imagination, but others also agree, “The primary purpose of a liberal arts education, is the cultivation of the person’s own intellect and imagination, for the person’s own sake” (Kirk, 2). By reading, writing, and creating art, we are actively expanding our imagination and opening our minds up to new ideas.

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Having a liberal arts educational background will set one up for a successful future. Graduates of a liberal arts college will have diversity in their abilities related to imagination and creativity. An individual with a liberal arts education should not be underestimated because they have the ability to think outside of the box. Imagination is more powerful than knowledge because knowledge is limited. Imagination can be expanded by being well-rounded in the core areas of reading, writing, and art. A liberal arts education is an opportunity of a lifetime. Don’t miss your chance.

Works Cited Kirk, Russell. “What’s the point of getting a liberal arts education?”

Intercollegiate Review. 2018 Fall;1-3.http://web.b.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail/ detail?vid=4&sid=5bd7ed2e-0fb8-4968- ba3a-dc7460312537%40pdcv-sessmgr04&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbGl2ZQ%3d%3d#db=aph& AN=133534557 Nafisi, Azar. The Republic of Imagination: America in Three Books.

Penguin Group, 2014.

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Bede Art Gallery Mount Marty University Student Artwork

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Unknown Chase Altenburg

Unknown Matthew Becker 94

Deep Blue Dayron Botts

Blooming with Memories Maddie Burns 95

See The Beauty Without Saying Gianna ByrReland

Spaceman Joey Callan 96

American Lion Cooper Davis

The Octopus Marcus Edwards 97

Blissful Evening Brooklyn Hakl

Great McKenzie Johannsen 98

Unknown Josh Roemen

Landscape Alexandria Ruth 99

Downroad Walter Tolliver

Among The Vines Jacob Wieseler 100

Book Reviews

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Unwritten: Bat Flips, the Fun Police and Baseball’s New Future by Danny Knobler

by Kaito Sukeyasu

Baseball, America’s pastime. A sport that begun with a ball and a stick in 1869 has transformed into one of the world’s biggest and oldest sports.

Being the most lucrative major sport in America, and a global game enjoyed by many different countries, baseball’s reach can be felt just about everywhere in the world. What makes baseball so different from other sports is not just how its played, but how its enjoyed. Deep rooted in tradition and the old-fashion, baseball has been nearly untouched since its origins. Those traditions coupled with a mindset and viewpoint of the game to complement it is what baseball so charming, and is also why the sport is dying.

Danny Knobler has covered the sport of baseball for over thirty years.

During his time, he has also covered other sports. From Michael Jordan’s Chicago Bulls teams, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa’s home run race, to Tom Brady leaving the New England Patriots, and the Houston Astros cheating scandal, Knobler has seen and covered a wide history of all major American sports. In his novel, Knobler not only writes his own thesis on the game of baseball being showcased as “unfun” due to its clinging to old-fashion traditions, but he also employs the help of many current and former MLB players and managers for their own takes and recommendations.

It’s hard not to be romantic about baseball. America’s pastime is full of beautiful moments both on and off the field. Brothers facing each other in the pros in front of their parents in the audience, young fans shedding tears over a high five from a star player, MVPs playing catch with children prior to their game, baseball is a treasure worthy of being played on a diamond. Things have been like this for nearly the entire history of baseball, dating back to times even before stars like Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron graced the field, before Sandy Koufax and Randy Johnson dominated the pitching mound, and will continue even after players like Derek Jeter and Mike Trout, such is the nature and tradition of the game to continue. Moments from these players is the fuel for every person’s love and passion for baseball, as consistent as death and taxes.

While its players have evolved, with the form and technique of the game’s first stars no longer being fundamental and paling in comparison to today’s athletes, the mindsets and mentality of how baseball should be played has not changed for many people. Many players, coaching personnel, broadcasters, and fans all believe that the way baseball is 102

played, and ballplayers are presented, should be the same as it was back in 1869, when the sport originated. Baseball should be a gentleman’s game. Players should behave themselves, refrain from showing emotion throughout the entire game. Bunting and defense should be the avenues that games are played through. Everyone should always remember the old days of former stars, and revel them, talking about how did played the game the right way, and not the current players. This “old speak” is exactly what is making baseball’s population decline even as profits increase.

To compete with the ever-expanding NBA and the titan of the NFL, baseball needs to adapt to the younger audience, and fast. Current Cincinnati Reds star outfielder, Yasiel Puig, wants bat flips for every single hit. Chicago Cubs all-star second baseman, Javier Baez, wants fielders to “pop their chains” and wear whatever jewelry that ballplayers want to wear. Washington Nationals Cy Young and World Series champion, Max Scherzer, wants pitchers to scream and shout whenever they get a strikeout. These players, along with many others, and managers, broadcasters, coaches, and former players, want these ideas to be accepted amongst the baseball community, and practiced on a daily basis.

By allowing players to express themselves, baseball can become “cool” again, win over more young fans, and go toe-to-toe with basketball and football.

There are no rules to the changes that some of the players and other personnel want. An umpire is not allowed to eject a player for bat flipping when they hit a home run, a player will not get fined for wearing a gold chain – a majority of players in the MLB in fact, do wear gold chains or some kind of jewelry – and a team will not cut someone just because they scream on the mound after strike three is called. Aside from a few outliers and exceptions such as no throwing equipment into the stands for safety reasons, no overly sharp jewelry to protect other players, and no use of inappropriate language direct at players, officials, or fans, nothing in any baseball rulebook technically stops these players from expressing themselves. What keeps players from doing these things is not a thing, but a who, everyone else. People who want these things implemented in baseball are the minority. Should Yasiel Puig flip his bat after a home run, he or his teammate will get hit by a 95+ mph fastball immediately after.

If Javier Baez wears a gold chain with a cross over his jersey, the umpire will pause the game until he tucks it back underneath, and probably get fined after the game. When Max Scherzer says “f- yeah!” after striking out a batter, TV broadcasters will scorn him, calling him uncouth and ungentlemanly.

The change needs to happen internally. Players, managers, coaches, broadcasters, fans, all people in the minority, need to rise up and revolutionize America’s pastime. Bat flips, displays of emotion, loose 103

jewelry, and many other things need to happen in order to “save baseball and its beauty� from being lost and forgotten as Knobler writes and many others believe.

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A Testament to Injustice in Simone John’s Testify

by Kassondra Gooley

How afraid would you be to tell America about some of its worst crimes of the 21st century? In Simone John’s Testify, published in 2017, that is exactly what she sets out to do. This book of documentary poetics reverently preserves the tragic accounts of unnecessary violence against Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, and other African Americans and those of nontraditional sexual orientations. Dividing the book into two sections, Simone forces readers to see and hear these true accounts by offering witness to personal stories scoured by a society afflicted with white supremacy. In the first section, readers become acquainted with the 2012 shooting of Trayvon Martin. While Simone briefly creates a picture of the crime before the poem, her poems themselves commemorate and bring to light the crimes and crime scenes by employing courtroom testimonies, dashboard recordings, musical lyrics, and remnants from her childhood. Via this method, each poem draws focused attention on the perplexing and formidable realities of living in America as a person of color. In the second half of the book, readers are burdened with the task to remember and preserve the names of women who have died as a result of unnecessary violence, using Sandra Brown as the symbol. This theme is driven home in “Elegy for Dead Black Women #1” and “Elegy for Dead Black Women #2”, where Simone pays tribute to real women who have died and begs the reader to keep their names alive so they do not die a second time. She begs the reader to continue to tell their stories.

Perhaps the best and most impactful aspect of this book is the tone.

The tone of this book is one of deep bitterness and yearning to be valued.

These feelings are not something that anyone should ever have to deal with, and yet these citizens have a history of persevering through the inexcusable. These citizens have voices that have long gone unheard.

Not only does Simone keep their memories alive, but she also helps white, middle-class readers understand what it might feel like to be an African American, especially of the lower class, in America. Sometimes she does this through dialogue, such as in the poem “IT MIGHTA BEEN A RAPIST”; or she might provide a small conversation about African Americans; or perhaps the reflections of an African American about everyday things, such as in “EASY STREET REALTY HAIBUN”. Other times she conveys the tone through swift, hard candor. The most poignant example of this technique is the poem “CODA”. It reads, “To be a person in a woman’s body: 105

lurking strangers always hold the possibility of rape” ( John 9).

That is the entire poem. Instantly readers feel the impact of that one sentence. Readers might identify with this statement, thinking about times they were afraid of the men and women around them. Or readers who have never experienced this will feel the discomfort of the voicing of such realities and the disgust that there are such realities to voice. Because of the punctuation, there is a particular tone that is unique to someone who has actually experienced and continues to live with the realities of such knowledge. Breaking the poem with a colon forces the reader to stop and think about the fact that she didn’t merely say to be in a woman’s body, but rather to be a person. It is almost as if she is trying to remind readers that they are more than just bodies; they are people. This simple word could have been easily overlooked, but the line breakage and colon create a pensiveness and a dripping bitterness that set the tone for the rest of the poem.

She begins a new line that stops with the word “hold”. This too was significant because there are so many different ways to hold someone. A child being held in the arms of a loving parent is the most beloved memory among all people. Being held in the arms of one’s beloved is a pleasure that can never be underestimated. But then some embraces make people cringe: the embraces of forced friendships, non consensual relationships, and embraces of feigned affection to name a few. Ending this line with the four words she chose was quite a powerful decision. In fact, it forced the reader to think about walking around fretting about being raped. Readers for whom this is not the norm, such a thought might prove genuinely jarring. It is simple techniques and careful thought such as displayed in “CODA” that make the terrible realities relatable.

While the tone of this book is quite well constructed, the book is sometimes hard to follow. The one downside of telling two stories in separate times, in various glimpses, completely in poetry is that readers struggle to understand just what they are reading. Perhaps the struggle to understand is all a part of the journey that those who continually suffer these plights have to go through. However, there is something to be said for being able to grasp the general idea of what one is reading. In Simone John’s poetic accounts there are often times when the reader has to step away from the book and do some research to comprehend what and who is being discussed. Consequently, readers are prone to losing interest or becoming too frustrated to finish the book.

Overall, this book is a must-read for young adults and up. It is especially important during times of political unrest and lobbying for human rights because in this book are contained the voices of the ignored and marginalized. It is also good for young adults looking to write poetry in 106

a modern world or in a nonfictional fashion. There are only three real cautions to keep in mind when suggesting or reading this book. The first is that the audience needs to have knowledge of crimes and prejudices held against African Americans. The second is that the audience needs to read with an open mind and an open heart if these stories are to truly make an impact. Finally, the audience must be mature enough to handle controversial and emotionally charged topics with a clear head that can examine all aspects of a situation. In conclusion, this book was one powerful, permanent testimony of all African Americans that should be explored by all members of their society.

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Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West: A Must-read

by Kassondra Gooley On the brink of civil war, a young man, Saeed, and a young woman, Nadia, meet while taking an adult education course in an unidentified city. After days of watching Nadia, Saeed decides to ask her to coffee after class. Appalled, Nadia, who wears long black robes in the style of the country’s devoutly religious citizens, asks Saeed if he says his evening prayers. Embarrassed and nervous that he’s blown the whole thing he admits to his inconsistent prayer life. As he begins to make excuses, she interrupts, stating that she does not pray, but she may take him up on coffee another time. When Saeed and Nadia finally have coffee, he asks why she wears long black robes even though she doesn’t pray. “So men don’t fuck with me,” she responds, smiling and they decide to continue seeing each other. As their relationship advances, the city descends into further pandemonium as militant radicals overtake the neighborhoods by killing bystanders and government. Despite the chaos, Saeed and Nadia manage to live somewhat normal lives, going to work, surfing the internet on their phones, and meeting each other in the evenings at Nadia’s apartment, where they smoke marijuana, eat magic mushrooms, and listen to records.

However, before long the government shuts off all cell phone service to make it harder for the militant radicals to control the city. As a result, Nadia and Saeed are cut off from one another, unable to communicate until Saeed finally shows up at Nadia’s house. Not long afterward, Saeed’s mother is killed by a stray bullet. Upon witnessing Saeed and his father’s distress she decides to move in with them. Tensions quickly escalate in the city until the trio finds themselves unable to lead the lives they once enjoyed. Robbed of income and purpose because of the violence, their existence has come to consist of hiding in the apartment, listening to gunshots, and listening to the occasional airstrike sailing down from drones above.

Soon, rumors on the street reference mysterious black doors that can transport people from one place to another, far away. These doors allegedly appear in the place of regular doors, and many of the city’s inhabitants actively seek them out as a way of escaping the violent radicals. However, these doors brought the radicals into the city, so the militants are well aware of their existence and guard the doors; killing anyone who attempts to flee through them. Regardless, Saeed and Nadia are determined to secure passage out of the city for themselves and Saeed’s father via the door system. After paying a man to find a door for them, Saeed’s father refuses to leave the city because he does not want 108

to leave his wife or encumber the couple on their journey to safety. When Saeed and Nadia pass through the door, they find themselves in a refugee camp in Mykonos, Greece. Saeed and Nadia find several women and men from their country who warn them not to trust everybody in the camp; therefore the couple makes sure to stay alert at night and when walking alone. One evening, they stay out later than normal because they’re trying to catch fish for dinner. Seeing a group of men approaching in the distance, they decide to start moving away, but the men follow at a fast pace. Scrambling over the rocky terrain, they make their way up a steep slope, abandoning the fishing rod to move faster and—hopefully—placate their pursuers. On the way up, Nadia slips and skins her arm on a ragged rock, but they finally reach the hilltop where they encounter several armed guards standing watch over a small cabin. This, they know, means that a door has appeared inside the cabin, a door that leads to a desirable place.

Saeed and Nadia stop, trapped between guards and the men chasing them; luckily the men never crest the hill. As Nadia’s injury becomes worse, their money dwindles, and their sources of food grow thin they decide to visit a volunteer organization willing to tend to Nadia’s injured arm. Here they meet a young female volunteer who dresses the injury and says she wants to help Saeed and Nadia. The couple tells her they want to pass through another door, and eventually the young woman takes Nadia and Saeed to a new door. Standing in front of the portal, the volunteer and Nadia hug tightly before the couple disappears.

When Nadia and Saeed emerge on the other side, they’re in a beautiful bedroom furnished like a luxurious hotel. It turns out that they have traveled to a wealthy neighborhood in London where rich people keep second homes. Eventually, the Londoners strike and Nadia and Saeed both sustain minor injuries. Overall, the migrant population triumphs and can leave the mansions, establishing work camps on the outskirts of the city. Saeed and Nadia move to one of these camps, where they work to build long term housing for migrants. But the fleeing has taken a toll, so in a last-ditch attempt to save their relationship they go through another door to the hills of Marin, California. Can they save their relationship? Read the rest to find out.

In this book, Hamid does a superb job of tactfully tackling refugee life while keeping the people real. While the tale is primarily a romance, it is not trite. As the story progressed, readers find themselves wrapped up in Saeed and Nadia’s love affair. It is so simply complicated that it feels real.

The couple argues about sex, decisions, parents, and goals for the future.

The couple argues about how to stay alive in the camps. The couple observes changes in their relationship as their circumstances change and they battle through their internal dramas. The love shared by Saeed and Nadia is not one of flowery ideals, but of raw will power. However, Hamid’s 109

development of the romance was far from his only success. Hamid also created striking images throughout the story, such as the blossoming of love amidst the chaos and fear. It serves as a reminder that it is okay to be desirous of human connection. Sometimes as students think, “Oh, well I will find someone (romantically or platonically) eventually. Right now I just need to not think about it. There is time. I am too taken with my schooling and activities anyway.” Yet there is something to be said for that desire for human communion. Even if we are not seeking connection on a romantic level, we seek connection in friendship. Hamid’s book beautifully illustrated these realities throughout the migrant camps.

Especially enjoyable is the analogy made between the refugee camps and college dormitory life. It is true! The way that students are forced to live among strangers, some rough but mostly good, in small quarters, left to discover life on their leave is a seeking out and craving of intimate human connection.

Another thing that caught my attention was the employment of candor.

Throughout the narrative, Hamid takes incredibly meaningful ideas and strips them down to their bare bones. Then he lays them out on the page as concisely as possible. Such ideas not only broke the flow of the story, but they evoked deep critical thought. One could not just discard a sentence as a beautifully woven blanket in the heat. Breaking the flow made these statements stand out and forced the reader to stop and think.

One such statement was, “The end of the world can be cozy at times” (Hamid 83). This statement requires readers to stop and think about why Saeed makes this comment. Would he prefer something that he knew would kill him to something that probably wouldn’t? How do people affirm this statement in their everyday actions? Although the circumstances are not as dire, when two people who are unhappy in a dating relationship continue to date, knowing that their being together will only lead them to emotional ruin, they chose destruction. Why? Because there is comfort in going down together versus staking it out alone. When you stake it out alone, there is no one to lock eyes with as you jump into the unknown.

You must do it alone. When you are in a relationship you have someone to journey through the good and the bad with. You never have to worry about being the only one to suffer so. You never have to worry that no one sees you slowly suffering, dying. When you are with someone, at least you are not alone even when you are lonely. You are lonely together, which by definition means you are not alone. Is this why relationships stay together even in dire circumstances or is there something more?

Another statement that stuck out was, “...but that is the way of things, for when we migrate, we murder from our lives those we leave behind” (Hamid 98). How many people have we left to become merely dead memories? How many times has someone lost touch with people they 110

promised they would try to keep in contact with? How many people have all but forgotten those from a former time and place in life? The answer is far too many. The truth is, oftentimes we move to kill a piece of our life, to end a chapter. People want to start new. Unfortunately, everything in this world comes at a cost: usually death. This death does not always have to be physical. It can be the death of a relationship, the death of a dwelling, the death of a disposition, and so forth. The truth is the reason we leave someplace or someone is to kill the life we are currently living.

To kill something that is killing us. Is it instinct that people cannot survive without?

Finally, the parallels written into the book and the book’s construction as a whole were well executed. At times Hamid’s writing is Hemingwayesque: simplistic enough to be understood, but not a copy of Hemmingway’s style. While at times lengthy sentences and words not of the common vernacular are employed, the writing was still clear. The parallels of the migrants versus the tourists in Greece and the nativists in London were quite telling of today’s political climate and refugee situation. Everyone travels through doors, but they come for different reasons. Tourists come to have a good time and wallow in opulence while just down the road many flee for their lives. Many are just trying to survive and the few seem completely unempathetic and oblivious to their struggles. Finally, it is quite interesting how the desirable places resembled the undesirable places. There just was not a shocking body count to reinforce the terrors that were to come or had already begun to manifest themselves. This parallel was a great reminder of the fact that no one is safe from tragedy. No one is safe from war. No one is guaranteed a good tomorrow. We are all walking on semi-solid ground at best, and we have no idea what is just around the bend. Perhaps a little compassion and more keen vigilance would do everyone a world of good. This book is a must-read for mature young adults and up, especially in today’s political climate.

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The Mermaid’s Voice Returns in This One

by Amanda Lovelace

by Shiann Hansen

Why do we write? Some write to heal while others write so someone will read it. When I write, I have a bit of both of those reasons motivating me.

I write for myself because it’s healing and brings joys and entertainment to my life. When I sit down to write, I don’t write with a specific audience in mind or with the thought that I want to write something everyone will want to read. However, knowing that there is a chance that someone out there will read what I have written and connect with it and maybe heal from it too, that is motivation for me. The thought that someone in the world could heal from my healing warms the soul. In The Mermaid’s Voice Returns in This One, published by Andrew McMeel Publishing in 2019 at 191 pages, Amanda Lovelace writes to heal herself and gives her readers a chance to heal with her.

I think it’s fair to say that most writers want to make an impact. They want to write something that will pack a punch and will be memorable.

Amanda Lovelace makes an impact with her writing. She does not give in to the demands of society and the world when she writes. Topics that most writers would avoid she brings to the forefront. There is nothing that she seems to shy away from; whether it be sexual assault, school shootings, eating disorder, etc., she isn’t afraid to discuss it. That takes a strong sense of self awareness and courage Lovelace has in spades. What amazes me is the impact she can make with poems as short as two lines. I often feel my poems need to be long and drawn out, but it seems the shorter hers are, the more of an impact they have when I am reading them.

The Mermaid’s Voice Returns in this One is a book of feminist poetry about finding your voice. All her books in this series start with a warning that cues the writer into the theme of the book. The warning in this book explains this is not a story of a mermaid, but rather a girl who others tried to silence, “& how her screams/dismantled/ the moon” (1). The whole book contains poems relating to this story and this girl’s journey.

The Mermaid’s Voice Returns in this One is the last book in the Women are Some Kind of Magic series Lovelace has written. The first two book are The Princess Saves Herself in this One and The Witch Doesn’t Burn in this One. The series is a collection of books that look at the fairytales that we grew up on and flips them on their head. The princess saves herself because she doesn’t need someone else to save her. The witch is a female labeled a witch because she is trying to make it in a male centered world, and they try to burn her because of her success. The mermaid is a 112

woman whose voice was taken from her in dark nights when she couldn’t speak, and she steals back her voice and sings. Through this singing she finds healing. She finds strength. She finds she is stronger than she ever knew she could be and that she should never be ashamed of that.

Out of all the books in the series, The Mermaid’s Voice Returns in this One is my favorite. In her previous books there seems to be an underlying feeling of anger and resentment. Instead, in this book, there is an overt feeling of strength, healing, and mortivation. It feels as if throughout the series the reader goes on a journey with Amanda Lovelace. Each book the reader gets to feel her anger, resilience, and strength.

In the book, there are four chapters of poetry. The first chapter is titled “The Sky” and contains poems about a girl wanting to get lost in a story. Throughout the whole book there are themes of the narrator being a bibliophile and constantly craving to be a person in a book and become the characters that she comes across. However, Lovelace sets up an interesting view by pairing some of these poems of craving to be a character in a book with poems of the characters wanting to be human and live. Along with this, there are themes of life not being a fairytale.

The second chapter is titled “The Shipwreck” and contains poems that depict instances of sexual assault. I think it is important to share that there is a trigger warning at the beginning of each of the books in the series warning readers of what lies ahead. This chapter is where we encounter instances of when the mermaid’s voice was taken away.

When she could not speak up to say no, or when she did, and no one listened or cared. There is a poem in this section where she struggles with determining whether she is a survivor or a victim.

This moves to the chapter titled “The Song” which can be summed up in one word—hope. There is a poem in this section where she shares she is not writing to hurt the person who hurt her, she is writing to heal herself.

In doing this she provides the reader the chance to heal with her. There is a poem about how she used to not share her story for fear of upsetting other people, but now she paints her trauma, “in shades of/ crown gold/ and marigold pink” (125). It’s about taking what we have been given and making our own happy ending. The narrator makes the decision to heal because that’s what she wants. She is healing for herself and singing her story.

The last chapter is “The Surviving” where Lovelace has included poems from other females. I think it is incredibly empowering to see how all these women are able to connect and share their thoughts. I praise Lovelace for including other women in her story. This chapter is about how everyone heals differently and how every day is a new day. It doesn’t sugar coat reality and it admits that there will continue to be rough roads 113

ahead, but the reader has enough strength to make it through those tough times. This chapter is about slaying dragons and not apologizing for it. It’s about conquering your own fear to grow and help others.

While reading this book I put little sticky tabs on my favorite poems. My book looks like it has grown a crazy orange hairdo due to all the little slips of paper sticking out at every which direction. That’s what writing is about.

It’s about connecting with someone out in the world, even if it is just one person. My favorite poem in the entire book is at the very end, after the letter to reader, that encourages the reader to write their own story. Share your pain. Sing your song. Heal.

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The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides

by Elita Eastman

The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides holds the story of a psychotherapist, Theo Faber, and his intrigue with a particular patient, Alicia Berenson, who is drugged up in an asylum and hasn’t spoken in years. This psychological thriller has both Theo’s and Alicia’s narrative, her’s through a journal which holds the only clues to her tragic past and surprising crime. She shot and killed her own husband, Gabriel Berenson, with no apparent motive. When the police came and saw Alicia holding the gun, still hot, and Gabriel tied onto a chair with wires, they arrested her. Gabriel’s and Alicia’s relationship seemed to be perfect from the outside. Many people claimed they were loyal, in-love, and very passionate.

For unknown reasons, Alicia has refused to say anything since that night she viciously killed her husband.

During Alicia’s trial, she painted her last piece named Alcestis, a selfportrait of her standing naked in front of an easel looking back at the viewer of the painting with an unforgettable gaze. Alcestis is the name of a Greek tragedy in which Admetus is given a choice by Apollo: die or find someone to die in your place. Admetus convinces his wife, Alcestis, to die instead of him. Hercules heard what happened and went to fight Death to bring her back. Alcestis was brought back to life, but refuses to speak from then on. Of course, Alicia’s work became famous after her crime and many people puzzle over what her self-portrait, and the mysterious title, means.

Theo is taking Alicia’s case very seriously. Many people have tried to get her to talk, but ultimately failed, one of those people being Professor Diomedes, a newly found mentor to Theo. Although there is mutual respect shown in conversation, Theo still goes against Diomedes’ wishes in the name of finding more information on Alicia and why she might have killed her husband. Theo finds relatives such as her cousin that she was close to while growing up, her harsh aunt, and brother-in-law. Eventually, Theo goes to her old art studio and to meet one of Alicia’s oldest friends, Jean-Felix. Theo finds out that some time before the murder, Alicia believed that she was being watched and was mentally unstable.

Although Theo knows a little more about Alicia and her life before killing her husband, he’s struggling to get closer to the answers he wants.

While meeting with Alicia, Theo gets no special treatment from her and, like all of the others that have tried to help her, only has a one-sided conversation. Theo convinces her psychiatrist to lower her dose of drugs saying it was too much for her. This does help Theo get more of a reaction out of Alicia, but not the reaction he was hoping for. During one of the 115

meetings after lowering her dose, Alicia attacks Theo. Diomedes is not too keen on letting the investigation continue, but is convinced otherwise by Theo. The asylum is going downhill and might be shut down soon, and if they were to help Alicia, a famous patient, they could stay open.

All the while, Theo is struggling within his own marriage with his wife Kathy, an actress. He found emails on her computer between her and another man. In an attempt to get more evidence, he followed her after rehearsals one night and caught her in the act with the man she has been emailing. Although he felt betrayed and devastated, he decided not to tell Kathy that he’d seen her with him.

The questions I found myself asking were “Why did Alicia kill her husband?” and “Will she ever speak again?” Both of which were answered by the end of the story, but in a way that I was not expecting. Not only was it unpredictable, but satisfying. While reading this book, I was always wanting more answers and I could barely wait to turn the page, but by the end, all of my questions were answered.

There were several subplots going on throughout the book and each one kept me interested and eventually they were all tied together in places I didn’t expect. The details the author included were captivating and painted a very detailed picture of the asylum Theo worked at, as well as the many other places he ventured to, including Alicia’s aunt’s house and Alicia’s friend Jean-Felix’s art gallery. I found myself engaged in all of the different stories at once: Alicia’s life with her husband and before the murder, Theo’s rocky relationship with his wife, and Theo’s personal battles with his mental health.

This book is Alex Michaelides’ first novel, which I never would’ve guessed while reading it. His intriguing details and excellent imagery is undoubtedly a product of his education at Cambridge University in English literature and his MA in screenwriting at the American Film Institute.

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A Serial Killer’s Daughter

by LeAnn DeRouchey

Kerri Rawson’s world completely changed in 2006 when the FBI agent standing at her door told her that her dad was the BTK serial killer. The BTK killer murdered ten people, including two children, between 1974 and 1991 in the Wichita, Kansas area. His last murder occurred in 1991 and he wasn’t arrested until 2005. He was known to send letters to the authorities, television, and newspaper stations confessing to the murders and naming himself the BTK killer, which stands for bind, torture, and kill.

Dennis Rader was intending to commit another murder in 2005. He sent a floppy disk to the television station as a “taunt”, but the authorities were able to trace the floppy disk back to Dennis Rader and he was arrested shortly after. He had two completely different lives. One where he was a serial killer and took pleasure from killing and taunting authorities. In his other life he was a husband, son, and father. He had two kids, a son in 1975 and a daughter in 1978, who is the author of A Serial Killer’s Daughter. Dennis Rader was arrested on February 25, 2005 and charged with 10 first-degree murders.

A Serial Killer’s Daughter: My Story of Faith, Love, and Overcoming is written by Kerri Rawson and was published in January of 2019. This book is an autobiography written by the daughter of the infamous BTK killer. She tells stories from her life and explains her close relationship with her father up until the time he is arrested. She tells stories from her childhood, college, and married years.

This is a great book for all the true crime lovers out there. It’s not your average book about a serial killer, because it’s a different point of view. If you want to learn more about the BTK killer from another perspective, this is the book for you. The book is Dennis Rader’s daughter’s point of view of the whole situation and what it was like growing up with him as her father. Most true crime books are biographies, so it was nice to read an autobiography for once. The book is not solely surrounded around her father, the BTK killer. Rather it’s more about her own life and what it was like growing up with a serial killer as her father. She shares all the great, and not so great, memories she has of her father. She also talks about how her family reacted to hearing about each murder when they happened.

They were all scared but her father kept assuring them that nothing would happen to them and they would always be safe.

In the book Rawson tells stories about her family and her dad and includes the dates they happened. She also includes dates from that period that her father killed someone. She then profiles the victims and how they were killed. This made it more interesting to read than the 117

typical true crime novels because you can really tell the two different lives her father was living, taking vacations with his family, then killing people in the same time frame.

Another good part of the book is how real Rawson is about her life. She doesn’t hold anything back. She talks about her struggles in college and her struggles regarding religion and God. She tells the story about her cousin, Miranda, who passed away unexpectedly and how much it affected Rawson’s life. She explained that she was having depressive episodes and suicidal thoughts. After reading that part I knew she wasn’t going to hold back anything in the book and it just made me want to continue reading it.

Most people can relate to at least one thing in this book which is great.

One would think that they couldn’t relate to a book about a serial killer, but this book is different, since it’s more about Rawson’s life and less about her dad. She talks a lot about college which is relatable. For example, she struggled in college and her father was always there for her and accepted whatever she decided to do with her life. She changed her degree and her dad was understanding about it.

Rawson writes a lot about faith, religion, and God and how these helped her get through all the obstacles she faced in her life. Her family went to church every Sunday. She went to college and the first two years forgot about her faith and was mad at God because of the passing of her cousin.

Her junior year of college she became a member of Campus Crusade.

She met her husband through that, and he helped change her life around.

Every chapter of the book starts with a bible verse which makes it obvious how much her faith impacted her life and especially the conflict with her dad.

Overall, A Serial Killer’s Daughter is a great book if you want something other than the regular true crime and serial killer books. The point of view is different but makes it a lot more interesting. I think she could have talked more about her dad after she found out that he was the BTK killer because over half of the book was about her life before her father was arrested. The book was a little long and started off slow. It got more interesting towards the end when she writes more about her dad and less about her.

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Bone Chalk by Jim Reese

by McKenna Cooley

Jim Reese is a widely published and awarded prose and poetry writer.

Some of his awards include, First Place in the 2018 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, a 2018 Distinguished Achievement Award from Mount Marty University, and a Distinguished Public Service Award in recognition of his exemplary dedication and contributions to the Education Department at Federal Prison Camp Yankton.

Reese is Associate Professor of English and Director of the Great Plains Writers’ Tour at Mount Marty University in Yankton, South Dakota.

He also works at the Federal Prison Camp Yankton. In his free time he writes books about his life and experiences. Some of his published works include: These Trespasses, Ghost on 3rd, Really Happy!, and now Bone Chalk.

Bone Chalk, published in 2019, is his first book entirely composed of prose essays. Reese grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, a relatively large town in scale to the rest of Nebraska. He married into a farm family from northeast Nebraska. The book is about that transition, from an urban life to a rural one.

He talks about his first week working on the farm and driving a tractor straight into an outbuilding. He writes about looking across the plains at land that stretched out as far as the eye could see.

He brings Midwest farm life alive in his book. It is a journey of seeing and recognizing all of the great things and people of the Midwest. He wants to bring everyone to the heartland of the Midwest, of the United States.

He captures the moments that define life in the heartland; both the specific and sometimes peculiar things that only old farmers can do.

Reese builds the scenery of a family first atmosphere and everything that those people treasure. Sometimes strange to outsiders, but always done with love.

To tell his story there are interludes at some surprising places, including: becoming Willy the Wildcat, Midwest bumper stickers, his grandfather’s hospital bed and service, his in-laws and their influence on his life, and in prisons around the United States.

He became Willy for what could be considered a selfish reason, but doing it taught him lessons that he wouldn’t have gotten any other way.

Not to mention, Reese lets us in on all of the strange and funny things that can happen when you become a college mascot.

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I personally enjoyed the Midwest bumper sticker chapters. Where else would you get to read: I like my women like my deer: HORNY Somewhere in Texas, There’s a Village Missing an Idiot Working for an Idiot Free America He revisits his grandfather’s service to his country when he was in the Marines and when he is lying on a hospital bed in his final moments.

He writes about his in-laws, specifically his mother-in-law, who always had something interesting to say. A lot of the stories in the book are direct quotes from what she used to say to Reese, which makes it all the more realistic and endearing.

He visits San Quentin prison in San Francisco Bay where he meets with prisoners and asks the tough questions that I think a lot of people would be interested in knowing.

Reese also dives deep into the subject of mass incarceration in the United States. Specifically his role in that system from the time he was a teenager and his friend was killed, to the present day where he works at the Federal Prison Camp Yankton, teaching inmates about writing and using their voices. That essay is another favorite of mine because it is both well researched and written from the perspective of someone who can see the issue from multiple sides.

Overall Reese’s book is an honest look at Midwest life. Filled to the brim with interesting stories that anyone who has lived in that area of the country can relate to. Personally I lived most of my life in Henderson, Nevada, which is an actual big city. I moved to South Dakota to attend college for four years, and in that time I have learned what it is to live in a small town; to see and experience everything that Reese so clearly describes in his book. He is spot on when it comes to what that life entails.

I look forward to reading more from Reese as he continues to share his stories.

You can find this book on Amazon and through Stephen F. Austin Press.

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House of Earth and Blood (Crescent City #1)

by Sarah J. Maas

by McKenna Cooley

Sarah J. Maas is the New York Times bestselling author of the Throne of Glass series and A Court of Thorns and Roses series; as well as an international bestselling author. Her Throne of Glass and A Court of Thorns and Roses series’ were both in the Young Adult genre. House of Earth and Blood, published in 2020, is her first venture into Adult Fantasy. It is the first in the Crescent City series that Maas is starting.

House of Earth and Blood follows Bryce Quinlan, a half-Fae/half-human, and Hunt Athalar, a notorious Fallen angel.

Bryce has a good life, working hard at a specialty and slightly illegal antique shop. She lives with her best-friend and the future leader of all Wolf packs, Danika. She has a good group of friends around her from school and the Wolf pack.

Everything is going well until one night, when Danika and her entire pack are murdered in their apartment. Bryce comes home from a night out to find them dead; the monster chasing and attacking her as well, leaving her injured both physically and emotionally.

Bryce spends two years after believing that the responsible person, a human rebellion leader, had planned and executed the attack and had been apprehended. Bryce tries to move on, but she can’t ever escape what happened that night when she hadn’t been there with her friend.

Hunt Athalar is enslaved to the Archangels who rule over the continent.

He attempted to overthrow them once a long time ago when he was younger by following a charismatic leader he loved. He is still paying the price for that mistake.

He now directly serves as the Governor of Crescent City’s assassin.

Hunt has a brutal skill set that is known across the continent and he uses it whenever the Governor demands it, as part of the deal he made to keep his life.

Hunt doesn’t like the job, but he does what he has to in order to get out of his sentence as quickly as possible. He works for the Archangels in between Micah’s jobs to help them with different investigative cases that come up around the city, along with some of the other imprisoned angels.

Two years after Danika’s death, people are dying in the same mysterious and gruesome way as Danika and the pack. There is a demon wreaking 121

havoc in the city, and the one person who seems to be connected to it all is Bryce.

Hunt is assigned along with Bryce to solve these murders, including the possibility that they have the wrong person locked up for Danika’s death.

Bryce is willing to do anything in order to discover the truth and avenge everyone’s deaths. Hunt is offered an irresistible deal: help Bryce find the murderer, he is one step closer to freedom.

Bryce and Hunt dig deep into Crescent City and everything that lurks in the shadows, including a dark power that is growing quickly. As the investigation continues, they discover more secrets not just about the case but about each other.

The story is engaging, as well as surprising. There are many unpredictable moments, making for a fun, adventure filled read. I don’t want to spoil everything for those who want to read it, but just know that it is an awesome book.

This brand new fantasy series from Maas is a fantastic first step into the Adult Fantasy genre. Maas brings her world building, unforgettable characters, intense romance, and page-turning writing skills to this series in full force. This is Maas at her absolute best. With this being the first book of the series, I can’t wait to see what comes next.

As a fan of Maas’ previous work, I was excited about this book from the moment it was announced. She had just previously finished a ten book Young Adult series that I had followed for a long time and highly recommended to all of my friends.

I highly recommend this new book as well. Don’t be intimidated by the long page count; it’s a highly engaging book that makes you want to keep reading to the end. If you’re looking for something new, funny, exciting, with some mystery thrown in, then this is the book for you.

There’s no word yet on a sequel but I’m already highly anticipating what is going to happen next in the Crescent City.

You can find this book on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and anywhere else books are sold.

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Contributors

Alphabetical Order by Last Name

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Alexandra Bargstadt is a senior nursing student at Mount Marty University. She is on the MMU volleyball team an da member of the MM student nursing committee.

Alex is from Winside, NE and enjoys boating, fishing and spending time outdoors.

McKenna Cooley is a senior English major with a History minor at Mount Marty. A Varsity Archer from Henderson, NV, who has earned five National Championships.

McKenna has been previously published in Paddlefish and the Yankton Federal Prison’s journal, 4 P.M. Count.

LeAnn DeRouchey is a sophomore at Mount Marty University majoring in Psychology. She is from Sturgis, SD and enjoys living in the Black Hills. In her spare time, she likes to golf, go to the lake and spend time with friends and family. This is her first published work.

Elita Eastman is a sophomore at Mount Marty from Springfield, South Dakota who is studying Performing Arts. She thrives in creative environments, as shown by her involvement in theatre, choir and creative writing.

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Patrick Hicks is the author of over ten books, including The Collector of Names, Adoptable and This London—he also wrote the critically and popularly acclaimed novel, The Commandant of Lubizec, which was published by Steerforth/Random House. He has been nominated seven times for the Pushcart Prize, he was recently a finalist for the High Plains Book Award, the Dzanc Short Story Competition, the Gival Press Novel Award and the Steinberg Essay Prize. His poetry has appeared on NPR, The PBSNewsHour and American Life in Poetry.

A winner of the Glimmer Train Fiction Award, he is also the recipient of a number of grants and fellowships, including awards from the Bush Artist Foundation, the South Dakota Arts Council, the Loft Literary Center and the National Endowment for the Humanities. He was recently a finalist for an Emmy and is the radio host of Poetry from Studio 47. A dual-citizen of Ireland and America, he is the Writer-in-Residence at Augustana University as well as a faculty member at the MFA program at Sierra Nevada University.

Maria Mazziotti Gillan is an American Book Award recipient for All That Lies Between Us (Guernica Editions) and author of twenty-three books, founded the Poetry Center, Paterson, NJ and is editor of the Paterson Literary Review. Appointed a Bartle Professor and Professor Emerita of English and creative writing at Binghamton University-SUNY, recent publications include What Blooms in Winter (NYQ 2016) and the poetry and photography collaboration with Mark Hillringhouse, Paterson Light and Shadow (Serving House Books, 2017) Kassondra Gooley is a Secondary English Education double major with theatre and theology minors attending Mount Marty University. In her free time, she enjoys participating in the fine arts, cleaning, reading, going out in nature, spending time with family and friends, learning new things and volunteering. Scholastic’s Rising Stars and The American Legion Journal have both published some of her poetry, but in this book the world gets a taste of her prose. A couple of fun facts about her are that she has a twin and is one of six children.

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Shiann Hansen is the youngest of five kids to grow up in small town Alton, Iowa. She is a senior graduating this year, amid a pandemic, with a major in English and Secondary Education and a minor in Theater. At Mount Marty she has been part of theater productions, choir, clubs and the MMU marketing staff. As she embarks on a new journey as a high school English teacher, she will continue to write as she fumbles through a new chapter in her life.

Courtney Heath is a sophomore at Mount Marty University who is currently majoring in Exercise Science.

Her hometown is in Sisseton, SD and this is the first time her work has been published. She is a part of the Mount Marty golf team as well as the cheer and dance team. When not in season she enjoys being outside and creating artwork.

Miranda Henglefelt is a senior English and Secondary Education major at Mount Marty University. This is her third year published in Paddlefish and she is grateful for every opportunity. In her free time she enjoys reading, writing, photography and hiking. Next year she will be teaching 6th grade ELA and Social Studies at West Central Middle School.

Aedan Huntley is a Yankton native and a recent Mount Marty Graduate that has earned his major in History and Secondary Education. He will begin his teaching career this fall at Todd County Middle School.

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Jaclyn Laprath is a freshman at Mount Marty University from Dallas, South Dakota. She is part of the cross country and track team. In her free time, she enjoys baking, making crafts, running and hanging out with friends. This is her first published work.

Heather Maier is a freshman at Mount Marty University from Gayville, South Dakota. She is majoring in exercise science with an emphasis in pre-physical therapy.

Heather is a part of the Lancer track & field team specializing in high jump. In her spare time she enjoys photography, attending car meets and spending time with friends and family.

Rachel McCormick is a sophomore nursing student at Mount Marty University. She is hoping to follow her dream of working in the NICU following graduation.

Rachel is originally from Rapid City SD and grew up in the Black Hills. She is on the Lancer cheer team and loves the new experience she is getting from it.

Javier Murguia has worked for the Yankton Police Department since 2009. Sergeant Murguia trains new officers, making sure everyone knows how to use their firearms safely. He also investigates car crashes and supervises the department’s interns. He loves playing outdoor sports, especially soccer. When he is at home, he enjoys spending time with his wife and their son.

Justin Paddack is from Colorado Springs, Colorado. He is a senior at Mount Marty University. His future plans include working in law enforcement for the federal government. His hobbies include reading, running and competing in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

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Hallie Parker is a Freshman at Mount Marty, from Columbus, NE. She is double majoring in Elementary Education and Special Education. This is her first publication in Paddlefish.

Sierra Rosales is a senior student athlete attending Mount Marty University. She is from Belle Fourche, SD and on the women’s soccer team. Her major is Radiologic Technology and she hopes to become an ultrasound technician.

Mark Sanders is a Nebraska native, currently living in east Texas where he is Associate Dean of Liveral and Applied Arts at Stephen F. Austin State University.

Among his recent works are In a Good Time: Poems (WSC Press, 2019), Landscapes, with Horses (SFASU Press, 2018) and The Weight of the Weather: Regarding the Poetry of Ted Kooser (SFASU Press, 2017). He received the Western Heritage Award (2019) for Landscapes, with Horses, three Nebraska book awards (A Sandhills Reader: Thirty Years of Great Writing from the Great Plains, 2016; The Weight of the Weather: Regarding the Poetry of Ted Kooser, 2018; Landscapes, with Horses, 2019) and the Spur Award for 2020 from Western Writers of America for best poem. In 2007, he received the Mildred Bennett Award for fostering Nebraska’s literary heritage. His poems have appeared in such journals as The New York Times, Prairie Schooner, Bosque, The Midwest Quarterly, Shenandoah and many others.

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Joseph Stibral is a nursing major in his Sophmore year at Mount Marty University. He is passionate about the performing arts, such as singing, acting, and generally making people laugh. Through his involvement in choir, theatre, SGA, and etcetera, Joey strives to share God’s love and bring glory to Him.

Kaito (pronounced “Kai-toe”) Sukeyasu is a Mount Marty Spring 2020 graduate who double majored in Business and English. Coming from Las Vegas, NV, Kaito came to Yankton for a chance to play collegiate baseball, as well as to further his education. During his four years, Kaito was away from his family including his parents, older sister, and older brother, but found a new home in his teammates, friends, and the community. Kaito will be attending the University of Nevada Las Vegas this fall, in pursuit of another degree. He will be looking to enter either medical school or law school, “whichever can help me impact more lives…and maybe cost less money” as he describes it.

Jonathan J. Urroz is a senior nursing student at Mount Marty University. He is from San Francisco, California, and has had the pleasure of being a part of Mount Marty’s wonderful community. In 1979, his mother and her refugee family from Vietnam were sponsored to come to Yankton and were taken in by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart Monastery. He feels as though life has come full circle to be able to receive an education here. After graduation, he hopes to provide care to patients that reflects a Benedictine approach and that helps them live longer, healthier, and happier lives.

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Paddlefish Snagging good literature one line at a time.

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