Spring 2021 Issue

VOLUME XXI | ISSUE 37 Syracuse University

— Perception is a free arts and literary magazine published once each semester by undergraduate students at Syracuse University.

We are now accepting submissions for the Fall 2021 issue. We accept submissions from undergraduate students, graduate students, faculty, and staff. We ask that submitters send no more than five art and five writing pieces. Our writing page limit is 10 pages, and we accept submissions in any language with an English translation.

All submissions and correspondence can be sent to perceptionmagsu@gmail.com.

The opinions expressed herein are not those of Syracuse University, the Office of Student Activities, the Student Association, and the Student Body.

Many thanks to: Sarah Harwell Alicia Kavon JoAnn Rhoads Student Association

Dear Perceivers, Whether you found this magazine on a bench, passing through the activities fair, or came to pick up a copy as a contributor, I hope you will take it along with you and share it with your favorite people. I have a dedicated spot on my bookshelf where each semester’s copy finds a home, and I hope yours will too!

Going into college, one of the things I was most excited for was finding a literary magazine to be involved with, and I am so happy it was Perception. I have met so many talented and amazing artists and writers who have inspired me to go for it, to create, to nurture thoughts, ideas, and feelings and to not be afraid to share them with others.

If you are a reader who is hesitant to submit your work, I promise you someone out there will resonate with your love of expression. Having a physical copy of your personal work is also the most rewarding treat at the end of a hard semester. If you are a first-time contributor, please come again, we love having you! If this is your last semester as it is for me, thank you for the past four years and I am so glad we got to share this moment of time and space together and be a part of the Perception community.

Lastly, I am so proud of our staff for persevering through the challenges that the past year has presented. Through Zoom meetings and finding new ways to promote the magazine it has been a fun and rewarding journey to my favorite day of the semester when we get to hold the copies in our hands and sniff the pages for that freshly printed magazine smell. An enormous thank you to our graduating designer-in-chief Bridget Gismondi, for her continuous dedication to Perception since her freshman year, we could not do this without you!

I have no doubt that our rising staff and those who join in future semesters will make issues just as special.

My time is up and I thank you for yours,

Olga Shydlonok Editor-in-Chief

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d E ar s n a s ye

Olga Shydlonok Editor-in-Chief

Noor Zamamiri Assistant Editor-in-Chief

Bridget Gismondi Chief Designer

Reviewers Jibran Kabani zuzanna mlynarczyk Sarah Pickering Mark Jankowski Bailee Roberts 4 | Perception

Cassie Cavallaro Assistant Designer

Ariel Samuel Head Editor

Ashley Clemens Managing Editor

Kaitlin LaRosa Assistant Editor

David T. Garcia Assistant Editor

Ekaterina Kladova Assistant Editor

Lauren Kang Assistant Editor Spring 2021 | 5

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r i b ut e r s t n o Writing

Hawraa Abbas Mehreen Ahmed Danielle Clough

julia cleo fisher David T. Garcia Maya Gelsi

David V. Harvey Hymn Ekaterina Kladova Kaitlin LaRosa

Natalie Mesgleski

rachel raposas

Maggie MyLove Sardino

6 | Perception

44 18 9 13 71 74 38 77 12 37 54 63 72 49 33 56 15 25 42 69 75 20 28 65 21 53 67 10

My Battle Cenote it's pre-friday demand sunday night heartbreak i revel, intuition Tank Top The Eulogy Heat Up Wake Fire Cries Smoke The City Opening Evening Eyes on the Road Ahead 在这个世界还小的时候 When the World was Small How to Boil Water Ubi Caritas Autumn's Day The Velvet Pink Skirt in My Closet Galileo Galilei The Plaque Between Teeth "A Relationship" If You Read This It's Goodbye Day to Day blue poison inch Silencer

Alaina Triantafilledes

Leondra Tyler

Art JIBRANxSambakersworld

Cassie Cavallaro

melina iavarone Mark Jankowski

zuzanna mlynarczyk

Derick Ramos

Bailee Roberts

Olga Shydlonok

22 32 51 61 29

The Feeling self-love honeycomb March 8th Toxic Touch

24 55 66 19 52 64 31 11 14 17 60 73 76 83 48 50 68 70 36 41 43 62 27

LoveCLUB ANNA Void of Metamorphosis Wedding Crasher Cours Saleya Market La Felicita Angel Numbers Kell Queens Guard Pianoman Aldo Two Truths and a Lie Mank Gerald Potential Setting Sail Snowy day in Cuse Hidden Beauty Two Ghosts Butterfly Sketch Shadow Play Seeing Rainbows In the Moment

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Cover Art Front Cover

Cassie Cavallaro—Quietly Overlooking The Valley (Digital art)

Back Cover

Cassie Cavallaro—Cavern (Digital art)

Inside Front Cover

Mark Jankowski—Herbie Fully Loaded (Pen and ink)

Inside Back Cover

Mark Jankowski—Sidecar (Pen and ink)

8 | Perception

it's pre-friday Danielle Clough it’s pre-friday— where goosebump guppies wake from slumber guzzle down watered-down gin and tonics freely twirl where the wind pushes embered in volcanic soliloquies, rust runs rapid through my spine halting movement, speeding pulse rate racing down the track it’s pre-friday— first date jitters and nuzzles of wine and cheese and berries and mango rumble through daydreamed figurines caught in bed together yet, pre-made vomit nurses the lining of my heart, as if a shoe dropped on me, crushing and suffocating and quelling and choking and making me think it’s thursday

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Silencer Maggie MyLove Sardino What does one say when they speak with silencers When the colloquial becomes automated How do I know what you mean When I have no knowledge of your diction I cannot argue with the unknown I cannot speak about ideas so vague That they can only be translated through triggers I cannot reason with rifles If I ask what you want And you raise your cause high And tell me “this” I have no choice but to run From fear and from concealed meanings When you tell me “this” I wonder Is it because the answer is so clear to you Or is it because you just don’t know And that is the problem Beyond fallacies of force The cover of your cause Allows you to go on without knowing What are you marching for When you cease to speak about your fight And begin to fight as a means to speak Specificity becomes allusive All that is left is a symbol Whose meaning is undefinable But whose importance is undeniable.

10 | Perception

Kell

Mark Jankowski // Ink and watercolor Spring 2021 | 11

Heat Up Maya Gelsi Seeing you is like missing a flight, or the glass with the water— you’re dipped in glass steeped in glow where are my manners heat up already, throw on a scarf, let’s go to the night loud woods watch bats turn ragged the air trees burning with wind so you don’t notice me pull out your flat cool heart with one hand. I am afraid of you, standing like a farmhouse in a winter field, perpendicular, the dirt tamped and stubbled.

I love you and you tangle my hair like you’re just anyone.

12 | Perception

demand Danielle Clough death floats around trailing the leaves as they fall off trees death is the catalyst for disaster drinkers, abusers, all of us losers, come together and toast to our last life while death demands, top me off.

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Queens Guard

Mark Jankowski // Pen and ink 14 | Perception

Ubi Caritas Kaitlin LaRosa When I am battered and worn, and tired from the battles we have endlessly fought, ready to go where you will never find me again, it is always The Organ that plucks me out of my hiding spot.

She takes my hand as she sings to me her proposition, and hopes that I will hear and listen, and understand, that she knows that not all the world’s truths can be taught, but that she is here to help me find them out for myself— when I know in my heart that I am ready.

She sits with me as I mull the same fragmented thoughts to avoid the puzzle-piece paper-cuts that tear my mind whenever I attempt to put them together.

Softly, she hums in Latin tongues and reassures my scarred body that a god is something only souls can feel.

She gently pries the guns from my cells’ soldiers, lays her hand on my shoulder, and tells them to cease firing into their own chests.

In their scramble to rid themselves of a love that countless others have disguised as the enemy, they couldn’t feel the gaping wound in their breasts.

The Organ prays and pleads, asks me to leave a crack in the door in case I ever decide to come back.

The Mighty Organ, high up in the choir loft, calls out as she presses the closing notes of her heavenly message.

Her black and white teeth sing a song my younger self the girl I used to be, used to know, telling me what she’s told me all along— Spring 2021 | 15

except this time it sounds different?

This time, I hear her hymns and it calms my heart; this time, I decide that maybe, just maybe, I could stay one more minute and listen.

16 | Perception

Pianoman

Mark Jankowski // Pen and ink Spring 2021 | 17

Cenote Mehreen Ahmed Before the telltale stick figures of shin bones, a priest sermoned. Etched on a mountain cave of russet walls, in the pale shadows of a moonlight tall, a tale came to pass. A famine had struck hard, a terrible pestilence followed. The rain gods must be appeased. They had to be cleansed. Innocent bodies sacrificed.

For there were no rains, certainly no grains. Undeterred in the crucifixion, this was the temple's ruse to boost harvest. The King of the land sat reading from a scroll. It was in the scroll of the dead, where this light was shed. A high price at stake, the Sacred Cenote, where the heads laid within its magical orbit.

Children queued up in short loincloths. When they heard the divine decree, they were in awe. That the priest picked up a child and he took him to the gallows. Parents witnessed petrified, sunken souls in hollows. Little bodies lay amok at the gods’ altar. The severed heads in chaos, but still no crops, nor any flying swallows. The famine persisted for yet another year. A gaping horror of cries; hollering justice to rise. But Nature remained mute. A silence played out.

Like this cold marble of unheard, untuned lute.

Preservation of life; that was all the King cared about. His Queen gave birth to a boy, the future King. He was a father; he felt a sense of pride. His conscience gave him a choice, all babies including yours, or none at all to die at the altar of grains. It was his choice, the King’s call. He thought. Then he thought again.

Preservation of life; that was all he thought he cared about the most. Who’s preservation? His baby’s or the babies of his subjects.

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Cassie Cavallaro // Digital Art

Wedding Crasher

"A Relationship" Natalie Mesgleski A yellow tandem bike.

My first roller-coaster ride, you holding my hand, me screaming.

Mount Street Beach at night, New Year’s Eve and Day, do you remember that feeling?

“Who do I love more than you?”

Bouquets of sunflowers and dancing in rain showers, Breakfast, lunch and dinner, only for two, Looking at the moon for hours and hours.

But then it all ends, as all things do, No longer a pair, just you and just me Into the yelling place we go, and do…

Where there is no more hand holding, where we never again agree Corrections, objections, loss of connections All that is left is two gray unicycles riding off in different directions

20 | Perception

blue rachel raposas but one day, years from now you’ll stare at the sky on a cold, dark day, yearning for the grey clouds and salty raindrops to be replaced by that blue you found in my eyes so many times

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The Feeling Alaina Triantafilledes Here’s the thing.

The feeling is long gone scabbed over, old scar still tender to the touch and I call it healed only I keep touching it I call it hollow ghost, trick of smoke loves to linger nothing more nothing less than a red string tied around my finger and the echo after thunder Maybe not so long gone just long winter, deep slumber sudden thirst, awakened hunger, the gut growls louder when you take it away so you take it away Now give it back, because you can’t, don’t you get it that’s the best part?

You get it.

Telepathic tightrope walking the same wavelength for three years from a hundred miles away thought I might’ve gotten away But no, never Forgotten heartbreak gave me a breath of fresh air Now my lungs are full of you and it’s my fault, my fault for only feeling it when it’ll kill me The feeling is still here, apparently. stupid party trick candle’s reigniting flame, burn the whole thing down and call it inevitable, call it fate 22 | Perception

Impatient teeth pull at my bottom lip taste of blood feeds my appetite Last time was all fog flatline frozen lake, snow on your tongue when I pulled away, probably wasn’t worth the wait and maybe it was the last time, but I have to ask if it’d be different now, if I’d turn to ash in your hands, through your fingers For now, a second glance would be good enough for me if it’s good enough for you The feeling is still here cosmic explosion, self-fulfilling prophecy, suicide pact lovers’ secret against all odds, persistent sickness stuck on my soul lives in my bloodstream it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and maybe I only feel it because it hurts, but I’m sorry, I have to ask if you feel it too.

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LoveCLUB

JIBRANxSambakersworld // Graphic Design

See more of Sam's work: wastedgeneration.world

24 | Perception

Autumn's Day Kaitlin LaRosa “today is it,” you tell me, “my gut told me so.” you have a way of thinking, a process where you categorize the days of your life by the opportunities they offered and the ones you were willing to take. “today is autumn’s day,” you tell me “but no one has told the leaves.” you have been teetering on horizons for weeks, waiting for nature to shift with your pull and for me to do the same. you have a way of thinking that leads you to believe that there’s a realm of possibilities tucked into the cleavage of blind infatuation and you need no faith to take the leap. “take my hand,” you tell me, “and fall with me.” but i have my own way of thinking. i know that summer’s freedom does maddening things to skin, but that its heat is a temporary blister. so i agree, and sweet nothings wrapped in ice guide you to the edge. just as you take the leap, you o p e n your eyes Spring 2021 | 25

and watch as my hand slips from yours. today is indeed autumn’s day; you have always been doomed to fall with obstinate leaves.

26 | Perception

Spring 2021 | 27

Olga Shydlonok // Photography

In the Moment

If You Read This It's Goodbye Natalie Mesgleski I was looking out the window trying to find you Looked for you under my bed

No such luck.

That box hidden in the back of my closet

Emptied years ago.

In dreams

I can’t remember.

Only to find you written down Your last known location

Where I drop the imaginary pin.

Safely tucked away, In rushed handwriting.

In old composition notebooks, Crumpled up almost thrown out paper in a corner of my room The half started sentences I never said to you…

My pen is running out.

Is this the final goodbye?

They won’t sell me more notebook.

I have no paper! I plead.

Where will you live then?

Somewhere outside the window.

I’ll never write about you again.

Somewhere outside the window?

The world is so big, I won’t be able to find you.

My words are not maps to you.

Somewhere outside the window?

They are telling me to close the blinds.

28 | Perception

Toxic Touch Leondra Tyler I woke up to find my mother invited you again, despite my adversity. As I walked into the kitchen and saw you perched on the countertop, I flared my nostrils repulsively in your direction. I have argued time and time again with my mother about how bad you make me feel. “You know this makes me upset.” I would plead. Her love for you is stronger than my pain. She tells me, “Go into your room, I’ll be done soon.” My feelings do not outweigh her pleasures.

My mom has tried to convince me you are not as bad as you seem. I decided to test the waters again and remained in the kitchen. I tried to enjoy you as much as my mother. She left me alone with you when she was done. Goosebumps rose on the surface of my skin before you touched my lips. Your gooeyness adhered to the roof of my mouth like cement and I felt as if I were suffocating.

Once again, I was fooled, you have never been a friend, always a foe. I used the tip of my tongue to scrape you off the ridges of my mouth and you begin to burn as you adhere to my tastebuds. I spit you out, yet you remain. A radiating warmth swarming throughout my mouth and down the back of my throat. You slide down dragging your nails along the surface of my gullet. I rolled my tongue against the ridges of my mouth itching away at your footprints but still they remain, and though you are gone you left painful reminders of your violation.

A few weeks later we met again at school. I unpacked my salad as the echoes of my peers bounced off the sky blue tiled walls of our cafeteria. I scan the transitioned auditorium to see who was there. Wishing we had tables to eat outside, I peered out the window to see the bright summer sun kiss the fresh cut blades of the Kentucky bluegrass. I began to smile until you hit me. I locked in on you. I was naive to think I would be safe from you inside these walls. You thrive here, you are welcomed here, you roam freely.

Somehow, I find myself attuned to where you reside, it seems as if everyone has a good relationship with you. Everyone wants to consume you. I am not jealous of the relations you have with others; you never were good for me, and I never craved otherwise. I am accepting of the fact that you are neither needed nor wanted. Some things just are not meant to be. But still I recognize your presence around others, and I am reminded of the awful things you have done and would do again. Any given chance you would take to hijack me again. To drag your long scythe down the back of the throat, like a carpenter smoothing the edges of a grandmother clock. Gnawing at me like sandpaper, back and Spring 2021 | 29

forth, up, and down. You abrasively adhere to me, consuming a space that does not welcome you. Lathered over my tongue, you burn the insides of my mouth as you slowly consume me.

I ran to the bathroom; my immediate response was to throw up. I needed to rid my body of you, but my throat is sealed shut and I cannot release anything.

My clammy hands attempted to grasp the bathroom stall, but it was too moist to hold me up. I slid to the floor and tried to breathe, using the pounding of my head as a guided meditation. Inhale. Exhale. Eventually oxygen was coming in, and I was able to breathe.

30 | Perception

Angel Numbers

melina iavarone // Mixed media Spring 2021 | 31

self-love Alaina Triantafilledes shatter the mirror gather the bloody fragments learn to love each one

32 | Perception

在这个世界还小的时候 When the World was Small Hymn 《在这个世界还小的时候》 在这个世界还小的时候 碰到天空只需要伸伸手 我曾爬上夜幕 把星星当做攀爬架 把云朵拿来果腹 我躺在弯弯的月牙里 听天上的摇篮曲 在这个世界还小的时候 轻轻一跃就能落入森林的怀抱 鸟儿啁啾鸣叫 野花扩散出清冽的芳香 突如其来的暴雨 将树影淹得一片迷离 我蹲在草丛中撑起一把伞 听雨滴敲打伞面的清脆声响 乐此不疲 在这个世界还小的时候 只消一步就能到达向往已久的极地 冬日寒冷 长夜漫漫 不见光芒 旅行者点亮煤油灯 在地图上标记家的方向 从此以后的每一步 都是归往来处的路 后来 世界长大了 再没有东西阻止我抬高双手 一跃而下时自由无限 前方还有无尽的东西等我探索 未知让我欣喜异常 夏日炎热的午后 飘起了雪花 独行的人缩着肩膀从街角路过 我在无穷无尽的路上找寻我的家 但— Spring 2021 | 33

抬头不见月亮 侧耳不闻雨声 前行不知归途 我讨要保暖的衣服 人们阴郁暴戾地让我走开 有人倒下了 寂静无声地躺在雪地里 雪纷纷扬扬地落 覆盖住过往 路人匆匆走过 未曾想过帮忙 我开始想念小小的世界 只要走上几米 就是温暖的春天 我想要睡在一片花海中 长眠不起 在看得见新月的夜晚 在山野溅满雨水的时节 在永夜的冬日 在这个世界还小的时候 When the World was Small When the world was small Just stretch out your hand to touch the sky I climbed the night The stars are jungle gym, the clouds are food of mine I lay down in the new moon Listen to the lullaby When the world was small Just a single bound can fall in the hug of the forest Birds are chirping, wild flowers spread the crisp perfume Sudden storm blurred the shadow of woods I squatted in the grass, hold an umbrella, listening the clear sounds of the raindrops fall Never tired of it When the world was small Just one step can arrive the pole we long to The cold weather The forever darkness The invisible light

34 | Perception

The traveller lit the lamp, marked the coordinate of home Every direction since then is the way back to where we came from Later, the world grew up Nothing can prevent me lifting hands up Feel incessant free while jumping down There are infinite things waiting me for explore Thrilled by unknown Snow fell after the hot summer day Lonely person hunched the shoulder and passed the street I was finding my home in endless road However— Cannot see the moon Cannot hear the rain Cannot find the way back I asked for the warm coat People shoo me away with anger Someone fall, lay in the snow quietly Snowflakes cover the past People walk by quickly, never thought of help I start to miss the small world, the warm spring day is only few meters away I want to sleep in the sea of flowers When the night with moon When mountain is splattered with rain When the internal winter When the world was small

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Two Ghosts

Bailee Roberts // Digital painting 36 | Perception

Wake Maya Gelsi You greet me, then digress like sun speaking to horizon. Your wake is a difficult tract of lake, thorny and thick with red uncertainty.

I will serve you new bread, or fresh sweet tea leaping with peaches. Eat from my hands— does that tempt you?

Report back, I won’t interrupt. I’ll put my words in the cabinet and listen when you slot into place, buzzing with new recognition, right in front of me.

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Tank Top julia cleo fisher dust motes glittered in the back of my closet i took out my tank top dusty and light brimming with naive optimism

unwissend, unknowable

leggings have become a chore mask sweat wondering if today is a mascara day

tragen, to wear, to carry

a greasy haired ghost zeitgeist ephemerality turned 38 | Perception

into a year in the aisles unacknowledged a nun with zoom headaches

werden, to become

my hands clutch the tank top smelling slightly of before a single chocolate sprinkle oblivious roses of funerals packed flight home knee surgery full of blood and nervous masked faces

was getan wurde kann nicht rückgängig gemacht werden

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what has been done cannot be undone

the single chocolate sprinkle carefree bygone of sweet summer heat the curve of my breasts larger and heavier and tired i cannot walk now i watch soft waves of sunlight crawl closer to my throat

unausdenkbar, to be outside of thought unimaginable

the single chocolate sprinkle reminiscent of sugar coated fingers How they’re greedy now.

vergangenheitssehnsucht, a longing for the past to search for what you have seen before

40 | Perception

Butterfly Sketch

Bailee Roberts // Digital painting Spring 2021 | 41

The Velvet Pink Skirt in My Closet Kaitlin LaRosa Whenever I lose myself I look for myself with you first.

I find myself in your arms, being twirled in the velvet pink skirt I never wear because of fear, but privately revere on a pedestal in my cramped closet.

I find myself standing in front of the mirror in my five inch heels, imagining what it would be like to experience the things that scare me the most.

Like clockwork, I sigh and wonder if maybe I would feel more alive if I chose to speak my mind more often.

But at the end of the day, I will take off my velvet pink skirt and package all of my life’s potential away, telling myself I will find this version of myself again when the world is ready for her.

Like clockwork, I sigh and wonder if dreams will ever become reality.

42 | Perception

Shadow Play

Bailee Roberts // Digital painting Spring 2021 | 43

My Battle Hawraa Abbas

What is war? It is defined as an intense armed conflict between states, governments, societies, or paramilitary groups such as mercenaries, insurgents, and militias. It is generally characterized by extreme violence, aggression, destruction, and mortality, using regular or irregular military forces. It’s a dark event filled with hatred, death, anger, loss, horror, darkness, soul-wrenching, and hopelessness. There is no winner to it, both sides lose.

To me, war is a nightmare. When I think of it, darkness appears. Locked up memories come rushing back, but mostly, I remember how much it changed me and how who I am today is a result of it. Reason why I define it that way? Well, the main definition is given by people who have only heard about it or have seen it on the media, but my definition? It’s reality, it’s what I went through, it’s what defines me now. War.

A 6 year old child’s life should be filled with happiness, love, care, safety and the ability to go to school without the fear of not coming home.

Baghdad is the safest city in Iraq, where birds fly and chirp freely, and people walk its streets in safety. Where holidays bring people together. But one night, everything changed. Everyone’s life in my city changed. Baghdad, Iraq, 2006, the year that changed my life and who I am completely. The year that I started seeing my country differently, the year my hopes and dreams were crushed.

I am looking out the window on a very sunny and peaceful day at school, waiting for school to be over. Watching Bulbul birds fly past with their beautiful, soft red and brown feathers and the palm trees swaying in the winds.

One minute very quiet where the silence was so loud it could be heard, then the next minute I am watching my classmates and teachers yelp for help. “Quickly!

Everybody stay down!” the teacher screams while covered in her own red. The chirping sounds fade away and get replaced with screams and gunshots and a classmate pleading “Please, help me!”. An airstrike hit our school, that’s when my war started.

As a 6 year-old who has never seen or heard of death or war, I look around, confused watching my classmates cry out for help, some scared and some looking at death in its eyes. I stand there in shock, not able to move while I try to process everything, thinking I am in a nightmare, thinking this is a movie, a World War movie, the ones I’ve watched with my grandfather, thinking “maybe, just maybe I am dreaming”. I guess I was not. I remember running to a corner and sitting there calling for my mom, the one person who held me when I had nightmares, the one whose hugs shut everything out and made me 44 | Perception

feel safe, “I want my mommy!” I shout with tears running down my cheeks that were covered with dust, “Mommy, where are you!”. My eyes filled with fear and my heart skipping its beats, traumatized. I sit in the corner, trembling, looking around and trying to figure it out, watching kids running around, some not able to move and some with no breath, glass shattered, feeling the floor vibrating as the building is slowly coming down. The ones who were able to move were rushed downstairs, outside by staff and teachers. The ones who were buried beneath the destroyed, fallen ceiling were left behind, with their arms reaching out for help. “Get me out of here! Hawraa please help me!” Aya screamed. I felt helpless, weak, in shock and confused, running out of the building leaving my friends behind. They make us line up away from the building. I stand back feeling my bodily fluids run down my legs, shaking and crying. All of a sudden, gunshots break out from both sides of the town. I looked around, searching for my chirping birds, but bullets were the only thing that flew above me, the sky was filled with dust and smoke in the air and people running across the streets to take cover. Destroyed buildings and houses, nothing but violence filled the streets. I scream and break apart from the group and run into a neighborhood with one goal, “I need to go home to my mom”.

Running around and hiding for over an hour, I encountered a skinny, tall, old man with hair and long beard as white and as beautiful as magnolia, eyes as blue as the deep ocean. Turning around from the corner, he stops me and checks on me, one question after the other. “What tribe are you from?”, “Where are your parents from?”. Me, a 6-year old, in shock, and confused, does not know any of this information. I never knew I needed to know this. He then picks me up as he brushes the dust off my face and hair, then he takes me into a random house that was near us. I stand there confused, surrounded by strangers asking me more questions, “What’s the name of your father?”, “What’s your last name?”, again, “What tribe do you come from?”. I answer “My father is named Ahmed” they proceed to ask “Where does he work?”. I get nervous, scared of him being one of the bad guys or hurting me. I reply “He cuts hair” trying to hold back my tears. Sitting in a random dark room by myself in a house filled with people I don’t know or have ever seen before. I zone out with gunshots fading in the background.

Hours pass by and I get woken up, slowly I open my eyes, I see my father’s friend in front of me, I hug him sobbing and finally feel some safety around me. We stay at the stranger’s house for a couple more hours waiting for night time, waiting for silence, for the right time.

Hours pass by then we make our way home, hiding and creeping from house to house to get to our destination in pieces. Once I get home and see my mom, I run and hug her tightly and burst out into tears, finally feeling her warm and safe hug. “This was the end of my war” is what I thought.

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That night, my mother receives a random call from a man. “We have your husband”, he said, “We’re going to kill him and send you his body”. I look at my mother as she starts sobbing and begging the man on the other side of the line. He hangs up on her then I watch my mother fall to the ground.“Mom! What happened! Wake up!” I run to the neighbors and get them over to the house in order to help me. Once I found them, they picked my mother up, carried her to the bed, and the man helped wake her back up. They told me that everything is okay but I didn’t believe them. I sit there next to my mother, calming her down as much as I can.

The next day, after hours of searching around town for my father, unable to receive any help from the authorities in the middle of a warzone, my father shows up at our front door with blood running down his body. We rush him inside and call over a doctor to patch him up. I look at my father’s back, seeing bloody lines and marks down his back. “What happened?” I ask. He tries to hold back his words and replies with “They hurt me but the Americans saved me”. He tells us “All of a sudden, a couple American soldiers broke the door down, got rid of the bad guys and saved us”. I hug him and tell him about what happened to me and how we should leave. A week later, we sell everything and move to Syria. Life got much better, I was able to go to school and live our life with memories locked in my head.

Years passed by, life got harder for us, my father did not make enough from his job, my mother got sick, and my school got stricter which made my grades drop and my hatred towards school started growing. My mother applies to a refugee center to receive some help with food and some money. Little did she know, we got approved to immigrate to the U.S. When we all found out, we were in shock. “We can't go there, we won't make it or even survive,” my mother stated. Weeks later, life got worse.

We started living in poverty, my newborn sister needed eye surgeries due to her cataract, paying for my school became a struggle, and a daily full meal became an every other day thing. Some days, we went with juice and crackers all day and other days we were able to get some type of meat or fruits. My mother and father started speaking about immigration and how it’s probably the best choice. “We can’t go there, they’re the bad guys” I kept telling myself, “You said we will not make it, we’re different from them” I tell my mom.

She explains to me how it’s our only choice now. Months pass by and we pack our luggage and take our flight to Arizona. We settle in and I finally start school.

Not what I expected at all.

My expectations were that I’d be treated differently due to my religion, race, and past. I expected to live in poverty once again and get everything taken from us. Looking back today, I’ve been saved, I’ve been given a second chance at life, I’ve been given an opportunity that not a lot of people 46 | Perception

receive. We were helped with a roof over our heads, food, and money until we were able to stand up on our feet. I used to think ‘A six year old child’s life should be filled with happiness, love, care, safety and the ability to go to school without the fear of not coming home’ and that got proven to me in this country.

I am able to go to school and come back home to my mother, I have strong men and women who fight for this country and keep everyone in it safe. Yes, there is racism, and discrimination does exist, but it’s not as bad as other countries. The US has it better, we have more freedom, more rights and more opportunities than any other country, or at least more than the country that I once was loyal to.

I plan to become a doctor to be able to help those who need it, who seek it, and who ask for it. I want to save people because there was a time when I was not able to. I want to make up for it. I plan to make a change even if it’s the slightest bit. I remember taking the oath when I became a citizen and I pledged loyalty to this country. It made me admit “I pledge loyalty to the country that saved me.” I realized, you give your loyalty to those who save you and keep you safe, not to those who harmed and traumatized you, not to those who kill your chirping birds. I am saved, I found my birds now. This was my War.

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Potential

Derick Ramos // Photography 48 | Perception

Eyes on the Road Ahead David V. Harvey I’m always looking forward.

Why? I wake up thinking about the end of the day. When everything is done. When there is no stress. What a pointless way to live.

Not some days, though.

There’s this place I always forget, and only ever realize I’m there when the time comes. This mindset that doesn’t come every day, or every week, or even every month.

It’s a moment. A flash in time when I have a chance to reflect. It’s like opening my eyes for the first time after sleepwalking for months. I assure myself that I am going to change. From that moment on, I will stop staring onward and enjoy everything each day has to offer.

Well, it comes and goes. Just another empty promise. Give it an hour or so, maybe it’ll come back. It’s not like I would even recognize it missing anyway.

If only I could burn this notion into the back of my mind, like a painfully pleasant reminder. Maybe then, I’ll start living.

As for now? Eyes on the road ahead.

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Setting Sail

Derick Ramos // Photography 50 | Perception

honeycomb Alaina Triantafilledes there are bees in my body— brain buzzing, love dripping from my honeycomb heart, heavy.

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Cours Saleya Market Cassie Cavallaro // Digital Art

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poison Rachel Raposas “why don’t you love?” she asked, her eyes lighting up in the glow of the fire “simple,” i replied “it’s something like what they tell you about drugs as a kid,” i say, placing a cigarette between the space my words slip “it’s only easy to stop if you never start.”

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Fire Cries Smoke Maya Gelsi Fire turns the pages of the house leafing through its body.

The doors rustle open, uncomplaining, flames knock on the ceiling.

She waits for them to pass over but they do not.

It’s winter and there’s skin missing from her chin peeled off while sleeping.

The wound cries like fire cries smoke and the old things are blackened like beaten skin.

She peeled it off while sleeping.

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ANNA JIBRANxSambakersworld // Graphic Design Spring 2021 | 55

How To Boil Water Katy Kladova

You probably learned how to fill a pot with water in your early years, maybe in kindergarten or in the first grade. You might not have been allowed to touch the water once it became hot, but you saw your mom do it enough times to replicate the motions if she asked you to.

By third or fourth grade, you have become an expert. You celebrate by boiling your own egg.

Now for those of us who have missed the time when all children stand next to their parents and memorize their every move, I, a water boiling expert, will teach you about this important first step.

Warning: Not all of these have been tested. I take no responsibility for heat-related and other injuries. Make sure you have a med-kit on you and a guardian’s supervision.

Option One: wikiHow

In the age of the internet, it’s really easy to just google something and find thousands of articles with instructions on how to do anything. You might even question why you haven’t thought of this yourself before starting this essay.

wikiHow is always a safe bet, especially for things you should have learned ages ago. Anyway, wikiHow can still be confusing. There are four methods, and all of them sound like they are supposed to be used by master chefs. “Purifying Drinking Water,” “Boiling Water in the Microwave,” “Boiling Water at High Altitudes,” You just wanted to make some spaghetti. There’s no need to re-introduce the law of thermodynamics. This is probably why you turned away from this option in the first place.

The first option (“ Boiling Water for Cooking”) is the most straightforward. Pick a pot, add cold water, salt (optional), put the pot over high heat, learn the stages of boiling… wait, what? I did not come here to be educated. Next!

Rating: Too complicated. No thanks to you, internet.

Option Two: Ask Your Siblings 56 | Perception

There’s bound to be someone else who is more versed in this than you are, and clearly, your parents aren’t going to give you the instructions. Also, you get to slack.

Rating: Today I don’t feel like doin’ anything! Not a long term solution, but would still recommend.

Option Three: Slap

With the speed of 3725.95 mph. It’s the amount of kinetic energy required to cook a chicken by slamming your hand into it. Therefore, it should work for water too, correct?

Time to hit the gym.

Rating: Sounds like a lot of effort, but still easier than learning how to turn the stove on.

Option Four: Fires of Rage

Release all of your suppressed emotions! That time your English teacher did not appreciate your genius and gave you a C for your Catcher in the Rye essay. That time the grocery store ran out of your favorite snack bars as you were shopping! Let them fuel the fire beneath the pot until the kitchen itself is in flames! Let the boiling water be a warning to all those who dare stand against you!

Woah, wait a second, calm down. We just want some hot water to make mac and cheese, not a burning house. Perhaps…

Option Four and a Half: Flames of Love Your first crush, how you believed you would sacrifice yourself for them, and how many love poems you wrote in your head in their honor. Your first kiss, so awkward and yet so desired. The pasta you can make from this water will often have a flavor that matches the flames that boiled it: Be it rage or love.

Rating: Unpredictable, destressing method, and you get to make some spaghetti.

Option Five: Divine Intervention

Call upon your nearest deity, be it God with a capital G, Hephaestus, Vulcan, or Chantico. They might require sacrifice, though I would recommend substituting the bones of your ancestors with Halloween decorations. Mom would be mad if she finds Grandma’s precious remains on your living room Spring 2021 | 57

carpet, not to mention the mess that blood sacrifices make. Also, make sure to make yourself presentable. They like to think we still honor them.

When a helpful hand does reach down to save your mortal soul, explain that no, you do not need the almighty to cremate your mortal enemy (though that would be a great bonus, of course) but to simply increase the temperature of this liquid.

“Why?” they might ask.

“So that I can make these wheat sticks edible.”

“Ah, Fortuna be with you, clever one.”

Now, you should probably put your pot down, as the almighty one will smite it and the handle will heat to unbearable temperatures. Drop the spaghetti in only once the table stops smoking.

Rating: By law of the land, I am required to rate 10/10.

Option Six: Sun

Disclaimer: Only works in the middle of summer and in certain climates.

Before attempting this, I would suggest moving to Arizona or anywhere else where temperatures hit 112°F. There’s probably another guide out there on how to move for those interested.

Wait for a particularly smoldering day, when it feels like your skin is about to melt off, and make your move. Cover your water so that it does not evaporate and set the container on the sidewalk under the sun. Wait until you see steam escape from the lid.

Congratulations! Using only renewable solar energ y, you’ve accomplished your goal of boiling water.

Rating: Wow, you’d go this far to avoid learning how to boil water? Honestly, I’m just impressed.

Option Seven: Take a Cooking Class Exactly what it sounds like. Learn from a professional and apply your newfound knowledge! There is probably a class in your school, or in the city (though that might be a bit intimidating). The teacher might ask the group how much cooking experience you all had, and you might write “Zero. Nada. I don’t even know how to boil water.” but that is ok. The teacher would be happy to see how far you come by the end of the semester.

Make sure to take very clear notes and follow your classmates around. They probably know more than you do. And hey, maybe you will pick up some nice recipes to try at home later!

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Rating: Time consuming, but offers a clear guide and understanding of the subject. Best choice by far. Would recommend it.

I do hope this simple guide inspires the beginning of your culinary career. Boiling water is so simple, but also so hard to learn with no guidance. I myself avoided doing so for a long time (15 years, to be exact) and always came up with an excuse not to. But, just because something feels unfamiliar or new does not mean it is hard. While boiling water has its own tricks and requires some background knowledge, people have been doing it for years, so it can’t be impossible, right?

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Aldo zuzanna mlynarczyk // Digital 60 | Perception

March 8th Alaina Triantafilledes Beneath glossy lips, a matchstick tongue spitting fire like sunflower seeds for him to catch in his mouth We have tricks up our sleeves, knives up our skirts for the trespassers, dirty bastards Beneath silk folds, machinery made of muscle memory built to endure the bullshit There are kind eyes, for the worthy, quick to turn to feline fury, sharpened slits for the ill-mannered Who was the fool that mistook a smile for submission? and perceived a protest as a request?

How stupid he will feel, for ignoring the clenched fists, pink signs, and police reports He will wake from his arrogant slumber after we have tiptoed our way to the top, and toppled his world, and taught him that kindness is not weakness and women are not weak.

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Seeing Rainbows Bailee Roberts // Marker and colored pencil 62 | Perception

The City Maya Gelsi Already, liquid dusk drips through the city like milk.

Buildings stretch and deepen with shadow, windows each mixing coal-light with cold air. The dim sky stretches like a swollen stomach.

Unmoored, I blindly trade two coins for a toothpick, wanting firewood and clean flame. My orange smudge, more smoke than heat, flies through the meager wood.

Smog hangs outside the door, breathing.

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La Felicita Cassie Cavallaro // Digital Art

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Day to Day Natalie Mesgleski I guess it wasn’t a big deal.

The mailman delivered the mail today, My sister learned how to do a cartwheel, I wondered how many Americans celebrated Boxing Day, Dinner was made - the table set, It rained all day.

I went to bed and woke up buried under my duvet, Days kept coming, blurring together, Everything on the surface seemed okay.

But no - I lied, it was a big deal!

It did not deserve to be swept under the rugOr to be discussed over a different meal, Losing you was my biggest deal, it was no shrug.

No one seemed to understand it, everyone continued on As if the world had not just ended, as if there was still more life to carry on.

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Void of Metamorphosis JIBRANxSambakersworld // Graphic Design

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inch Rachel Raposas there was just an inch between us this little ounce of space, full of silent deliberations, free from the rest of the world how dangerous—an inch like that we’re breathing the same air that could evaporate at any moment and although i wanted nothing more than for that inch to vanish i backed away three, four, five inches away, because the last time i was that close to you that inch became miles in mere seconds i sure as hell can’t afford that journey again

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Snowy day in Cuse Derick Ramos // Photography 68 | Perception

Galileo Galilei Kaitlyn LaRosa in the beginning the stars were said to speak. people told tales of hearing the whispers of pilgrims, their declarations in soft affirmations, they say that they made it— across some river or bridge or pioneered road to their new home. pious residents in rows, the sky’s windows, immortalized in stained glass— they say that one day you will too people say that the stars speak of this journey, and all the sightseeing they did on their way to the sky.

100 b i l l i o n voices speak in different tongues, all shouting and amplifying their fire to catch your attention, affection & ear bombarding all senses with the truth their truth but still the overall consensus is that you must use your tongue to hear; people are drawn to honesty, they say, our foundation is built from god-given truths— is all truth subjective? perhaps truths are ruled by people’s inclination towards pleasing things. after all I suppose there is nothing more appealing than the entire universe revolving solely around y o u.

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Hidden Beauty Derick Ramos // Photography 70 | Perception

sunday night heartbreak Danielle Clough rips out slices of saddened staccatos. once, flew through orchards and candy-apple fields, covered in sweet, sweet mush and brass shields. now blindsidely heartbroken, he squelches vibratos. optimistic and misread, our unstated anxieties climb up the twine connecting dots miles apart, i debated. so kind and so loving. why did i decline? slipped from my mind, his colors dissipated in sugared bubbles where sweetness turned sour — we encountered doomsday. returned to an empty room, all concerned. fog huddled around burnt cigarettes on an ashtray. he loves me. nevertheless.

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Opening Evening Maya Gelsi The dark arrives in cylinders rolling like soda cans on the car floor.

Evening opens into us, presses us against its eyeball.

“Look at me,” you say, but you don’t know the dusky spotlight is on me.

I’ve gone and locked you out, I’m busy singing cold and ragged giddy in performance.

Your hands press the dark’s hard borders and disappear.

Evening blinks and I see echoes only, wavering in flat space.

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Two Truths and a Lie zuzanna mlynarczyk // Digital Spring 2021 | 73

i revel, intuition Danielle Clough

after Elaine Kahn

stand still, your body’s objections fail to reconcile premonition, are you less than you once were? passionate and mightier than the willow sprouting from my front-lawn, filled with clairvoyant desires then who, and what is to say that pain shouldn’t drive me, incite me, grind me into the garden, where a loamy, wrinkled iris is fidgeting with resolve, baseless and unassuming, and now, how the iris howls silently — and therefore confirming the internal, and the indisputable

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The Plaque Between Teeth Kaitlyn LaRosa I like to look at the way people’s lips move when they talk.

When you catch onto my habit, I will first tell you that this in no way means that I want to kiss you.

As you begin to stutter, lost in rejection and perplexion, I will tell you that I am waiting for your teeth to betray your tongue.

Pulled from your trance, daydreams of your spot in the stain glass, the right hand of the family portrait, you will ask me what I mean.

I will ask you if you enjoyed drinking my spirit for dinner and my soul for dessert.

You will tell me that I am damned to hell, and I will tell you that the secret to being a good liar is flossing twice a day.

Let me ask you, have you always had that gap between your teeth? or has the truth finally seeped through the rotted leftovers of plaque, relinquishing you of your self-determined authority to plague.

Under a different circumstance, your vision of what could have been, I would have heard the intention lurking in your voice, Instead, on trial for your crimes, you will tell the jury that I had left you with no choice— You will ask me what I still want from you. and I will tell you to fill in the blanks.

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Mank zuzanna mlynarczyk // Digital 76 | Perception

The Eulogy David T. Garcia

I woke upon landing, after the plane’s tires had connected with the runway hard enough to give most other passengers a good scare. Funny to think about the plane crashing because of a poorly calculated landing. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Dying on my way to a funeral. It would be poetic actually, and free me from having to attend this thing. Fuck, I sound like my father. My neck had a hell of a knot, so I must’ve slept well. I mean why? Why on earth do you task someone you talk to once a year with writing your eulogy? I ran my hand along the inside of my breast pocket to ensure those papers were still there. I pulled them out and studied the pages. Paragraphs upon paragraphs of meticulously crafted bullshit. You know what? I’ve figured it out, my father tasked me with giving his eulogy because he knew it would be the only way I’d show up. That motherfucker.

As soon as I stepped off the plane I turned on my phone and checked for any missed calls or messages. As expected there were none, except from Sara asking for me to call once I’d landed. I can be a real prick, I know that, but the thought of her prying into my heart and head looking for some sentiment that simply did not exist was exhausting. So I stalled and went to baggage claim.

There was a swarm of people standing along the conveyor belt, all grouped together. I hate how people do that, how they breathe down each other’s necks in anticipation of their luggage like baggage claim is some kind of race. I took my place away from the crowd and waited, scanning the room as I did so.

There were parents gripping their toddlers by the wrists as if in anxious anticipation. I saw a couple passing the time by giving each other little kisses, with their arms wrapped around each other. I thought of calling Sara, but then my bag began sliding by so I ran to grab it instead. As I lifted the duffel bag onto my shoulder a child of about five came crashing into my legs and bouncing onto the tile. Whether from instinct or the fear of looking like I’d just knocked this kid over I don’t know, but I stooped down to lift the child up. He was now in tears and his father was running up to me, already preparing his apologies.

“I’m so sorry. I turned for a second and this happened,” he said.

“No, no don’t worry. I have a little one too. It happens,” I said. He then lifted the child and gently stroked his head until the crying began to calm. I smiled and began reaching for my phone, wanting to check on my own kid. The father and I said our goodbyes and all those other obligatory pleasantries. It only took one ring before her voice came through.

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“Hey, where’ve you been?” Sara asked.

“Oh, I just figured I’d grab my bag before I gave you a call.”

“Well...how are you?” Ah, the exact words I’d been avoiding.

“I’m peachy. How’s Lucas?”

“I just put him down.”

“Damn, I was hoping I could say hi.”

“Ryan, you okay?” How long must this go on? How do I tell her I’m fine and have her believe it? How am I supposed to give her what she wants if I just don’t feel what I’m supposed to feel?

“I really am okay.”

“You know I’m here right?”

“Yeah of course. Trust me, I’ll talk to you if and when I need to.”

“Alright, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

“Baby, you know I didn’t want you here. Don’t worry about it.”

“We could’ve just brought Lucas.”

“And be the people who bring a baby on a plane? Hell no. It’s really okay, don’t worry about it. Now I’ve got to go, I’ll call you later.”

“Okay, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I made my way out of the airport and began hailing a taxi. Why do women push like that? Sometimes It’s better not to talk at all, about anything on the mind. Maybe that’s unhealthy. I don’t care, let me be unhealthy. Worst part is there’s nothing to say. A man I had little connection to is gone. So what?

He’s been gone for years now, so this isn’t new. I wasn’t even thinking about him at this moment, I was really wondering when the fuck a taxi would stop for me. After what felt like too damn long a taxi finally pulled up, and I got in with my bag beside me. I gave the driver the instructions and threw my head back, letting out a long sigh. As we drove off I saw a man from outside my window.

His skin was like brown leather and he stood with a posture that might at one point have been proud but now, with time and age and passions lost, took on a bent, almost fragile stance. His hand was raised and swaying, and for a second I thought he was waving at me.

On the day of the funeral, as family and friends began filtering in, I found myself pacing back and forth in the church bathroom. I had my script in hand and was muttering to myself as I read and reread my lines. After some time, and when I knew my absence would be noticed, I decided to wrap it up. I turned to the mirror and studied myself. I wore a beautiful black, three-piece suit, adorned with a rolex and silver cufflinks to match. Was it wrong to think I looked damned handsome?

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When I stepped out I nearly collided with my aunt. She was my mother’s sister, two years younger and maybe in her sixties by now. She was in a nearly convulsive fit of tears, and I wondered if so many had fallen for my mother. Seemed to me it shouldn’t be equal.

“Ryan, it’s been so long. I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said through sniffles as she gripped my arms and pulled me into a hug.

“Yeah it’s been a while. And thank you, it is what it is,” probably too nonchalant for a response.

“Oh, Ryan, holding it together as always. I need to freshen up before the service, but I’ll see you inside,” she said.

“Okay, Tía. See you soon.”

“Dios te bendiga.”

“Y tú también.”

I spent the next twenty minutes or so shaking hands and giving hugs and saying thank you for coming and hearing sorry for your loss. My sister, Bella, was by my side through this, and thank God she was because I could feel my mask starting to slip. We took our seat in the first pew at the front as the priest opened the ceremony. Bella had her head bowed and was picking at her palm. The only other time I’d seen this behavior was twenty years ago at my grandmother’s funeral as my father struggled to keep it together.

“And now some words from the deceased’s eldest child.” Showtime.

“My father was a good man, a hard worker, and a devoted husband.

He worked long hours, and so for a significant part of my early childhood I didn’t see him much. My favorite memory of my father is from my childhood.

Bella was sick, and maybe about two or three at the time, so anything she saw me doing she wanted to do as well. My father came into my room with a sled in hand and his winter coat on. He didn’t say much, only to get ready and follow him out, and that I had to be quiet. I can recall us crouching and tip-toeing out the front door so that Bella wouldn’t hear us. I had this feeling of having done something sneaky. It had just snowed, and so the sidewalks were glazed with a light coat of soft snow.”

I looked out from over the podium and saw the faces of my aunts and uncles from my mother’s side, because my father had very few friends. All of them hung onto my words and wanted me to continue, to hear those pretty sentiments and take solace in the resolution I could provide. And for now I gave them what they wanted.

“We walked the few blocks to Astoria park, my father holding the bright red sled and me trotting alongside him. When we got to the park my dad found a nice hill where he felt I’d be able to get the most speed. It just so happened that this hill led right onto the street, where cars were regularly passing. But you know how it is with the first born, you make some decisions Spring 2021 | 79

that maybe you shouldn’t have…” A pause, “and in this case that was letting your child sled by a busy road. I couldn’t have known the danger, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because my father was standing at the bottom, ready to catch me. So for two hours I went down this hill and right into my father’s arms.

That’s...that’s probably my best memory with my father.” My throat felt tight for a moment, and for the first time since I’d heard the news I felt a sharp pang of sorrow. I wish I could say that I continued down that path, pouring my pretty sentiments out and mourning as I should, but I couldn’t fight this indignant rage I now harbored.

“You know, it’s true, this is the best memory that I have with my father. I think if the only memory that you cherish of your father is from childhood, then you’ve got a problem.” The audience grew silent, as if the sobbing had been smothered in that moment. My aunt’s eyes were large, and she had a tissue in hand that hadn’t quite made it to her face. Then there was Bella, who despite being three years younger, now looked at me with the disappointment of a parent.

“You don’t want to hear it, I know, but if I were to tell you what you would like to hear then I’d be doing a disservice to you all. Is the point of a eulogy not to remember the deceased? I can’t give you those pretty sentiments, pretty words, pretty lies. My father was a hard worker, because he came from nothing and had to survive. He was ambitious, as you know, and did so well for himself that Bella and I got to grow up as first generation silver spoon children. Sounds nice, I know, but he never let us forget it. His success simultaneously became our greatest privilege and burden. Bella, how is that?

We don’t ask for what we’re given and yet pay for it anyway. Like all the times I got less than a B in school and he’d ask me if I wanted to work at McDonald’s.

Or the time that you failed a test and he started banging on your bedroom wall until the picture frames fell off. Nothing was ever enough, no matter what we did. At some point he must’ve realized he fucked up with me, that maybe he was too stoic, too rough. I can remember the first time I came back from college and he tried being buddy-buddy with me. And you, Bella, well you’d become Daddy’s little girl and got to have all that affection he never gave me. His smile and laughter and attempts to hear about my life were nothing but pretty lies.”

“I wish I’d known this at the time. Instead I soaked it up, and I started telling him things, about girls, about my fears, about my depression. He didn’t really say much, but he listened and that was enough. So imagine my surprise when I came home over summer break and all that affection was gone, like it had never existed. Within a week he was threatening to kick me out. And for what you ask? Fuck if I know. One day I went to my girlfriend’s house before taking out the trash and came back to find my bags packed and sitting outside our front door. God, imagine that fight. Actually, you know what’s worse? I 80 | Perception

didn’t fight. I was so confused, what happened to the man I’d call each night at school?”

“He kept saying there can only be one alpha. Isn’t that the most toxic shit you’ve ever heard? All because I didn’t take out the trash right when he told me to. Fortunately, my mother defended me and I didn’t have to leave home, but we didn’t talk for months after that. Even when we did it was never the same. Maybe this is the wrong audience, a bunch of latinos with Stockholm syndrome, but you look at me now like I’ve lost my damn mind. I can tell you that he never said he loved me, or that he was proud of me, and I couldn’t tell if he liked me, but it’d mean nothing to you. You all accept that behavior and call it love. We’re a race of people beleaguered by the sins of our fathers, incapable of transcending them, and doomed to perpetuate them. Machismo...ain’t that a bitch.”

The horror on their faces, if only you could’ve seen it. Part of me was proud to have finally said all this. The other part had expected some sense of relief, but no satisfaction arrived. I looked over the podium at the coffin only a few feet from me. He was still dead, my words hadn’t done a damn thing. He couldn’t hear me, even if I’d thrown the lid off his coffin and screamed into his decaying face. All I’d accomplished was a pathetic, self-indulgent rant that made me no better than my father. All I’d won was the tears of my aunt and the shame of Bella and my own self-loathing.

“Maybe I should’ve gone about this differently. Maybe I should've done a few things differently. My mother loved my father, and he loved her too.

He was never the same when she died. His pride evaporated, he seemed...weak.

The vulnerability he refused to show overpowered him in the end, and without her that’s all he was. He called more often after she died, and his voice was always soft and you could tell he wanted to be a part of my life, even though he never said it. Maybe I should have let him in, maybe he’d be here now if I had.

Or at the very least he would’ve died with more happiness”

I gripped the podium and became fixated on the coffin. I studied its gold trim, its smooth finish, and wondered if it would be enough, if I had done enough. I could see the dim light of midday coming through the stained glass windows, illuminating me like a spotlight. The audience, now wondering if they should pull me off stage, began to stir. I myself wondered what I would say next. I turned from them, and I looked out the window to find a gentle snowfall now coating the sidewalk. The man in the coffin died sad and alone, and I let it happen.

“In the beginning, my father was there for me to fall into his arms, and in the end I wasn’t there for him to fall into mine,” I turned to face them now. “He gave me the love that he could, even if I didn’t know it, even if today I still can’t see it.

Now I never will. And in some way I hate him for dying, because now there will Spring 2021 | 81

never be time to make amends. I hate him for leaving me. I hate that it took his death for me to come home to him.”

“I know this isn’t any of your fault, I know maybe it’s not even his. Maybe it just...is. My father is dead, and there is nothing more to say, nothing can be done. Time has run out.”

After the funeral, and after the coffin was lowered into the ground, and after I’d suffered the looks of shock and awe, I found myself at my father’s apartment. Following my mother's death he’d moved out of our childhood home and into a one bedroom apartment that I had not visited up to this point.

It was as I’d imagined, barren and practical. A couch, a TV, and a coffee table were all that adorned the living room. To be there, especially after his death, felt wrong. It was like I was trespassing. There was no warmth, it wasn’t a home.

It was cold, sterile, depressing, and representative of the man I knew. Still, I don’t know that this end to his life was deserved. There was nothing to pack up in the living room, so I made my way to the bedroom. I knocked on the door by instinct, before slowly opening it as if I’d find him sitting on the bed. There was a dresser on my left adorned with picture frames, depicting my parents on their wedding day. Next to it was a picture of Bella and I in our teens. Then there was me, standing beside my father wearing my cap and gown on my college graduation day. I couldn’t help but smirk at my awkwardness at having his hand on my shoulder and at his subtle, content smile. I picked those pictures up and placed them in my bag before making my way to his closet.

The closet was a walk-in that had shoes on the left on a rack and some shirts on the right. Beside the suits were some hoodies, which made me laugh as they were his day-to-day outfit. I had no use for any of these clothes, but I found myself folding them neatly to pack into garbage bags. It took about a half hour, because my father was very neat and particular about his things.

I stood up to leave and took one last glance at the closet. There was an alcove that I’d missed on my first pass. In it was a stack of boxes, seemingly filled with junk, but there was something hiding behind them. As I dragged them out I began to see a red structure tucked behind. I pulled it out, only to find it was the same plastic, red sled from that night in Astoria park.

82 | Perception

Gerald zuzanna mlynarczyk // Paper collage & Pen and ink Spring 2021 | 83