F23 - Pressure Issue

pressure

barrett, the honors college literary magazine

volume 09

feels

fall 2023

normal noise

arizona state university

coercion force compulsion constraint duress oppression enforcement insistence demand entreaty goading pestering provocation harassment nagging harrying badgering intimidation arm-twisting pressurization persuasion influence badassery strain stress tension heat burden load weight drain trouble care adversity difficulty hassle hustle

EDITORS IN CHIEF Dunya Mostaghimi Surabhi Sajith LITERATURE Aki Sagi Editor Dylan Long Intern FEATURES Sara Bojczuk Editor COPY EDITOR Lauren DeYoung DESIGN Anna Belding Editor Elise Barlow Intern SOCIAL MEDIA Maddie Shosten Manager FACULTY ADVISOR Dr. Elizabeth Meloy

Normal Noise is a semesterly magazine supported by Barrett, the Honors College at ASU. Each issue provokes conversation about the complexities of everyday life through academic research, creative nonfiction, and art.

Normal Noise is student run. Views expressed in the magazine do not reflect those of the administration. You can reach the editorial board at normalnoisemag@gmail.com.

Follow us on Instagram @normalnoisemag Check out our website at normalnoisemag.wixsite

An Introspective Look at Pressure

2

Bet Menen

Poetry

Dear reader,

Untitled

3

Elise Barlow

Photography

Life and Work and School and Boys

4

Aki Sagi

Nonfiction

It is with great excitement that we share with you our latest edition of Normal Noise, “Pressure.”

The Love Song of C. Schroding

6

AJ Pinto

Poetry

MAN UP

7

Stephen Powers

Collage

To Tell isn’t Traditional

8

Kalynn Yazzie

Memoir Essay

Displacement & Diaspora: Indigeniety in Northwest Arkansas

12

Addie Hegde

Thesis

The Conditions of Social Media

16

Sofie Wycklendt

Poetry

Misinformation in the Age of Social Media

17

Sona Shah

Thesis

The Artist and the World

20

Kara Keene

Poetry

Tooth Fairy

21

Lo Svitak

Painting

Chimera

22

Millicent Young

Nonfiction

Skeletons

24

Sahel Moazezi

Nonfiction

Corset

26

Adarshini Pattnaik

Poetry

Foot Tapping

27

Rennan Kooistra

Photography

Valencia: A Brief Escape from the Phoenix Inferno

28

Olivia Cordes

Nonfiction

Larger than Life

32

Kara Keene

Poetry

We Keep Us Safe

33

Audrey Zelinka

Collage

The Worker’s Dilemma, Introvert

34

Samuel Ferguson

Poetry

The Clock in a Room Full of Mirrors

35

Joanne Moh

Poetry

The Economic Pressure of Covid on Low-Income Families

36

Elly Karlowicz

Thesis

Glass Walls

40

Elise Barlow

Photography

Press Her, Cook Her

41

Meghna Ramesh

Thesis/Music

Those Artists who are Published after Death

42

Kara Keene

Poetry

Wave of Relief

43

Emily Houlihan

Ceramics

Online Exclusives

44

Assorted Theses

Artists’ Spotlight

46

Assorted Art

Pressures–forces pulling, constraining, and reshaping us–exert indelible influence upon our lives. How we react to these stresses forms our identity, and reveals our remarkable capacity as humans to endure, adapt, and transcend.

As we explore the theme of “Pressure,” we are reminded of our shared humanity, which transcends borders, culture, and creed. Let this be an opportunity for us to reflect on our own roles in contributing to global change, and especially the alleviation of the pressures faced by those caught in conflict.

In the following pages, you will find a compelling collection of research, personal essays, travel writing, art, and poetry. The topics explored include: the economic pressures of COVID on low income families, the burden of being perceived as a foreigner, the feeling of running out of time, and the pressures to assimilate. These pieces are a rich tapestry of experiences, showcasing the unique identities of our ASU community.

This magazine would not be possible without the support of the Barrett administration, including Dean Tara Williams and Vice Dean Kristen Hermann, as well as our faculty advisor, Dr. Elizabeth Meloy. We thank our contributors, who have reminded us that we are not alone in this journey of understanding pressure. We further extend our gratitude to our dedicated editorial board– without their work, this magazine would not exist. And finally, we thank you, our readers, for taking the time to reflect on these experiences with us.

We hope you will find within these pages the inspiration to be more than a passive absorber of pressure, but to instead become a wellspring for positive change.

Sincerely,

Dunya Mostaghimi and Surabhi Sajith Editors-in-Chief

Anna Belding Design Editor

Pressure. What is pressure to me?

The

pressure

to

menen

bet

be…

everything and nothing all at once. When I think about pressure, I think about how people see me.

Do they see me as a stereotypical Black girl? What does that mean an introspective about how I should perceive myself? Do look at pressure they see me and know I am gay? Do they see me and think I’m Bet is a junior in Barrett studying supply chain management with a minor in justice studies. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with her dog, doing her makeup, and going to the movies.

depressed?

Angry? Sad? Lonely? Do the students in class see me as smart enough?

Too arrogant? Too loud? All these questions race through my head as I get ready for my day.

untitled elise barlow

Wake up, walk my dog, brush my teeth, eat breakfast… Should I get that second pizza slice? I don’t want to appear

greedy.

Too fat. Too eager.

I always feel pressure from somebody or something that makes me second or third guess myself.

Pressure, to me, is everything.

Who am I? What do I want to be? How do I want to be seen?

All these invisible pressures make me feel inadequate, empty, unsure. A feeling of constant doubt. Pressure isn’t always external, sometimes I impose the pressure upon myself. Sometimes, my voice is so loud it’s hard to shove away.

Elise is a freshman in Barrett studying business data analytics.

She is passionate about art and design, and is doing a great job as our design intern.

But wait. It’s not all in my head. I’ve experienced others suggesting these same thoughts to me. Does everyone feel this pressure? If so, how come everyone isn’t swallowed whole?

What do I do about this pressure?

I keep going and struggle to keep the pressure from consuming me.

03

LifeandWork and SchoolandBoys

Akshita Sagi

Aki is a senior studying business marketing. Passionate about literature, social activism, and multi-media art, she utilizes writing as a tool to explore perspective.

W hen everyone was in my room after going out Friday night, Carly, Kita, Shreya, and Ayesha, the quiet of 2am hung over us like the

knowledge of some great and foreboding ending. We were all laying on my bed, and I could see our reflection in the mirrored sliding doors that lead to my closet. We consumed hours of that night like candy on Halloween–what’s another Snickers Bar in the longevity of life itself ?

Time spent talking about all of these different things. About life and work and school and boys and just everything that had happened in all the numerous moments that eventually brought us together on this gorgeous night. And about an hour into screaming and speaking and laughing, I began to doze off, sinking further into a dream I did not prefer to real life. Warm not under the sheets but instead in the comfort of all the love in the room. As I lay there on top of my white bedding, the hazy light of pre-dawn kissed my bare skin, complimented by the muffled laughter and distant conversation of the many people I am so privileged to know. And I thought to myself of all the days Time would no longer be something that is passed in the presence of my best friends. Of all the nights I would mourn the seconds spent drifting off into sleep, blanketed by the sticky bodies and raunchy banter of kids trying so hard to make a comedy out of life. And I would never be the one to tell them that we were simply in The Happy Years, playing out scenes in the greatest tragedy of all, childhood. So I Iay, basking in the kindness of time with the most wonderful people, and the grief of the past 20 years shed from the height of my shoulders like a winter coat on the first morning of spring. No matter where I have been, I am here now. I am here now.

As exhaustion pulled my eyelids shut, I forgave myself for the decisions I have and have not made. The anger woven into my back tethered away from my body. The mementos of childhood I had been clutching until my knuckles gleamed white with want fell from my fingers and clattered onto the worn tile of my college apartment. And as they scatter at my feet, I notice the sores on my heels from running so fast, so far, from where I once began, lunging from the grasp of my mothers arms, utterly ready for a life I knew nothing about. And here I am all these years later with little to show for my distance and no arms to return to.

And sores on my heels. I want to scream at the world for taunting me, beckoning to me with colors to paint and magic to witness and princes to love. Yet, as I slipped from my mother’s grasp, life turned to shades of gray and the magician’s hat had a trick lever for his bunny. And, well, the princes were just villains crowned by the patriarchy, born to serve. But I was already running, fueled by my curiosity to discover this wondrous world I had heard so much about. Ready to meet the heroes who made up the fairytales of my childhood and to grasp at possibility with my own two hands, no matter how little they could hold. By the time infatuation faded and reality set in, along with the fact that softness and beauty had only been a facade woven by my mother’s calloused fingers to shield me from the reality of a hardened world, I was too far gone in the wrong direction.

And no compass could return a grown woman to the womb in which she became one.

And so here I am; I found a trailhead and followed the path to another kind of silent comfort. And as I lay here listening to the laughter of my friends, speaking to them about our great faith in not a god, but each other, I find that this feeling is what I have craved for all these years. I have grown and returned to a mother’s hands for the night. And although I may wake up in the morning far gone from this moment in time, possibility will remain. And I will find the strength to go home and tell my mom the facade is lost. That I know she has spent years mixing all the colors of the rainbow and collecting shed winter coats. That I know she has cuts and scrapes, now turned scars from warding off the heathens of the world so that I could be a child. I will apologize for slipping from tired arms as she slept, oblivious to the plight of freedom. And we will forgive each other, weep and mourn a decade apart.

And when the time comes and I grow old, and she frail, I will gather the courage to carry her through those days. On the long road home, we will speak of our knowledge of the world. And perhaps we will see a rainbow down the path, and she will shriek with wonder at its many hues. We will pretend that color paints the horizon and not storm clouds. We will reminisce on moments spent together and apart. Laugh about worries, annoyances, hatred that once seemed so dreadful. And as I hold her to me, shielding her from the world, and perhaps, from age, we wonder in silence about the moment she will slip from my arms and begin her journey apart from me.

And upon my return home my mother will not be waiting with open arms.

My best friends will not be piled into my bed, dizzy from dancing all night.

Where must a girl go then?

05

all pictures courtesy of Aki

The Love Song of C. Schroding the lov love e song of c. schroding

AJ Pinto

MANmanUP up Stephen Powers

“How would you like it?”

I didn’t know, so I ordered the latte And when he gave it to me, his hands shaking And staring I was afraid.

“How would you like it?”

It’s so hard to know.

We walked in the park in the snow The trees dead or dying He put his hand to mine and I didn’t know what to do So I held it Just like I always do - Just like always “How would you like it?”

If I could respond.

Am I living, or dead?

And how should I let this go on?

The walking and the talking and the motion He caressed my head And moved to my shoulders Us lying together on his bed Me, laid before him on his bed “How would you like it?”

“Would you or won’t you? Would you or won’t you?”

I just don’t know And we could stop for a moment and I would run But it’s much too late for that now, it’s much too late So this is it And in the darkness his hands feeling I would nod Am I living, or dead?

I just don’t know.

Aj

is a freshman in Barrett majoring in biomedical engineering.

He loves writing poetry, playing guitar, listening to music, and is a huge fan of the band Radiohead.

is a senior at ASU Stephen majoring in Ceramics. They

enjoy thrifting, Hello Kitty, the grotesque, and the obscene.

07

to tell isn’t traditional

washing my face…” I whispered to myself.

“Shiyazhi, are you in there?” My body trembled as I came back to life.

“I need to use the restroom,” said Grandma. Wrapping my clothes into a ball, my day began.

The group keeps getting further from me, yet I don’t feel lonely from that. As I’m now walking, there’s no need to look down anymore. I hear one of the Aunties calling my name.“This girl never listens, does she?”, is what I hear under her breath.

“Yes, Auntie?” I pretend not to hear her impatient muttering.

by kalynn yazzie

The story “To Tell Isn’t Traditional” follows a ceremonial event celebrating a young girl’s first menstrual cycle, called Kinaalda. We follow Valerie, the Hair Tier, who is running along a path while divulging her experience through the ceremony. Flashbacks of the practices that had taken place during a 7-day event of running, cooking, and singing songs, all help reveal how her young niece transforms into a woman.

“Don’t you remember what I was telling you and Chenneya on the first day?” she raises her eyebrows, waiting for a quick answer.

Before I could reply, she walked towards me, gripped my triceps and dragged me to the kitchen. As she pushed me towards the stove, she squeezed my arm once again, tighter, before releasing.

As my body tries to catch up with everyone, the chanting of positivity absorbs into my grandmother’s stretched-out land. Bodies the sizes of ants fade into the land that was once used for the same purpose of this ceremony–to follow our young maturing woman, for she will be the guide of what a kind Navajo woman should be.

“Okay, I’ll go ask them if they want…” I speak while backing away from her.

As the Hair Tier for my niece, my duty is to be a role model, feeding all who are present at this ceremony, attending to the men who are sacrificing sleep and energy to keep the fire continuously lit. I do this all with an overflowing positive mood and a huge smile, for the maturing young woman is looking up to me.

Waking up before the sun, I got dressed on an empty stomach and grabbed my clothes in the dark. Trying not to cause a disturbance, I glided my feet across the open room to the restroom. The week-long event is filled with a strict schedule. Since there is little time to take a breather, my self-care moments are the short dressing times in the restroom before the sunrises. Winter is harsh on the reservation; the only heat source in the house is the coal and wood burning in the beesh iikoi (metal stove) to prevent chills throughout the night.

Wearing Grandma’s clothes, I pair one gray long sleeve with a white shirt, layering a hoodie, and the thickest jacket I own. The night before, Grandmother said that since I’m the second most important person here, I am not allowed to take a shower until the ceremony is over.

Once fully clothed, I bite down on my lips in front of the mirror.

“Grandma said I can’t shower, but she didn’t say anything about

“The men need their coffee,” she snaps.

“NO! You shouldn’t have to ask them. Just get it ready and go give it to them. You are the person who’s greeting everyone, and you must remain in place here all the time,” Auntie said, pointing to the small window pointing to Grandma’s gate entrance.“When you see someone, anyone, come through that gate, already have a cup of coffee in your hand and head out there to greet them.”

As Auntie clarifies my role, I start lining up the paper cups from Sam’s Club trying to not look her in the face. I can’t allow her to see my face redden, or she might yell at me again. I fear hearing her say, “I didn’t ask for your attitude,” so I try to concentrate on the spout as the coffee flows out the blue and white spotted kettle.

I think I’m getting closer to those ahead of me. I can once again hear shouting, but I am not sure in which direction. Slowing down is doing more harm than good. With all my extra layers of clothing, I’m putting more weight on my legs and feet as I plop my shoes down with every step. Again, as Hair Tier, I scream out those encouraging words that my Aunties taught me.

Before the run to make the cake batter in the hogan, I was glad to hear that Chenneya could sit on a chair. She could finally, literally, take a rest. Chenneya’s mother, my oldest sister Sasha, placed buckets in a circle around the beesh iikoi. I was stopped after

09

returning from the run to get the 50-pound bag of flour from the house, while others gather into the hogan.

“Val, shíyashí,” said Grandma as she helped kids put on aprons.

“Chenneya still needs a chair, can you go grab it?”, she asked me.

“Sure! Which chair should I get?” I asked, bending down to set the bag on the ground.

Grandma pauses, “Go ahead and use any chair from the dining ta-” “Val! Where’s that chair,” someone yelled. With this many people in the hogan I wasn’t sure who said what. As I stood up straight, a roaring, “NOW!” chased me out. “Here you go,” I said as I held the chair high in the air so everyone can pass it along to the back. I see Chenneya’s relieved face when Grandma tells her to sit on the chair, while everyone else kneels next to the buckets.

Just as I was about to sit, one of the Aunties shouted across the hogan,“Sasha, why is Chenneya sitting on a chair?”

“She’s not supposed to be sitting on a chair,” Auntie demands. “She has to sit on her knees on top of her Pendleton.”

“Take this chair out, Val,” yelled Sasha. I get up in confusion as I am given the chair.

“But you guys told me to bring in the chair,” I said aloud. Everyone glares at me. Sasha grabs my arm walking me outside.

“Ouch Sasha,” I say while trying not to drop the chair.

“Val, we do not talk back to our elders. Got it?” Sasha hissed, then walked back inside. I stood outside the hogan in disbelief before making eye contact with the men standing near the fire.

Back at the run, the temperature of my body is fighting against the cold wind as I’m jogging. My body is slowly giving up and wanting to shut down. So, I just slowed my jogging pace, almost to a hopping walk. The ceremony is almost over, I thought. Then I felt a stabbing pain to my heart. Here on Grandma’s land, her home, my home… spending time with my family and celebrating my beautiful niece who is now a young woman. Because of my grandmother, I know of my Navajo traditional practices; we were able to bond in a different way. Yet, how is it that a powerful ceremony with chaining positivity brings me to tears?

run. My body trembled with anger as one of the Aunties slapped me for not listening to her directions. When she left me alone to finish the pouch, I took my time because the tears blocked my vision. Just as I was about to complete the last stitch of the pouch, Mom walked into Grandma’s house to use the restroom.

She saw me. “Oh, that’s where you are. Come out to the other house.

I just finished dinner,” she said as she scurried past the dining table.

I stopped what I was doing and ran to her. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, unable to stop my tears from falling.

“Mom, I don’t think I can do this anymore,” my voice shook. “...it’s too stressful and these ladies are manhandling me, I don’t like it.”

I can feel that Mom is in shock, I am too. She pauses before rubbing my back attempting to calm me down. Mom holds me, lets me finish all my crying before she says, “Val, just suck it up.” I stop crying and loosen my arms.

“The ceremony is almost over; you can handle it. You will never have to see these ladies again, just deal with it.” Mom’s words linger in my head as I let go of her as she leaves to use the restroom.

I now stand silent on the dirt path, Mom’s words blow past my ear as it echoes, wishing that my body will crumble into the dirt I ran on, to vanish before the runners get back to see me standing and not running. To see me kneel on the ground with a rapid waterfall of tears down my face. But just as Mom said, I need to suck it up. Just build a new dam to keep my tears blocked. I need to not make this about Valerie, but about our maturing young woman, for she can’t see her role model on the ground crying.

As I can see the girls come toward my direction, I rub my eyes and take a deep breath. I pick up my knees and look as if I was jogging but staying in place. I let them come to me. I can feel the slight warmth of the sun setting behind me. I hear Sasha, Chenneya and all the other runners yell another encouragement in Navajo before I lift my hand up near my shoulders with a smile on my face. Squinting so they won’t see my red eyes. As each girl runs by, I give them a high five saying, “Great job girls, almost there!”

KaLynn is an ASU alumni with a bachelor’s degree in English.

Currently, she works as an elementary school librarian and enjoys writing about suppressed topics within her Native American culture.

The night before, I finally had the time to be alone, sitting at Grandma’s dining room table in front of my sewing machine sewing a pouch for our young maturing woman to wear with her on the last

11

Displacement & Diaspora: Indigeneity in Northwest Arkansas

Thesis Excerpt by Adeline Hegde Read Her Thesis Here

and climate change ramifications will be discussed, as the themes of forced displacement are experienced by all the different Indigenous groups in the Northwest Arkansas area. Despite the differing time periods, the interconnectedness between these Indigenous populations’

experiences

with

colonialism

05.

and

colonialist systems further demonstrates the threat that Indigenous populations still face today of erasure

06.

and continual oppression. Through both populations’ mutual experience with displacement, this thesis will investigate how food can act as an essential connector between Indigenous individuals and their culture, as

07.

What are the similarities between the original inhabitants of Northwest Arkansas becoming displaced from their land, and the Marshallese being displaced from their islands?

Why are concepts like systematic racism, environmental justice, equity, and human rights relevant to this research?

Post-Research Question: What role do folktales play in storytelling? Applicable to both populations.

Post-Research Question: What role does displacement play in identity and food for Indigenous populations?

well as how food can be a form of reparations, healing, and future progress.

Keywords: Displacement, Indigenous, Marshallese, culture, erasure,

For this excerpt, the primary focus will be discussing the Marshallese community and their presence in Northwest Arkansas, particularly with an emphasis on experiences with radioactive colonialism, erasure of culture, and disruption of food systems. However, if you wish to learn more about the original Indigenous populations of Northwest Arkansas, please refer back to the full thesis using the QR code provided.

04.

colonization, food systems

The Marshallese People in Northwest Arkansas Amongst the various racial and ethnic demographics found in Northwest Arkansas today, one of the most prominent groups is the Marshallese. The Marshallese people,

Because of the much more abundantly accessible information, the majority of this thesis will be focusing on the Indigenous presence of the Marshallese community in Northwest Arkansas. Moreover, the

who are Indigenous individuals from the Marshall Islands, have only recently migrated to the United States within the past few decades.

thesis will further discuss ways that fellow community Northwest Arkansas has a complex relationship with Indigeneity due to the erasure experience by the original inhabitants of the lands, and the presences of newly immigrated Indigenous groups such as the Marshallese people from the Republic of the Marshall Islands.

Addie is a Barrett senior majoring in sustainability with certificates in sustainable food systems and crosssector leadership.

In her free time, she enjoys spending time with friends, going to concerts, exploring new places, and doing crafts.

Today, the Indigenous identity that is most commonly present within the Northwest Arkansas community

members can best protect and serve Indigenous populations, especially as climate change becomes more intense and Indigenous food systems are at a higher risk of disruption.

Below are questions that I utilized in guiding my research process, as well as questions I still had after my thesis experience.

are the Marshallese people. The reason as to why the original inhabitants of modern-day Northwest Arkansas are not the most prominently represented Indigenous group, is because of severe erasure, genocide, and systematic racism experienced by these people. This

Research Questions 01.

02.

thesis will be investigating the Indigenous identities of Northwest Arkansas, which will include information on the first peoples and the modern-day presence of the

03.

Marshallese people. Connections between colonization

13

Who are the original inhabitants of NW Arkansas?

What did the Marshallese Indigenous food systems look like on the islands before environmental disruption?

How does food system disruption relate to cultural erasure?

Map of Indigenous Reservation land in Northwest Arkansas

The Marshall Islands are made up of 29 low-lying

It was not until the 1980s that the Marshall Islands

coral atolls, located remotely in the Southern Pacific

gained their independence and officially became the

Ocean (MEI, 2021).

Republic of the Marshall Islands. However, before the

According to the Marshallese

people’s origin stories, the people of these islands

Marshall Islands were able to gain independence, the

have resided and maintained stewardship with the

United States of America inflicted irreparable damage

land since time immemorial; However, the western

to the islands, people, ecosystems, and food systems

scientific community has performed several carbon

through the testing of nuclear bombs. Over 12 years,

dating processes, which have indicated that the atolls

a total of 67 nuclear bombs were dropped with 23 of

and islands could be dated as far back as 2,000 BCE

them being repeatedly on the Bikini Atoll from 1946-

(Tobin, 2002).

1958 (MEI, 2021). There were particularly horrific bomb testings such as Operation Castle Bravo, which caused generational trauma, generational health issues, and mass displacement.

Although much of the migration of the Marshallese people can be attributed to communal connections, severe environmental degradation, and human health issues, the continually increasing threats that climate change presents such as sea-level rise, also presents dangers to the viability of the Marshall Islands, which further forcefully displaces the Marshallese community.

Why Northwest Arkansas?

Map of the Marshall Islands

The people of the Marshall Islands experienced their first encounter with colonial threats during the 1500s.

Since colonial contact, the Marshall Islands have been under the rule of Spain, Germany, Japan, and the United States of America (MEI, 2021; Tobin, 2002).

attempted relocating to places like Los Angeles, and

Marshallese would be eligible for, created a suitable

Hawaii, but the cost of living in those places were

place for the Marshallese to resettle after their

extremely high. However, it was during the 1970s that

displacement.

John Moody attended the University of Oklahoma, and eventually settled in Northwest Arkansas because of the accessible cost of living (MEI, 2021). In addition to the affordability of Northwest Arkansas, there were ample job opportunities in the area because of the poultry industry. Northwest Arkansas is home to some of the largest poultry industries in the country, in addition to many other localized poultry plants, such as Tyson Foods, George’s Poultry, and Simmons Food (Riffel, 2023). Because there were so many chicken and food packaging plants that required workers to run the factories, but did not require formal education and English fluency, the Northwest Arkansas job market was perfect for newly immigrating Marshallese individuals.

In fact, “30% of Tyson’s workforce in Springdale [identified as] Marshallese” in 2021 (MEI, 2021).

Because large business corporations, such as Walmart and JB Hunt are headquartered out of Northwest Arkansas, a large number of immigrants have recently begun relocating to the Northwest Arkansas area in more recent years. The poultry industry is only one of

People are often perplexed when finding out such a

the many outlets that Northwest Arkansas has for newly

diverse group of people choose to live in Northwest

migrating individuals, as the rest of the state is primarily

Arkansas. However, based on the socio-economic

agriculturally based and has ample opportunities with

fabric of the Northwest Arkansas area, in addition to

seasonal employment for farm maintenance.

these Indigenous groups’ distinct cultural values, all

Communal ties have also contributed to the migration

factors align together as to why the Marshallese people

of Marshallese peoples in Northwest Arkansas. Based

chose Northwest Arkansas as their second home.

on many of the cultural values of the Marshallese

Conclusion

During the 1970s, the first Marshallese person to come

community,

This

respecting

and

maintaining

strong

Courtesy of Harvard Law Students Advocates for Human Rights, 2006

excerpt

from

Displacement

&

Diaspora:

to Northwest Arkansas was a man named John Moody

communal relations is absolutely essential (Hegde

Indigeneity in Northwest Arkansas is not conclusive to

(MEI, 2021). Due to the adversities on the atolls, some

& Childress, 2023; Hegde & Short, 2023; MEI,

the entirety of the thesis, but rather provides a more

individuals went abroad through the route of education,

2021). When one of the members of the Marshallese

concise and holistic understanding of one of the more

especially because the Marshallese were not granted the

community was able to successfully resettle in

complex topics being discussed. For a more in depth

ability to freely travel to the United States yet before

Northwest Arkansas, a majority of the community

understanding of Indigeneity in Northwest Arkansas,

the Free Compact Association Act was implemented

migrated to the same location in order to maintain the

the Indigenous groups present in the communal socio-

and The Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands was

strong communal relations that they value so deeply.

cultural fabric, and how both of these population

terminated (Micronesia, U. S. M., 2020; Office of the

Overall, the inexpensive cost of living and previously

studies are investigating the similar experiences of

Law Revision Counsel United States Code, 1978).

existing communal ties, combined with the ample

displacement and diaspora, please refer back to the full

Searching to find other solutions, many Marshallese

and accessible job opportunities, that most of the

thesis using the QR code provided.

15

Misinformation in the Age of Social Media

Conditions Social Media the

of

THESIS EXCERPT by

by Sofie Wycklendt

read her thesis here Sona is a senior studying business data analytics with minors in economics and data science. Her thesis, completed through the Data Misinformation Lab at Barrett, focused on C O V I D - 1 9 misinformation on social media.

The pressure to be perfect is hard To accept when it is shoved in my face every day.

These perfect lives are splattered across my screen As I struggle to love who I am in between These misleading pictures stick to my fingers like grease as I scroll Into this virtual dark hole With the same edited photos I see on constant repeat I used to get laser, but filled my face after with makeup It is that pressure to be perfect from the second I wake up Social media makes my life feel unreal All of these likes and comments affect how I feel Has conditioned the mind of my internal tension It is all about achieving fictitious goals That others will see whenever they scroll Seeing all this conditions my brain and truly manipulates the criticism I say I start to pick apart how I am not happy about this and that As I see my reflection and do not like what I see Because I am nowhere near the way of how others seem so carefree I am so unhappy with myself Such as the shape of my body, and how I feel too fat I exhaust myself but I am never satisfied Because I am giving the power to those who are online

Misinformation is defined as false information, regardless of whether or not it is intended to mislead or deceive people. In today’s technology-centered society, misinformation is prevalent and spreading rampantly via social media. Unfortunately, its vulnerability to spread comes with consequences that can be violent, harmful, or even deadly. While misinformation is widepsread across all industries, this thesis focuses on health misinformation. When the COVID-19 pandemic began in 2020, citizens of the United States turned to governmental leadership as a source of hope and advice. Instead, citizens were confronted with reckless “cures” and misinformation such as ultraviolet light, injecting disinfectants, and hydroxychloroquine, all of which sparked controversy online.

Certain groups and individuals tended to be the starting point of what became massive waves of misinformation. These people used their accounts to spread misinformation in different forms, and their followers latched onto the false information.

My research centered around categorizing the misinformation as false information, misrepresenting opinions as facts, or misleading statistics. The main goal was to uncover if a certain type of misinformation was more prevalent than others as well as the potential consequences of this misinformation.

The desire to seek this attention

While I silently scream at me

Sona Shah

Sofie is an undergraduate honors student majoring in social and behavioral sciences. As a campus representative on Barrett’s Student Council, she helps plan the monthly events by planning and catering to the needs of the student body

In the age of 24/7 media, we are often subjected to the pressures of social media and asked to find answers

17

immediately. Hence, we grasp onto the first “solution” we discover, even if it is not the most accurate or best option. The pandemic was no exception. People quickly began to believe and spread what they saw online without fact-checking the source, resulting in echo chambers of misinformation. Consequently, society suffered as some individuals partook in violent acts, while others harmed themselves. The findings from this research offer a brief glimpse into how the pressures of the Internet can sometimes do more harm than good.

misinformation into three categories: false information, misrepresenting opinions as facts, and misleading statistics, I calculated the percentage of times that each type of misinformation occurred, shown in this chart.

Distribution of Type of Misinformation by Category (COVID-19 Sample) I found that Trump displayed a mixture of all three types of misinformation.

For my sample of COVID-19 misinformation, I focused on the false cures that were promoted by one individual in particular—Donald Trump. I collected data about his Tweets that contained the word “hydroxychloroquine” as well as press conference statements that promoted other cures. I then looked into the levels of engagement these Tweets received based on numbers of likes and retweets. This graph demonstrates a comparison of a Tweet containing hydroxychloroquine and a different COVID-19 Tweet.

However, he used misleading statistics the most when presenting 3-20 14:00

misinformation about COVID-19 cures. Intuitively, this all comes back to the idea of “pressure.” When the former president promoted these statistics 3-20 14:00

(which were often taken out of context or from an unreliable source), it was no surprise that people latched onto these words. Society felt pressure to understand the true numerical impact of what was happening and what scientists were saying. However, this pressure caused many people to succumb to the consequences of misinformation. Trump specifically cited scientific journals and studies, making his words believable to those who did not take the extra effort to fact-check him. The pressure that people felt to believe these words and heed the misinformed advice led to numerous public health disasters, which are further discussed below.

Figure 02

Excerpts from an NPR Article Detailing an Arizona Man’s Decision to Take Chloroquine, Following Trump’s Encouragement of the Drug Trump continued to promote the use of hydroxychloroquine as a cure to COVID-19, despite the lack of reliable scientific evidence supporting this.

One Arizona couple attempted to self-medicate for the coronavirus by using hydroxychloroquine. As a result, the husband passed away and the wife

3-20 14:00

became hospitalized. Upon questioning, she claimed that they “heard Mr. Figure 01

Trump make repeated mentions of chloroquine.” This is the quintessential example of the mantra that words have consequences, and when the words

Engagement Levels for Trump’s COVID-19 Tweet

are misinformative, the consequences can be irreversible.

Containing the Word “hydroxychloroquine” on March 21, 2020

Ultimately, unprecedented times bring unprecedented pressures. Whether one is the source or receiver of information, they often feel a sense of pressure

The red data point highlighted in yellow represents the Tweet hailing

to share what people want to hear, even if it is misinformed. However, the

hydroxochloroquine as a cure, while the black data point highlighted in green

health misinformation epidemic has taught us that we cannot give into this

represents another COVID-19-related Tweet. There is a large spike in the levels

pressure, and we must commit to our social responsibility to ensure that the

of engagement on the misinformative Tweet, implying that it received more

information we share and receive is both accurate and reliable.

attention than other Tweets on that day. Additionally, after splitting the sample of

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Figure 03

The Artist and the World The artist’s soul holds them hostage within this cage Tooth Fairy

where they long for nothing but escape The artist’s soul demands to be seen, to be heard, to be manifested into reality Yet there is also a prison, a society outside the cell one which condemns escape, and celebrates confinement The prison searches for artists, takes them off the streets, and puts their spirits in chains.

It does not want creativity, it wants compliance.

It rewards only obedience.

The artist is a fugitive of society Forever running

Lo Svitak

Kara Keene

Kara is a sophomore majoring in media arts and sciences (design). She started writing poetry at age 14 and sees poetry as a way to express her feelings and tell unique stories.

Lo is a queer creative who is studying Conservation Biology in the hope of making the world a more livable place for longer.

They also study Spanish and Italian, and their main pastime is making and enjoying art.

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Chimera noun

by MILLICENT YURONG

/kī’mire,ke’mira/ Oxford Languages

Millicent is a sophomore studying sustainability and creative writing. When she’s not doing school work, she can be found reading and watching movies.

1. (In Greek mythology) a fire-breathing female monster with a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a serpent’s tail.

2. a thing that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve.

In preschool, fantastical tales of fierce wyverns, graceful selkies, and mischievous pixies captured my imagination. An intrepid explorer on the daycare playground, I dedicated my time to hunting for long lost treasures and wish-granting four-leaf clovers. Since the principal’s daughter didn’t let me join the outdoor games, I tried to ignore her teasing and the whispers that would pass between her and the new kids. I remained too fixated on my quests to notice myself manifesting a new power: the ability to shapeshift into forms that could please others. I soon learned to adjust my reedy tone, limited vocabulary, and semi-Australian accent to mirror whoever I spoke to. The Cafeteria Mom’s son told me I had no voice of my own, but my transformation seemed to make others happy. That was what mattered.

In elementary school, I spent rainy-day recesses hiding in my fortress — the cramped space under my desk — leafing through books about fearsome beasts and shape-changing gods. I craved the capacity to shed the itchy skin encasing me and squeeze myself into teeny-tiny spaces. In class, we learned that there would one day be too many humans for Earth to support. My plastic chair squealed as I shifted uncomfortably. I was occupying too much space. We learned about Newton’s third law, but I wished my body could stop pushing back so hard against the miles of air crushing down on me. I wouldn’t mind shrinking a bit.

In high school, I failed the Trial by Body Fat Percentage test. And the disappointment clouding the gym teacher’s face — accompanied by an,“Oh, dear,” as she marked down my shameful numbers — proved that failure was the right word for it. If only the girls’ class could be as fit as the boys, she lamented. Hours of daily exercise had not defended me against the fat gathering in my midsection, so I believed my body required a different transformation. If I consumed as little as possible, I would waste less space and fewer resources.

When my neighbor won awards for her outstanding academic achievements, I assured my eager parents that I would work toward

the same goals. When the boy I liked ended up with me instead of his first choice, I spent years attempting to adopt her personality. When another girl pointed out my bodily faults, I laughed along and swallowed the lump in my throat. I tried to absorb the intelligence of one girl, the spirit of another, the beauty of someone else. With this, maybe I could fashion myself into the perfect composite. One who could please my peers, my parents, my teachers… even myself. This girl would never earn anything less than an A. She would never miss a day of school. She would be the best student, the ideal girlfriend, and the perfect daughter. She would be someone who had her life in order, not someone who pathetically cried in the grimy media center bathroom during lunch.

Somehow, all the fractured pieces I’d collected from other girls cut deeper the tighter I clasped them. My desperate attempts to patch up the spreading cracks didn’t always succeed, and I longed for the days when I believed magic could repair me.

In college, I met one of the girls I used to emulate at a dining hall, where we chatted about classes and summer jobs between bites of garlic bread. Soon she began blasting an English cover of an upbeat Vocaloid from her phone, singing along despite the presence of dozens of other students. I laughed and bopped to the beat as a few of them shot us confused looks, but if my friend noticed, she didn’t seem to care.

Radiating an effortless power, she held court wherever she traveled.

After the final chord played, I asked her what the song lyrics meant.

She shrugged, setting her phone on the table. An uncharacteristic hesitation permeated her voice when she replied,“It’s about having people love you for all your weirdness. I think that’s sweet.”

My next bite of garlic bread stopped before reaching my mouth. The girls I’d imitated seemed endlessly confident in their intelligence and charisma. Why should it shock me to learn that this couldn’t be further from the truth? Sometimes others insisted that these girls were boring, crazy, dumb, or whatever other first-grade-level insults people could come up with. Yet those I admired remained authentic instead of scrambling to cobble together a disguise. Perhaps my greatest failure as a shapeshifter was that I had forgotten how to become the courageous young adventurer who found treasure in misshapen weeds, gold-painted pebbles, and herself.

After returning to my apartment, I dumped my backpack on the floor and stretched out the tension in my neck. I straightened my normallyhunched shoulders, pushing back against the atmosphere above me. Drawing in a breath, I let the pastiche I’d armored myself with crack along the fault lines and begin to crumble away. At some point, I must admit that I can’t pacify every beast, but maybe the brave explorer girl can teach me to take life one quest at a time.

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Life, Freedom.

READ THE FULL THESIS HERE

SKE EXCERPT

by SAHEL MOAZEZI

I think my soul belongs somewhere amidst the crisp forest air of a small European town 5,620 miles away.

I think my heart lives in the ebb and flow of the great tides of the Caspian Sea 7,110 miles away.

I know my mind sits standstill within meaningless chatter and oblivious ignorance of big city America, 0 feet away.

Today, I went to get my haircut.

My hairstylist asked me about Iran, with such eminent curiosity.

We spoke of Pahlavi; of human rights; of Women,

I tried to tell her of what I seem to be telling everybody lately— that we are just people.

Almost like I’m convincing her that our fight deserves their attention; that our dead bodies are not mere numbers; that they should be grieving.

And while I spoke, I saw her face in the mirror | mirror every receptionist, nail tech, street-side bread baker, and doctor in Iran, asking me “What’s it like in America?” with the identical Foreigner’s lens that Westerners wear when they ask “What’s it like in Iran?”

Foreigner.

Every inch of the title carries with it immovable weight.

Within the walls of disconnect, below the umbrella of a foreigner’s mindset, the irony stands: what they do not realize is that they are a Foreigner, Foreign with the rest of the world.

Foreigner.

S A H E L I S A B A R R E T T A LU M N I W H O G R A D U AT E D W I T H A D O U B L E M A J O R I N P H I LO S O P H Y A N D G LO B A L ST U D I E S. S H E I S PA S S I O N AT E A B O U T T H E I N T E R ACT I O N B E T W E E N STO R Y T E L L I N G A N D H U M A N R I G H T S, D R AW I N G O N H E R E X P E R I E N C E S A S A N I R A N I A N -A M E R I C A N I M M I G R A N T TO I L LU M I N AT E T H E ST R U G G L E S O F M I N O R I T I E S.

LE TONS We carry the title with us like armor, for if we do not hold our Home with great pride, they will turn it into the Weapon of their Warfare; they will use it to beat us down; to leave us lifeless.

Silent.

We witness the skeleton in the mirror | mirror the bare bones all around us.

Yet, it is you that waters separation between us.

Rust in the stars

that connect us Together—

Iranians have to die, bloody on the streets?

just a draw of fate tying you to the land watering to your Roots.

How many more Lovers will have to suffocate their hearts, to keep one another alive?

Tell me Why do you let the soil under your feet allow you to forget that your choice to ignore our cries echoing Women, Life, Freedom is a privilege and, at best, a profound disregard for humanity.

Tell me, How do you not see history repeating itself with the most vulnerable of us falling prey, yet again?

Tell me, How many more 25

How many more innocent souls have to be imprisoned and tortured in the name of God? How many more teenage girls have to be kidnapped, raped, and murdered by the morality police?

How many more mothers have to bury their children?

How many more humans have to throw themselves into the fire for the mere possibility of making it onto the cover of your Western news network; for the mere hope of change, before

you look down at your blood stained hands and call off the truce?

7,110 miles away, realize that when you diffuse our genocide, silencing our cries, under the excuse of “state-of-war”, “terrorist” country titles, you reproduce this abuse.

May I introduce this truth?

This is, in fact, your war to fight in, too.

Because beneath the labels you have excluded yourself from, beneath the melanin in our skin and the lack thereof in yours, we are Skeletons, alike, and all that we have in this world is each other.

Corset Corset Adarshini Pattnaik

Foot Tapping Rennan Kooistra

Even before the sun hits the horizon I can feel the nerves start to splinter and grow, The cracks of my heart crinkle with every Press of my constricting ribs—ever constricting ribs That make the fissures along my lungs erupt and My breath catches as your gaze descends across my figure, Across my stitched up mind and meddled thoughts, Across my clumsy motions and crippled emotions, Your eyes catch mine under the dark light of disappointment And my lips remain sewn, and my mouth dries, and I feel it again, this leaden weight, shifting in my stomach Like unnecessary waste, so far from the hope You should inspire in me and I am dragged down further into the depths From which I came Alone, furtive, with incessant fingers, Constantly twisting, and incessant legs, Constantly bouncing, and I see now that I was wrong When I thought that’d you’d be the one to ease This mounting pressure on my body, So similar to those pretty corsets that Cannot shape me no matter how hard I try to make them.

Rennan is a senior majoring in fine arts with an emphasis in photography. In his spare time, he enjoys experimenting with alternative process photography, visiting art museums, and mountain biking.

Adarshini is a freshman in Barrett a freshman in Barrett studyingAdarshini biomedicalis sciences.

Creative writing is one of her hobbies, and she studying Biomedical Sciences. Creative loves the spontaneity of writing poetry.

writing is one of her hobbies, but she

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also loves spontaneously writing poetry.

27

read her thesis here

After an idle afternoon of lying around, nearly napping, I felt the need to flee the cozy apartment I was temporarily occupying in Valencia, Spain, and join the city’s foot traffic. The urge to make the most of my time here was heightened by my imminent return to Arizona’s stinging heat and with it, the pressurized claustrophobia of indoor living during the Phoenix summers. How dare I waste this comfortable climate, or these precious hours of summer daylight in Spain? My destination this June evening was the park that snakes through the center of Valencia, a reconverted riverbed which now flows with the energy of exercisers rotating through their movement. I had to take the chance to enjoy nature now, given it’d be months until I could drive somewhere to do the same in Arizona.

The largest urban park in Spain, Jardín del Turia, was built after catastrophic flooding in October 1957 from the Turia River, destroying access to electricity and water. How cruel, that the very substance that sustains life can also destroy it.

Homes, lives, and livelihoods were washed away.

Mother Nature had pushed against the city, but the city pushed back with Plan Sur. Over the next few years, this project rerouted the river to the south of Valencia, leaving an empty riverbed to fill. With this new ditch in the center of town, residents fought against the proposal to create a convenient highway, arguing for public green space instead. Eventually, it became a playground for the people—a haven of peace out of a place that had once wreaked havoc. And now, it was free to be enjoyed by visitors like myself.

Valencia

A Brief Escape from the Phoenix Inferno

thesis excerpt by Olivia Cordes 29

My sense of direction had finally cemented during my third week here, and I ran out of the apartment, down Carrer de Martí l’Huma, passing fruit stalls on the corner and friends sitting for early dinners.

Unlike a Phoenix summer evening, with hardly a soul on the streets, Valencia was lively. It was

about half past eight, an hour until dinner with Bernardo and Maria Jose, the couple hosting me in their home. There was plenty of time to run a few miles—I’d be back in half an hour at most.

weren’t suitable for the activity; the rest of the summer of 2023 saw temperatures that rivaled the inside of an oven. I was grateful to enjoy a reprieve from the hot weather. Trivial academic and personal stressors of daily life intensify with heat, and when a city’s design doesn’t allow for a peaceful outdoor escape, stress simmers in the pressure cooker of one’s apartment. I’d made poor attempts to run in summer weather in the past—rarely seeing others willingly trudging through the burning streets of Phoenix. Now, I was a speck in a sea of pedestrians. Those in better shape floated by, indicating no outer signs of their increased inner energetic needs. Perhaps I’d be faster, too, if I ran here everyday instead of on the unbearable asphalt at home. I let this selfserving excuse boil long enough until I realized half an hour of running in one direction had passed; my 5K goal was met long ago.

I passed a flock of children playing, golden light illuminating a metal slide, passed bars with plastic chairs out front, a laundromat, people walking their dogs. Finally, I glimpsed the set of stairs leading into the park. I descended into this beautiful trench and looked up to see the arch of a concrete bridge above me; cars and pedestrians going to and fro. Graffiti decorated its gray underbelly, contrasting the flora below.

A bodiless head had been depicted alongside a few other hastily scrawled initials and hearts.

This miniature mural was the opposite of a birds’ eye view of the city. Though this particular bridge mimicked a graffitied overpass in Phoenix, I’d be hesitant to attempt running under the 202 or the 101 with cars speeding alongside me. Traffic noise was quieter down here, though it was never loud in the first place—highways weren’t crossing overhead. People ran past me, some bearing the uniform of their running club and others going solo, still coated in athletic gear. Some walked themselves or their wellbehaved dogs, while others lounged in grassy spaces between paths, doing yoga or nothing at all. I set out on a wide dirt route labeled for a 5K. This would be plenty of running for me.

Settling into a rhythm, aided by the quiet music in my earbuds, I returned to the familiar pattern of fast foot movement.This was my habit from late childhood, one I still returned to whenever I felt the need to exert energy to calm an overflowing mind. Running was a release of all stress and pressure, a redirection of whirling worry into movement. Forcing physical exertion

Jardín del Turia upon the body distracts from any stress within the brain. Pressure flows down its gradient, from head to roaming toe. Yet in Valencia, I wasn’t overflowing with stress worsened by inescapable heat as much as I was with elation, excitement, and bliss. Perhaps this was tinged by the slight creep of disappointment, knowing my experience of this pedestrian-oriented city was only temporary.

I dreaded my pressing return to Phoenix and its oppressive heat—concrete causing third degree burns and mortuaries bracing for the higher rates of heat stroke victims. For now, it was one foot after the other, the propellers of body and mind through this revived riverbed.

Face flushed like one of the tomatoes grown in and named after this city, I felt better than expected, considering I hadn’t ran for weeks.

Before I left Arizona in May, the temperatures

I was distracted by a Zumba class blasting reggaeton, a flashy carnival setting up, kids playing baseball, and adults playing soccer—all in a strip of shared space. I’d entered into a flow state of sorts, focused not on painfully slogging through the path but on moving for its innate benefit to body and mind. Rather than feeling suffocated by Arizona’s dry heat, I felt energized by the park’s greenery and temperate air. Running here was a pleasure in itself, not just a means to obtain the endorphins normally produced only after a grueling effort. But even with my high energy, dinner was approaching, and it was time to retrace my steps. I passed runners, walkers, bikers, yogis, and loungers on my return, all engaged in their own form of stress release, or simply reveling in the lack thereof. I ascended the same stairs I’d come down on, back to the world above. Not that this world below was anything like Dante’s Inferno described—I’d experience that in Arizona. I ran past the same restaurants and bars, 31

some of the same faces staring as I sped by a second time. Back in the apartment, the flow of endorphins slowly increased. I considered the privilege it was to have this temporary escape from the environmental pressure of extreme heat. My stay in Valencia facilitated the release of stress, rather than the aggravation of it. Unlike Valencia, populated long before cars arrived, Phoenix had developed itself as a city for just barely a century. Aided by the invention of A/C, suburban infrastructure swelled, and crisscrossing highways connected the sprawl. Conceding to cars over pedestrians meant more concrete, contributing to the rising temperatures and pressure that comes with it.

Thus, when I made my compulsory flight home to this inferno, I felt the full force of the temperature blasting beyond the double doors that led out of the air-conditioned airport.

Standing on the curb waiting for my ride to come, July’s heat pierced its way through the midnight air. The day I returned was the first of 31 days of record-breaking heat—leaving the indoors as the only refuge. Even if there was a public park slithering through the Valley, it would be abandoned in the 110+ degree days of summer. Outdoor exercise as a means to relieve stress wouldn’t be physically advisable, even if urban planning had accounted for it. For now, I would be grateful for my air conditioning. I’d wait for the hottest summer on record to pass, reminiscing about a city conducive to stress release rather than stress increase.

Olivia is a senior in Barrett studying biology and psychology. After graduation, she hopes to travel and plans on going to graduate school to pursue healthcare or global health.

I am larger than life than this life It likes people to be of all the same shape It likes women to be small It likes men to be hollow It likes us all to fit into destinies, fates, futures.

These things are not real.

Maybe we are bigger than these things.

We are everything and nothing, small, big, hollow and solid all at once.

We hold infinite possibility, joy and love.

This is what we are.

We are larger than life.

How beautiful to realize, you are everything.

WE KEEP US SAFE by AUDREY ZELINKA

Audrey is a Barrett senior double-majoring in psychology and sociology with a minor in public health. They are passionate about HIV/ AIDS and Valerie Solanas.

In their free time, they like to read, bake, and watch horror movies with their lovely and talented gf, Anna Belding.

Kara Keene

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the

Clock Room Mirrors

by samuel ferguson

Worker’s Dilemma

THE IN A

J o a n n e i s a sophomore i n B a rrett m a j o r i n g i n c ompu ter i nformat i on syste m s . Sh e i s passi onate a bou t a ll fo r m s of a r t fro m playi ng gu i t a r a nd p i a n o to p h oto gra phy a nd wri t i ng.

FULL OF

If it is not painful, what did you learn?

But if it is, how did you learn?

We seek hurt and crank the valve all the way;

joanne moh

and we drown, as gravity weighs us down Let me paint you a picture, a story, a life You are born with weight on your shoulders, an ideal, sinking straight into your infant heart

tiktok.

You were born to work, to live, to die You grow, learn to toil, take a first step You pay your first taxes, you stumble through the masses You learned to toil To break yourself for a corporate machine You ask yourself – “Why?” “Why did I choose this path?”

Who did I choose it for?

The claws of society are clamped down upon you

Introvert

But before you can apologize, or take it all back,

tiktok.

She is watching daily, hourly, to the second Across the café table Like his countenance is her religion.

tiktok.

Silent, I sit in a silent room

Silence pervades my mind and soul I try to stand, I try to speak

it’s over–

Silence chains me to a chair

Why? Why? Why?

tiktok.

It chains us all

So before you sell yourself to the regime

She is growing sick, by dust, by rain, by medicine Against cold-sweat skin Like the skeletons she hides invaded her lungs.

It can be the metal ball –

ask and consider

that drags us to the ocean floor

Why?

But behind the silence

If it is not painful, have you toiled at all?

tiktok.

lies something more devious

If it was, was it for something you loved?

She is piercing his sage eyes medically, clinically, frigidly With the simmering gaze of woman Like day-old tea still boiling, scalding hot.

A lurking demon

Because if you love your toil, Then in the end, your life was brimming with joy, And when you sit in the darkness and think back,

It is the darkness beside your bed;

tiktok.

the shadows you see move

She is grieving slowly, quietly, surely In the worst way Like the sea going out to low tide.

that are all inside your head

Only contentment remains.

Fear. Fear is a weight, a pressure I know you feel it

tiktok.

The clock is screaming softly, spitefully, deafeningly Inside a room lined with mirrors Like the simmer of blood down her shard-littered body.

A fear to even utter a peep Because your own ideas are scary But in reality you are scared of what others might think

tik.

You’re scared of the other people you might meet Samuel is a freshman studying computer science.

He began writing poetry as a junior in high school.

He is slipping away, further, abroad Amid a tsunami of love Like an aplomb god guards his heart.

She is fracturing by hammer, by nail, by axe While he watches that other girl Like she could be heroin in his veins.

But silence stops me, pulls me down

and you sit in the darkness and ponder:

He is grieving slowly, quietly, surely In the worst way Like the sea going out to low tide.

the pressure will dissipate,

I am staring appalled, sick, miserably In the mirrors Like the girl glaring back isn’t running out of time to love him.

and you might even like the people you’re around.

tok-

Silence protects, but let your guard down –

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35

READ HER THESIS HERE

duress. This pattern of disparity is revealed through many factors, including loss of employment during times of tragedy and the failures of the supply chain in the production and distribution of commodities and services (Supply Chain Definition & Meaning, n.d.). Due to pressures from COVID-19, a quick shift in demand for goods and services exposed the inflexibility of the world’s largest supply chains, causing shortages around the world. In order to fix the problems caused by these events, the U.S. government and global corporations relied on the people in lower-income communities, which typically bear the majority of the burden of working overtime to account for the loss of goods and are most susceptible to the shortages of goods and services.

DURING social crises, supply chains indicate the power imbalance between economic classes, because they assess the availability of products in different socioeconomic areas. When the supply chain is working well, people of lower economic status are only at a slight disadvantage, because prices for goods and services purchased by everyone are equal. Even then, those with less money spend a higher percentage of their income on necessities than those who have more monetary resources (Goodwin, 2001).

When the supply chain crashes, it leaves those in the lower economic classes without the resources they need to survive, because prices significantly rise. Those with more money are able to pay the higher prices that come with shortages and stockouts, but those living paycheck to paycheck are not able to afford the higher prices without sacrificing other necessities.

ECONOMIC PRESSURE of COVID on LOW INCOME FAMILIES

WHILE the entirety of the U.S. felt the negative pressures of these shortages, those in lower socioeconomic classes were affected most negatively. A lower socioeconomic status is defined as “households having little income or wealth to buffer against the negative impacts of an adverse health event” (Leonard, 2018).

This definition can be broadened to include households with an inability to mitigate an adverse financial situation as well. Those in the lower socioeconomic classes who were put out of work and lacked the proper food and resources to fight against COVID-19 were at an even greater risk of homelessness, sickness, or even death. These pressures were increased due to food deserts, urban areas without easy access to a grocery store. Food is a necessity, but when money is tight, purchasing food and having enough to eat for all family members may not be a reality for everyone. During the pandemic, twenty million families reported that they did not have enough money for food to eat. This statistic proves the crippling effects of high demand for essential items and how price increases,

THESIS EXCERPT by ELLY KARLOWICZ

THE occurrence of tragedies throughout history, whether it be natural disasters, pandemics, or wars, are inevitable. The way that humans have chosen to respond to pressures, destruction, and disagreements has changed. However, something that remains constant is that those with less monetary resources and political power are at a greater disadvantage whenever the world is under 37

while seemingly slight to some, can have detrimental effects (Tracking the COVID-19 Economy’s Effects on Food, Housing, and Employment Hardships, 2022).

“Not only do the supply chain shortages make it difficult for people to find items that they may need to feed their families, but when they do find those items, they are being sold at a premium price due to their limited availability across the country”

THE detrimental effects of the supply chain shortage were seen nationally affecting lower income communities in all regions of the country, including Arizona, which served as a microcosm for the supply chain disaster due to its diverse population, geographical location, and the socioeconomic status of its residents. Since Arizona is a landlocked state, its supplies need to be transferred from their manufacturing point, which is most likely located overseas. In addition, these supplies also require trucking or shipment by plane or train to their destination within the state.

When transportation shortages occur within the state, most items either remain on a boat off the coast of California or are delivered to a central warehouse within Arizona. This dilemma forces small businesses to travel and retrieve these items for their customers to stay in business. More affluent areas, such as Scottsdale, are more likely to have items in stock due to the likelihood that customers will purchase items at that store despite higher prices. This dynamic puts those store owners and consumers located in rural or less affluent areas at a disadvantage due to the lack of products near them and the need to drive to acquire goods for themselves or for their customers.

and type of food donations they received. The lack of distress for these products in the more affluent areas in the state suggests that those at higher income levels were able to stock up on many items that were hard to find and had the ability to go to other stores to find the products that they needed. Conversely, those in lowerincome areas were susceptible to the lack of availability of the items at their nearby stores. Because they have fewer resources and options to purchase items, lower-income Arizonans were more vulnerable to the failure of the supply chain.

THE social issues and pressures that became visible during the COVID-19 pandemic due to the failure of the global supply chains illustrate the sociological tendencies of our society when there is hardship and panic. These tendencies include the inaccessibility of basic resources in lower socioeconomic communities. In times of extreme stress and pressure, society needs to pivot and lend a helping hand to those who are financially, socially, and politically vulnerable.

Elizabeth is a Barrett alumni, graduated 2023, with degrees in biochemistry and supply chain management. In her free time, she enjoys teaching barre classes.

ADDITIONALLY, people living in central Phoenix commented that the increase in gas prices, which can be a necessity for some, leaves less for paying for rent, electricity and their other bills (Hayes, 2021). However, rising gas prices were not the only thing making it harder for people to make ends meet and pay their bills; Phoenix locals have reported that wholesale prices have increased by eight percent since August 2020, which is being reflected in shelf price increases passed onto the consumer. Because of the price hike, the grocery stores are still profiting from sales, but the customer is punished by the extra cost of shopping, preventing many families from having disposable income. Not only do the supply chain shortages make it difficult for people to find items that they may need to feed their families, but when they do find those items, they are being sold at a premium price due to their limited availability across the country (Hayes, 2021).

DURING COVID-19, all of Arizona faced shortages of items, such as toilet paper and food, but many of these shortages were reported in lower-income areas such as Central Phoenix. These shortages were also recorded by many Phoenix food banks with the number

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When did tracing stick figures become chasing six figures When did the cartoon network turn into go build your network Before imagination became procrastination When did my dollhouse and animals turn into dollars and capital Little green houses and red hotels became mortgage and rent and paying my bills Before rainbow yarn on a princess plate became frozen noodles for convenience sake All of those days playing “tag you’re it” became I saw that post they tagged you in Back when I’d connect wooden lincoln logs, now we only connect through our LinkedIn talks

Meghna is a Barrett senior studying entrepreneurship and marketing with an interest in the music business. She is an aspiring singer/songwriter whose music is heavily influenced by R&B, neo soul and jazz music.

Press her cook her Press her cook her thesis excerpt Press her cook her Until she can’t no more

When did wood chips and playgrounds become six weekly breakdowns When did the nap time and playdates turn into screen time and hinge dates Before nintendo gameboy became worry ‘bout employed When did my hopscotch and monkey bars turn into hot scotch at swanky bars So why am I so afraid of growing up when, That was all I would ever dream about when I was ten Now I’m thinking back and maybe, every new candle seemed Like an opportunity to be another me Made a wish every year to be someone else Always thought growing up would heal my insecure self Never felt like it was a fairytale story Cause happy ever after was foreign territory

Glass walls

photos elise barlow subject anna belding

by Meghna Ramesh

Press her cook her Press her cook her Press her cook her Until she can’t no more

Press her cook her Press her cook her Press her cook her Until she can’t no more 41

What if I just straightened my frizzy hair?

Will I like that little girl I see in the mirror?

What if I could shed pounds from dieting?

Will I still feel like I’m meant for quieting?

What if I start mastering people please?

Would I start to live life like it’s full of ease?

Maybe if I talk like those kids and curse I’ll be social and learn just how to converse Maybe I’ll start to hear pretty praise Once I learn all the rules of male gaze Maybe boys will be more impressed If I laugh at their words and start wearing less Maybe I’ll be perceived American Once I bleach the suns kisses on my skin Maybe I’ll feel more Indian If I wash out my English soaked tongue and lips

Read her thesis here

If the world ended tomorrow, I think so would I I am no hero No star No villain But I set my soul to rest here Within these words it lives Some other soul will find it through them, I will live on The pen will remember how it moved The paper will remember how it was marked The trees and the birds will remember what they heard The keyboard will remember each press Your fingers will remember how they moved The earth will hold my words forever And one day, I will belong to the clouds

Those Authors Who are Published After Death

by Kara Keene

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Wave of Relief

by Emily Houlihan

43

Emily is a Barrett sophomore majoring in Art Studies with a minor in Art History.

She is an Arizona-based visual artist who uses painting, drawing, and 3D mediums to express her feelings and ideas.

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check out our online exclusive thesis excerpts & features

The Cost of Voting

Chrononaut Canyon: An Interactive Digital Art Installation on the Effects of Ecological Tourism 45

Shania Lee

Created and Designed by Arizona State University Digital Culture Students: Jordan Argano, Rose Doris, Cody Kellen, Dan Rosen, & Dennis Williams Creative Thesis written by Rose Doris

Artists’ Spotlight

page 43

from the immediate right, going counter-clockwise

page 21

page 27

MAN-UP by Stephen Powers Wave of Relief by Emily Houlihan Tooth Fairy by Lo Svitak Foot-tapping by Rennan Kooistra We Keep Us Safe by Audrey Zelinka untitled by Elise Barlow

page 3

page 7

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A Barrett, the Honors College publication