Bellerive, Issue 23: Addressing the Self

Bellerive 2023

Issue 23

Cover Art: Smothered in Gold by Emma Moore

Pierre Laclede Honors College University of Missouri–St. Louis

Staff Acknowledgments

ART

Jerrica Davis, Jay Gaskin, Emma Moore*, & Nora Stith

EDITING

Lauren Bearden-Kyser, Sarah Chappell*, Anna Connoley*, Greta Fox, Gavin Graves, Amelia Khan, William Mullins, Aimee Pieper, & Bushra Zaidi

LAYOUT

Isaac Baker*, Amy Kenny, Cynthia Nathan, & Vernisia White

INTERN

Drew Ryherd

FACULTY ADVISOR

Audri Adams

* Denotescommittee chair(s)

Current and past copies of Bellerive issues are available to purchase through the Pierre Laclede Honors College. To purchase, contact Audri Adams at (314) 516-4890orvia email at adamsaud@umsl.edu. Please note that limited copies are available for each issue, and once they have all been sold, no further copies will be produced.

All University of Missouri–St. Louis students, faculty, staff, and alumni are invited to submit original creative works that have not been previously published. Submissions are acceptedfrom January1 throughOctober1. We invite eligible individuals tosubmit upto 5 poems, up to 2 prose pieces (each at 4,000 words or less), up to 5 digital images of photography/art, and up to 2 original music works (as audio files).

To learn more about submitting to Bellerive, email bellerivesubmit@umsystem.edu.

Submissionsreviewisa blindprocess. Submitters’ names are notdisclosedduringreview. The new issue of Bellerive is launched at a reception in Provincial House each February.

Offered every fall, the Bellerive Workshop course is open to Pierre Laclede Honors College students interested in all aspects of producing Bellerive. The class focuses on all steps of publishing:readingandselectingworkstobeincluded,copyediting,communicatingwith submitters, designing layout, digital image editing, and marketing and selling of the publication. Individuals in the class choose which areas of contribution best suit their interests and talents.

/bellerivepublication @umslbellerive@umslbellerive

It is with great pleasure that I introduce Bellerive Issue 23, Addressing the Self, a collection of poetry, prose, academic essay, art, photography, and music that demonstrates the UMSL population’s wide-reaching and ever-impressive talents. Over the course of the fall semester, the Bellerive staff, comprised of Pierre Laclede Honors College students, had the privilege to engage with and reflect on the many incredible submissions that were sent in for review. The final manuscript features gifted artists, poets, authors, and musicians, and offers readers a chance to connect with an assortment of creative works, reflect on shared experiences, and hopefully see the world through new perspectives.

Addressing the Self embraces one’s journey for self-discovery, introspection, and ultimately, acceptance. Throughout these pages, comprised of works from 39 individual creators, you will find light-hearted tales of humor and wit alongside deeply personal accounts of struggle and despair. From shared challenges and trials to aspirational hopes and dreams, Addressing the Self aims to encapsulate the diverse nature of the human experience. We hope its pages resonate with you as much as they have with us over these past few months.

And finally, I must thank all those who support the Bellerive publication and seminar year after year—the submitters who trusted us with their artistic endeavors; the eighteen staff members who transformed these submissions into the beautiful and comprehensive book that you now hold in your hands; the Honors College’s administration; and of course, you, the reader.

We enthusiastically offer Issue 23 to you to engage with, critique, discuss, and share. Enjoy!

Audri Adams Bellerive Faculty Advisor

Metro-Man

Kenny Miller

One night in February, I went up to the UMSL North Metro station to take the train into the city and visit my girlfriend at her apartment. I had my headphones in and engaged in the thrilling, but often under-engaged activity of minding my god damn business. Through my headphones I could hear somebody talking, but between the music and previously mentioned minding, I just ignored it. I figured it was the normal late night ramblings of a Metro-Man. You know the type. Shows up drunk as piss and starts talking to any and everything while talking about any and everything. It seemed like a pretty normal February night in Missouri, cold and miserable.

I spent some time wondering to myself how cold an ass needed to be to be frozen off, but my wondering was cut short as I finally saw the lights of the Metro train begin to peer out from the tunnel. I didn’t come to a definite answer, but I did feel confident in my assertion that blue jeans are definitely an ass-freezing accelerant. As the train lumbered up to the station, over my music, Daft Punk’s “Bring Ya Booty” in fact, I heard somebody scream “AYO MAN STOP THE TRAAAAAAAAAAAAIN.”

As one can imagine, the train did not stop.

Well, at least not because of the screaming. Although I can say that the sensors that were placed under the Metro train to stop it from running people over were very effective. Turns out having to scoop Metro-Man bits off the railroad track was bad for rider retention. Go figure.

From under the train came an, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAA….Y’all coulda’ KILLED me!” Several disembodied moans later, I witnessed the train give birth to a man. He stood up and looked at the Metro conductor and said with the utmost sincerity, “Thank you for stopping the train…I love you… thank you.”

I asked him just how in the hell he got down there in the first place, to which he told me, “Hey man, I don’t even know. I’m just here. I love you man.” I wish I had enough love in my heart or drugs in my veins to put out the same

level of warmth this man had about him after getting mounted by a train.

After the train conductor honked at him and demanded that his “zombie lookin’ ass” move from in front of the train, he just jumped up onto the platform. He did not climb up. He didn’t even brace his weight on the platform and push himself up. Metro-Man just jumped some four feet vertically into the air, up onto the platform. Then he tried to walk off. The Metro conductor obviously called the cops, because what the hell, and the Metro newborn realized slowly that saying “sorry” and “it was an accident” wouldn’t suffice.

I watched him go out into the night, his limping silhouette fluttering between the beams of police flashlights.

I think of him often.

The Future was Yesterday

Amy Kenny

I look ahead and see only darkness, but behind me, the light shines so brightly. In the differences between these: starkness and this shadow of me returns nightly.

A silent hum fills the air quietly from those electronics left out: static. I sit without sound, listening discreetly to the machine’s song that seems so erratic.

Long as there’s power, their voices remain A continuous symphony tonight. Those slumbering others somehow stay sane. I wonder: How? When the glow is so bright.

I sit in the dark, thoughts on the machines I’ve yet to realize, we’re one with the screens.

A Lingering Taylor Weintrop

A recent discovery – there is no growing out of depression, there is only managing it.

My hope was that if I blew out enough candles, making wishes as if casting spells,

That my skin would grow so thick no pain could further penetrate. I figured after so many, “this will pass” conversations, That the words on their own – if repeated enough – would become reality. I mean, that’s what all of the manifestation and self-help gurus claim…

Maybe I’m more broken than I thought.

Another celebration ending in tears –

Why can’t I just let myself enjoy these moments?

Why can’t I override these things I feel?

I know it is here when the rise in body temperature starts scorching my cheeks.

I take the deep breaths, I count to ten, I leave the party –

And now it is just me and the demons again.

At some point I grew tired of waging wars against myself. I have spent a lifetime with this body, if I cannot learn to love it, The least I can do is respect that it has gotten me this far. No matter my haves or have-nots, what is important is that Today I am safe. Today I am okay.

Dreaming of the Elbe

28 Tragedies

Abby Foust

Unasked questions

Uncried tears

Unloved people

Unlived years

Unsolved mysteries

Unanswered pleas

Unwatched sunsets

Unsailed seas

Unexplained phenomena

Unchecked powers

Unspent money

Unadmired flowers

Uninspired artists

Unsung songs

Unread books

Unrighted wrongs

Unsharpened pencils

Unliberated slaves

Untended gardens

Unvisited graves

Undiscovered geniuses

Unshared revelations

Unopened gifts

Unaccepted salvation

Unblessed meals

Unpaid compliments

Unremembered dreams

Untitled documents

Pinup Pixies

Lauren PoitrasGrease Pencil on Paper

A Certified Chill Girl’s Guide to Tinder

Cat Hill

Abbi*, 20

13 miles away

UMSL

*never use your real name.

Bio

I’m so bad at bios

She/Her Photos

[Summer “candid” of me “laughing”. No one swipes right on a girl whose first picture is a selfie because then she’s “full of herself”, but if her first picture is a group photo or an unedited photo, then she’s “not even trying”, which is much worse. And it has to be a laughing photo because any other photo merits that initial message of “You should smile more”, and every girl has heard this enough if she has had the audacity to exist in a gas station parking lot. However, as I have been told, “not all men” on this app want to hear that rant, so instead, I upload Photo #1:

I Will Laugh At Your Terrible Jokes (While Being Hot)™ ]

[Full-makeup selfie with a filter, but not an obvious filter (animal ears are tacky). While the selfie is the biggest mistake for the first picture, a girl still must show that she has a conventionally attractive face. It is crucial for each girl to be aware of her sexiest and most intriguing features, and more importantly, know how to exploit them. For example, I increased the saturation and highlights on my photo to emphasize my voluptuous, infantile blue eyes; this is attractive to dating app users because they can pretend that they were mesmerized by my eyes and not my tits. Fresh from the Face-Tune app, I present Photo #2:

Imagine Looking Into These Eyes When You– (That’s Hot)™ ]

[Photo with two blatantly platonic friends to show that I am social. There are two rules that women on dating apps must consider when uploading friend photos. Rule #1: Do not have more than 3 friends in the photo. Big groups of women are apparently intimidating because they are an army ready to slash tires and expose the kinks of abusers and cheaters (and obviously, the only way to avoid this is to avoid women with friends). Rule #2 (and I cannot stress this enough): The dating app user has to be the most attractive friend in the picture. It is truly tragic when a solid 7/10 is ruined because she posed with her eight-year-vegan-first-company-ballerina friend from college; no one can compete with Madi, so just crop her out. Therefore, to show that I can interact with other beings, I present Photo #3:

I Love My Friends, But I Would Let You Come Between Us (And I’m Also Hot)™]

⭘⭘⬤⭘⭘

[A photo of myself performing some hobby or activity. This picture is intended to show off personality, create a conversation topic for initial messages, and most importantly, make a girl look sexy. Therefore, the best* (*only) activities to include are swimming or wearing a swimsuit, working out, playing sports with non-restrictive* (*no-coverage) uniforms, playing any instrument that is not in a middle school marching band (put the trombone away, Kelly), or painting (maybe save the hyper-realistic genital canvas for the first date). The most impressive skill for women on dating apps is authenticity fabrication. With my guitar that I am holding incorrectly to hide my love handles, I present Photo #4:

I Have Passions That You Will Never Express Support For (And I Look Hot Doing Them)™]

⭘⭘⭘⬤⭘

[One more hot picture, just for funsies. This one is interchangeable; It could be a mirror selfie, professional photography, or even a good picture from four years ago with blonde hair and 20 fewer pounds. It doesn’t matter what it is, because no one hot scrolls that far; however, in case they do, I must present Photo #5:

Please Keep Looking At Me (I Promise I’m Hot)™]

⭘⭘⭘⭘⬤

*New Messages*

Typical Straight White Man #1: Heyyyyyy [smirk emoji]

Misogynist: Waiting for me to message first? Playing hard to get, I see [wink emoji]

Daddy’s Money: What’s up cutie [heart eyes emoji]

“Not All Men”: “so bad at bios”? Really? [side-eye emoji]

Typical Straight White Man #2: DAMN [heart eyes emoji]Your eyes are gorgeous [heart eyes emoji]

Probably Decent Guy Who I Will Ghost Tomorrow: You play guitar?

That’s really cool!

One Night Stand Material: Wyd?

Homophobe: You ruined it with your pronouns [angry emoji]

The Personality Of Plain Rice: Hi

Typical Straight White Man #3: Ur cute what’s ur major?

Probably Married Man: wanna FT?

Currently Jerking Off To Pic #2: Your laugh is adorable [heart eyes emoji]

View All 42 Messages*

*they all just say “hey”

Acceptance

SunnyAcrylic and gold paint, drawing ink

Choosing Myself

Isaac Baker

I would know I’m being manipulated, right?

I didn’t realize how bad the relationship had gotten until my therapist truly asked me about it. And uttered the words “emotional abuse”.

I never thought I’d hear those words applied to me. I never thought I’d let myself be hurt in that way. Other people suffer abuse and trauma, but not me. It’s not that I’m better than anyone else. It’s that I didn’t consider the possibility of being treated the way I was. I couldn’t admit to anyone, even myself, that what was going on wasn’t normal. My ego couldn’t bear to take the rose-colored glasses off and see the red flags ablaze, scorching my being.

My concept of abuse related predominantly to physical abuse –domestic violence, the valid stereotype of men who beat their partners – all too common in this world. I’d heard and even thought I understood terms like manipulation and gaslighting. I thought I would know it if I saw it. I would know it if it was happening to me.

When I looked at the person I loved, I couldn’t comprehend the existence of two people. One who genuinely loved and cared for me, and one that controlled and hurt me for their own gain. I couldn’t reconcile those two realities together at the same time.

So, what did I do? I made excuses, countless ones.

The depression, anxiety, and the overwhelming stress: in my mind I thought oh, the issue must be work. Or school. Or my friends. Or my family. It couldn’t be her, could it? No, she loves you. She’s made it clear that everyone else is no good for you; she’s the only one who understands. She knows what’s best for you. She’s stressed, depressed, and anxious too, that’s what it is.

It’ll get better.

The reality was that I was being torn apart every second of every day. And it was a gradual process, it wasn’t all at once. Before I knew it, I was in this weakened state, and I couldn’t figure out how I got there. I hadn’t realized I’d become her string-puppet, her doll to control.

In survival mode, I couldn’t move. I was frozen. When I felt the blood reawaken my limbs, all I could do was fawn. I let my boundaries, my body, and my personhood be disrespected to appease her. When I reached my breaking point, I felt genuinely insane. Unstable, inconsolable, and running out of breath. The only option staring me in the face was the flight response. Escape, flee, run as fast as you fucking can.If you don’t run now, you never will.

I was faced with a choice. Stay in a toxic, draining, and suffocating cycle, or choose my wellbeing, my health, my life. In the depths of my crippling anxiety and despair, I ran away. And yet I was ashamed – I felt so guilty, so utterly stupid

I felt like a coward for choosing myself.

My father used to tell me that when he was younger, one of the words that was labeled on him, used to hurt him in his youth was “stupid”. That was something that he would keep telling himself, the word that kept recurring. His self-esteem, or rather, his self-deprecation, centered around that word. By extension, it was no surprise that my self-deprecation converged around it too. And when I thought about what I had done, I… I didn’t have empathy for myself.

One of my greatest strengths is my empathy for others. Hearing so many stories and experiences from all around me: family and friends, strangers and acquaintances, and anyone who yearns to be seen and related to. I see them. I listen intently, putting myself in their shoes. I see them being vulnerable with me, these incredibly brave people.

My heart reaches out to them: You are good. You are safe. You are loved.

Yet I didn’t have that same empathy for myself.

When I took a step back and looked at myself, not as me but as this other person, this suffering, terrified, isolated, completely fatigued person, I felt so awful for him. He didn’t know what to do. Nevertheless, in his struggle, he summed up the courage to leave – to quit.

In our culture, you don’t just quit something. Quitting is looked down upon – a weakness. We have a culture of “finish what you started”. As a male-identifying person, I felt like I had failed the expectations of me if I

didn’t “man up” or “suck it up”. For so long, I accepted this; this was it for me. She had become my raison d'être, and I lost my sense of self.

Past the point of no return.

I look at that person who hated himself, who summed up the courage to escape, and he – I did it. The hardest decision that I have ever made in my life – choosing myself – and I finally did it.

What you did was brave. What you did was against the grain of your own instinct. Your instinct to help others, to care for others, to be at their whim, to put their needs before your own– you put yourself first. And you’re better for it.

The pain, the grief – it won’t go away fast and certainly won’t go away easily. But you made a choice for yourself that you will be forever grateful for.

I am proud of myself now; it’s been quite the journey to reach this point. I’ve written this because I think it’s important to share my lived experience. It’s incredibly vulnerable for me to write this, and yet, I don’t think my experience is something that should be hidden away. In my time of suffering, I searched for anything to hold onto, anyone who could relate to me. Particularly searching to see if any other man had gone through something similar.

To anyone who is reading this, know that it’s okay to choose yourself. You may feel weak, or stupid, or cowardly if you decide to leave, quit, or even escape. But to make that decision is to be brave, to be kind, and to love yourself. The desolation you feel will not last forever. Know that you are not alone.

All the Light I Cannot See Sarah StithAcrylic Paint

The Stars Over Kentucky

Alex Balogh

The stars over Kentucky shine on the entrenched acres of tobacco as well as the freshly cultivated hypothesis of hemp rotating into the region’s current cash crop rooting for sustainability digging deep into the rich soil

The stars over Kentucky shine on the stacked firewood still dripping fresh resin They cast their light upon the crumbling coop paint peeling while hens & chickens nestle on their roost & complacent hogs recline on woodchips & straw oblivious to the myriad eyes of heaven

The stars over Kentucky shine on above this blue moon on the bluegrass returning slowly to invisibility unmindful of the morning’s blinding blaze that obscures their shimmering canopy

The stars over Kentucky shine on as I shoulder my hoe & return to the fields These now imperceptible lamps of heaven still aflame in the landscape of my consciousness.

New Castle, KY

The Memories Who Lived At The Edge of Town

Anna Connoley

There was a girl who lived at the edge of nowhere. Colvan had heard her story countless times. They said she never aged. They said she lived forever. Said she had seen civilizations rise and fall, seen ideas form and crumble, lived countless lives and then gone on when they should have ended.

They also said not to approach her. Said she was too hard to understand. That she spoke in circles and would baffle you within the first minute you tried to listen.

Colvan thought that anyone who had lived forever deserved a chance to be listened to, even if the context was lost to another time. It was for this reason that he journeyed out past the edge of the town and towards the hut sitting on the edge of nowhere.

The girl did not look like someone who had lived forever. She was out front in her garden, tending the plants there, and she did not move like one who had lived forever.

Colvan could tell she knew he was there as he approached, but she did not acknowledge him. Colvan didn’t know what to expect if he stood there. Perhaps time wore away any knowledge of manners.

It was for this reason that he stepped forward, stopped in front of the girl, and said, “Hello.”

The girl made no response.

“I’m Colvan,” said Colvan. Still, the girl said nothing.

“Look, I don’t know what you remember about manners,” said Colvan. “But it’s polite to respond when someone speaks to you.”

The girl turned to face him then. Colvan almost stepped back at the sight of her eyes. There was too much inside them, like if he tried to reach for the knowledge there he would too quickly find himself lost.

“The people in my town say it’s not worth talking to you,” Colvan said, trying to pull his gaze away from the girl’s eyes. “But I think you should get a chance to be listened to.”

The girl looked at him for another long moment, still remaining silent.

Colvan found himself starting to get a little bit irritated. “Look, it’s kind of a long walk out here,” he said. “Are you not even going to talk to me?”

The girl opened her mouth and coughed lightly in Colvan’s direction. Then she turned back to her garden and pulled out a ripe cherry tomato and ate it.

“My mother thinks me a fool for coming here,” said Colvan. “She always thinks me a fool. Could you say something, so I can be a little less of one when I go home?”

The girl turned to face him again. “And if I have nothing of importance to say?” she asked. “Will that make you less of a fool?”

Her voice did not sound old. She did not sound wise, like he’d expected. Colvan had not realized it until she spoke, but he had been expecting a voice like his grandmother’s, who had passed away the year before.

But she did not sound like his grandmother, and Colvan scoffed in response to her statement.

“You’ve lived thousands of years,” he said. “How could you have nothing to say?”

“You have not lived for two decades,” the girl said. “How do you have so much?”

“You don’t know how old I am,” Colvan said. The girl did not reply, instead turning back to her garden.

“I’m sorry, I guess I figured you might want someone to talk to,” Colvan said, crossing his arms.

“Do people who live alone a long walk from your town usually want someone to talk to?” the girl asked.

“I thought it might be a nice change,” Colvan said. “I’m only trying to be polite.”

The girl shook her head and turned away.

“I have asked to be left alone,” the girl said. “Many a stupider person than you have managed to honor that.”

“Hey,” Colvan said. “You don’t have to be rude. I just thought you might want to talk about what you’ve seen. And I think it would be neat to hear.”

“Do I owe you my experiences because I have many of them?” the girl asked. “What use would you find in them? You worry your mother will

think you a fool.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Colvan asked, his cheeks warming. The girl did not respond once again, and Colvan huffed.

“I took the trouble of coming all the way out here, and you’re just going to be rude?” he asked.

The girl turned a warning gaze on him, and Colvan found himself stepping back slightly.

“I think millennia of suffering and pleasure alike,” she said, “entitle me to a little rudeness.”

Colvan swallowed. “You—”

“Go home,” the girl said. “You seem to know how to ask advice from your elders, so go to your mother next. Ask her how to survive life as a fool. I find it’s often a terminal condition, but if there’s hope for you it will come through listening to her.”

“Hey, now wait a second—”

“And leave me in peace,” the girl said, and to Colvan’s shock her eyes welled with tears. “It’s the one thing I want anymore, and people still insist on denying it.”

Colvan didn’t have a response to that. His cheeks warmed again slightly, but he couldn’t pin the emotion this time.

When the girl said nothing else, and Colvan couldn’t think of a thing to say either, he slowly turned and started back towards home.

Mother would have the look on her face when he returned, the one that said he had done exactly what she’d hoped he wouldn’t and exactly what she’d expected he would. She would call him a fool again. He wondered if she would ever stop.

Draumatized Alicia

Larson

Women and girls spend their whole lives being told their traumas aren’t quite traumatic enough

until they tell an ordinary story and witness a therapist a lover an adult who should have protected them attempt to hide a look of surprise.

Women and girls spend their whole lives being told their traumas aren’t quite traumatic enough

until they realize they’ve been sharing their body with anyone who would have it in order to feel something but never really feeling something.

Women and girls spend their whole lives being told their traumas aren’t quite traumatic enough

until they become mothers whose brain catches fire whose body shudders

at the thought of her little girl not being traumatized too.

Hour Glass

Jarron White

As each day passes

I stargaze at the tilted shadows

Wish washing of my peace

Coaxing of the days in the days gone

My childhood that many try to forget

Remembering the longevity days of no care for outfits

No worries for food

Just the spinning fan of the day I wish for the longer moments that are brief for a childhood

The Saturday calls for morning TV

The long nights binging a favorite game

The excitement for a happy meal or two

The pure rush of energy when it was time for a summers break Or a Christmas morning.

Each desire of a life is different

Each moment is special

But when does life feel thrilling again?

When does a person feel free again from the restraints of the world? Trapped in its hourglass of time.

Stop and Pose

William MullinsPhotography

How to Shave Your Head

Or the way to unbecome by killing the ego in 8 easy steps

Abigail Wetteroff

Step 1: Abandon yourself. Reject the image in the mirror. See the hair as an obstacle, a burden to the spirit.

Step 2: Stand at the mirror. Turn your head left; now, right. Envision your prospects. Picture a future for yourself, unweighted by the absurd chase for impossible beauty. No face, no identity; a force, an entity. Alien? Dyke? Crazy? Punk? Freak? Anything is better than this restless dissatisfaction you have become accustomed to. You are ready for an escape.

Step 3: Embrace the comments. “You never think these things through.” “You’re spiraling.” “Out of control.” “Why did you…?” It does looklike a breakdown. “You’ve changed.” “Are you okay?” Yes, I will be.

Step 4: Buy the cheapest set of clippers from the nearest drugstore, preferably one open 24 hours so as to be conducive to impulse decisions. You’ll lose the nerve if you sleep on it, and then you’ll never do it.

Step 5: Return home and assemble your station in silence. Say your last goodbyes to your old self. Start shaving right down the middle so there’s no compromise, no halfway, no going back. Let the hair fall by the handfuls and do not grieve.

Step 6: Examine your work in retrospect. Some parts may be imperfect, uneven, but that can be amended. Shower and be clean, allowing the warm water to take the last remnants down the drain.

Step 7: Sleep unburdened. Leave all consequences for tomorrow.

Step 8: The most difficult: face the world. Learn to exist with this new self, in all the awkward stages of metamorphosis. Regret. Rejoice. Second guess. Work through it. Be anew.

The Work of a Woman is Never Complete

Grace DeGuire

My worth is more than that of a body for entertainment Or scrutiny.

When I walk down the street and hear “Damn, baby,” come from a man, my jaw clenches because I want to spit at him that I am not his “baby.” When men at work “accidentally” touch my ass, I want to break their greedy little hands.

When I walk alone past a group of boys, I shouldn’t clench my keys between my knuckles. I shouldn’t be afraid of becoming a victim of insult, violence, or God forbid, rape if I salute them with my middle finger to show them their so-called compliments are unwanted.

Men shout and hiss as if their words Are above my soul. They think it’s their right To criticize my every move. They even argue with my worldview.

But I am not up for debate. The things I say and do, think and feel, write and share, are not up for debate. I am a woman.

I am more than a body.

Wandering Thoughts

Nino CiprianoMixed Media

Strike That. Reverse It.

Cullen Landolt

bit.ly/3v29P5D

“Strike that, reverse it” is a quote from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which was adopted by my uncle for colloquial use, which was then adopted by me for a song containing two abrupt key changes. I was unaware of the link to the movie at the time.

The fragmented structure came about accidentally. Parts one and three were crusty demos that didn’t work individually, so I Frankenstein-ed the middle section in there, called it a triptych, and called it a day.

This is technically my debut as a singer. Crank the volume before the electric guitar comes in and you’ll hear me read a sentence from Stephen King’s The Stand: “They’ll be right in Harold’s living room, drinking coffee and talking about Mother Abigail.”

Coppa Coppa Border Stoppa Abby Wall

“This is Officer Jenkins here, posted up at the MontanaCanada border, over.”

Ian Jenkins set down his radio, and shifted in his chair. The cold Canadian air whipped straight into America and through the patrol shed, and Jenkins could not wait for July; the blissful Canadian summer.

“For the love of God, Jenkins, you’re not an actual officer,” said Sgt. Michaels, his supervisor. “We patrol the goddamn Canadian border. We’re mall cops without a friggin’ Auntie Anne's. Over.”

Jenkins sighed. He was tired of everyone defiling the sacred art of border patrolling.

“Well, Michaels, no sign of illegal Canadian immigrants in my jurisdiction, over.”

“Perfect, Jenkins. Keep it that way. And don’t go looking for trouble, please? This ain’t the Mexican border. Any crime here is better going into Canada anyways. Over.”

Jenkins returned to his very comfy office chair. He’s a good Canadian-American, serving his home and native lands. He needed a chair befitting his service.

It was about two in the morning when Jenkins heard a ruckus outside the patrol shed. He rubbed his eyes and put his flashlight between his teeth as he frantically looked around.

All of a sudden, he saw something move. He swiveled his head to focus the light on the person, and BINGO!

Drug traffickers!

Jenkins took off in the direction of the traffickers. He paused to observe them. He then chased after them, with muffled cries of “Stop! Border patrol!”

The drug traffickers stopped and looked at Jenkins, waving his hands around with the flashlight between his teeth. One of them put his arm out and knocked Jenkins to the ground.

“Well boys, the Northern Mexicans want to interfere with us.”

The traffickers laughed.

One of the traffickers kneeled down by Jenkins. “What’s your name, mountie?”

Jenkins stuttered as he tried to regain his breath. “I–Ian. Jenkins.”

“Well, my name’s Belford. You’re interfering with my operation. Killing Canadians that probably have a family might not get me life, but still, 20 years ain’t it. Hope someone finds you in the morning!”

As Jenkins shook, Belford took the flashlight and beaned Jenkins over the head with it. Jenkins blacked out, and Belford continued on his way. ***

Jenkins was found by a very nice group of Canadians at daybreak. He was cleared to return to work a few days later.

Jenkins was begrudged. He had been subjected to Canadian slurs (he had dual citizenship, so they barely even applied to him), had the sanctity of his job violated, and had the stones beat off him with absolutely no resulting busts, arrests, or even leads.

On his first day back, Jenkins was brooding in his good ole patrol shed when Sgt. Michaels came to visit him. Jenkins gave a weak gesture to call him in. Michaels sighed.

“Jenkins, you can’t let this bother you,” he said, as he placed a six pack of maple syrup flavored IPAs on the table. Jenkins vaguely glanced in the direction of the sergeant and the IPAs.

“I’m not, sir,” Jenkins replied. “I had the sap beat outta me. I’m tired, that’s all.”

Michaels raised an eyebrow. “So you’re not going to pursue them, right?”

“No, sir. There’s no leads, clues, or anything. I have nothing to use to go after them.”

“Well, Jenkins, don’t forget that YOU ARE NOT A REAL COP, AND ALSO DON’T HAVE THE JURISDICTION TO DO SO! How many times must I tell you this, son?”

Michaels rolled his eyes. He stepped into Jenkins’s sight line. “You are a park ranger with a weak search warrant. I’m serious, Jenkins. Stop ‘investigating’. And one more thing, son?”

Jenkins looked up. “Sir?”

“Grow a pair.”

Jenkins sighed, and Michaels left the shed.

The rest of the night consisted of Jenkins eating the two frozen boxes of Eggos he brought for dinner. He didn’t have syrup, so he used the maple IPAs Michaels had brought for him. He was 6 IPA Eggos in when he

heard a noise outside. He brushed it off, thinking it was just the wind and the Eggo IPAs.

A few minutes later, he saw a figure 25 feet away from his shed. He held his newly-dented flashlight in his hands. He recognized the figure: it was Belford!

Jenkins grabbed an empty IPA bottle and his flashlight, and quietly went in the direction of the figure. After a good five minutes of drunkenly walking, the figure stepped into a lit up cabin. Jenkins pressed towards a window and peered in.

Inside was, in fact, Belford, and a few others from the night he got beaned in the head with his own flashlight. Also in the cabin was so much cocaine, Pablo would cream in his jeans.

Jenkins remained out of sight, empty bottle in hand. He listened in on the cabin.

“Alright, fellas,” said Belford. “We got all the product we need. We need to be careful. That kid told them that we were transporting cocaine. Any ideas on how we can get through?”

One voice spoke up. “What if we made cocaine pucks? The Canadians would never question hockey pucks.”

Belford made a noise. “We’re taking cocaine into America. Any other ideas?”

Another voice spoke up. “Well, what about, like, baseballs? Or footballs?”

“We could just tell them it’s powdered sugar. Don’t Americans love funnel cake? You know, because ‘fat’?”

The group of traffickers began to talk over each other in jumbled voices, all trying to voice their ideas on how to traffick cocaine in the most American way possible.

Belford cut them all off. “Here’s a better idea: will someone PLEASE take that machete and CHOP MY HEAD OFF?”

Belford moved around the table of cocaine. “The mounties were easy. That damn kid was the exception! American drug squads aren’t easy, though! You ALL know that! Come up with better ideas, or else I’m pumping you full of ketamine, pulling your teeth, and feeding your asses to pigs!”

Belford stormed out of the cabin in the direction of Jenkins. As Belford was about to walk past him, Jenkins swiftly took the empty bottle and swung wildly. He hit Belford square in the face, knocking him out. Jenkins undid his belt and took out his shoelaces to tie up Belford. Jenkins

then dragged him the half-mile to his patrol shed.

When Belford woke up, he woke up to a warrant for his arrest and a raid on the cabin. Jenkins was standing proudly in the corner, beaming at Belford.

Belford, though, was less than impressed. “You think this is the end. I warned you not to get in my way. Now you’ll learn the hard way.”

Jenkins laughed. “You may have almost killed me, and also definitely tickled my toes after you knocked me out a few days ago. But, I won.”

“Oh, to be a naive Canadian. Do you think these people respect you? They don’t. You do the dirty work, and they’re gonna take credit for your ‘bust’, because while your ass was gazing at me all tied up—which, by the way, what the hell? Does that get you going? Anyways— while you were watching me, they were doing the raid. I’ll see you in your dreams. Or I guess in your case, your wet ones.”

The DEA officers who had undertaken the bust came in to take Belford into custody, and carted him to the cop cruiser. Michaels entered after they left.

“Well, Jenkins,” he said. “Once again, you ignored me. I should fire your ass. But if I fired you, I’d probably have my balls on the heater, and I can’t afford my alimony payments as is, so good work, I guess.”

Michaels took his leave.

Jenkins slumped into his office chair triumphantly. He couldn’t wait to call his mom and tell her he became a real cop after all.

Finally, he thought, they’ll put some respect on Canada’s name!

They did not put respect on Canada’s name.

Two days after the bust, Belford was found dead in his cell. There was a singular piece of evidence: a paper on the floor. After running some tests, a message written in urine displayed, “I win, you yankee ass bitch”. After a thorough urine sample test, they deduced there could only be one person responsible: Ian Jenkins.

Jenkins was on a Tinder date when the feds came for him. He was explaining the tiers of Digimon superiority to a blue-haired liberal girl when all of a sudden, he was face down on the floor of a Tim Horton’s being handcuffed. He was taken straight into an interrogation room.

The lead detective on the case, Det. Logan Sorbello entered the room with a plate of Eggos. Jenkins looked up as he set the Eggos on the table.

“Detective, why am I here? I was about to lay pipe.”

Sorbello gave him a stern glance. “I’m not making myself privy to the details of your sexual trysts, Mr. Jenkins. You’re under arrest.”

Jenkins cocked his head to the side. “Why am I under arrest? I haven’t done anything in the past two days that isn’t landing lib chicks or playing Tetris on the Wii-U.”

Sorbello sat down and put a folder on the table, looking at Jenkins. “Do you know what I’m going to show you?”

Jenkins shook his head no.

“Well, Mr. Jenkins,” said Sorbello, “these are photos of one Nicholas Belford. You know Mr. Belford, correct?”

“Yes, Detective. I busted his drug operation.”

Sorbello nodded his head. “You did. Well, Ian, when I open this file and show you the images in it, you will see images of Nicholas Belford’s skull blown all over his prison cell.”

Jenkins felt his breath catch in his throat as Sorbello opened the folder and spread the images on the table. He gestured for Jenkins to look at the crime scene photos. Sure enough, a body very similar to that of Belford’s was lying in a cell. The head looked like someone had taken a Louisville Slugger to a watermelon. Jenkins sprung up and vomited into a nearby trash can.

The detective waited. “The only piece of evidence at the scene was a note, Ian. It read, ahem, ‘I win, you yankee ass bitch’. It was written in homemade invisible ink. Do you know what that ink was composed of, Ian?”

Again, Jenkins shook his head.

“Your urine, Mr. Jenkins. You killed Nicholas Belford.”

Jenkins was distraught. He hadn’t been anywhere near where Belford was murdered!

“How do you even know it’s him? And how could that be my piss? I have nothing to do with this. There’s at least four liberal chicks who can testify that I was banging them! And at least a handful of twelve year olds who can testify that I was shitting on them in Tetris!”

Sorbello sighed. In reality, he had his own doubts, but his supervisor insisted that Jenkins was responsible for the murder, and he had no interest losing his job.

“How would someone get enough of your urine to write this note?”

“There’s at least four piss-filled Hennessy bottles in my patrol shed.”

“So you drink hard liquor on the job?”

“No, I drink it in my free time and bring the bottles to work with me so that I have something to piss in.”

Sorbello rolled his eyes.

“Even if, there’s still the motive. You had a motive. He insulted and beat the hell out of you. You fit the description perfectly.”

“He was a drug dealer! There were at least twenty other people who probably wanted to nail his penis to their walls! And once again, how can you be sure it's him? You did not get a positive ID, I’m telling you!”

Sorbello stood up, and moved around the table to get closer to Jenkins.

Jenkins looked up at the detective. “Are we about to kiss right now?”

Sorbello glared at Jenkins. He took a step back. “Ian, listen to me. I don’t think you did this, and you’re asking all the right questions. I will do what I can for you, but until then, keep denying, and remember, I’m a silent ally. I can’t help you if they think that I’m on your side.”

Jenkins blinked to show his understanding, and Sorbello left the room. Jenkins threw his head back and looked at the ceiling.

How had Belford managed to fake his death? And how could he possibly get out of this?

Jenkins spent the next year of his life on house arrest, awaiting trial. The only visitors he had were Tinder lib girls, his mom, and Det. Sorbello. Jenkins and Sorbello had grown to be friends over the course of Jenkins’s house arrest. Sorbello had been working hard to investigate where Belford might have gone, and tracking any activity that would match his trafficking patterns. The dental records on the ID were also thrown out because Sorbello had ‘accidentally’ let it slide to the DA that the dental records were never a confirmed match to positively ID Belford’s body. Jenkins also still had the validity of his alibis to go off on. Finally, the trial had arrived.

The line of questioning was a mess. ‘Witnesses’ of the murder all had conflicting stories; to further worsen the prosecution’s case, all of the Tinder Libs and the twelve year old Tetris opponents had testified on behalf of Jenkins, confirming his alibi. On top of that, the prosecution could not tie any real evidence to Jenkins.

The judge eventually got fed up with the poor case being presented

and called Jenkins to testify.

“Mr. Ian Jenkins, can you tell me what you were doing the night of January 21st of last year?”

“Probably that blue haired chick in the third row of benches, sir.”

“Er–, okay. The contents of the note left in Mr. Belford’s cell, can you read that out loud to the court for us?”

Jenkins picked up the copy of the note on the witness stand.

“The note says, ‘I win, you yankee ass bitch’.”

“Right. Mr. Belford was notable for insulting your Canadian heritage, was he not?”

“He was.”

“And you took exception to it, right?”

“I didn’t particularly enjoy it.”

The prosecutor began to pace the courtroom floor. “Can you provide some examples of the slurs used against you by Mr. Belford?”

Jenkins thought for a moment. “I can only recall a few, considering he did bean my ass with a flashlight and I had memory loss.”

In the corner of the courtroom, Jenkins could see Sorbello give him a genuine smile of encouragement.

“Mr. Jenkins,” said the prosecutor, “just provide us with what you can recall.”

“He called me a mountie, Northern Mexican, and also said that ‘killing a Canadian wouldn’t be worth twenty years in prison’. ”

“And these Canadian, er, slurs, how did they make you feel?”

Jenkins smiled. “They didn’t bother me. I’m a dual citizen.”

Several gasps ran through the courtroom. Until now, the case was marketed as a ‘retaliation for a Canadian hate crime’.

The judge adjourned court for the day. Canadians were calling the case ‘Canadian racism’. Americans in Canadian border states were also furious, saying that Americans on the border were ‘scapegoats’.

After two more days of painfully idiotic cross-examining, closing arguments were made, the jury deliberated, and the jury gave their decision.

“In the above and titled action, we find the defendant, Ian Jenkins, not guilty on all counts.”

Jenkins was so excited he nearly peed himself. He looked around to find Sorbello, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jenkins knew something was

Jenkins was released, and he immediately rushed to Sorbello’s house. He arrived to find the door wide open. Jenkins took off his shoes and quietly tiptoed through the detective’s house, ready with a shoe in hand.

He found a slightly-ajared door in Sorbello’s basement. He quietly peered in to see a terrible sight. Inside was Logan Sorbello, tied to a chair and beaten to a pulp. Jenkins covered his mouth to muffle any sounds that might escape. Jenkins scanned the room, and there he was.

Nicholas Belford had, in fact, faked his death.

“Have you seen the Twitter trends? #FreeJenkins is the top trend! We can’t frame him again; we have to kill him.”

Belford sounded furious. The two accomplices in the room became visible to Jenkins.

Working with Jenkins was Senior Detective George Ulrich, and Jenkins’ own boss, Sgt. Michaels!

So that’s how they got the pee! That must be how Michaels was making his alimony payments to his so-called bitch wife! Michaels wanted Jenkins to stop interfering with his side hustle of allowing Belford to cross the border, so he stole his pee and framed him!

But what I don’t understand, Jenkins thought to himself, was what Ulrich has to do with any of this. Why would he work so hard against me?

Jenkins then realized that Ulrich was in charge of all drug-related investigations in Belford’s trafficking portal. He must’ve paid him off a handsome amount to stay out of his way. Jenkins remembered the time Sorbello mentioned Ulrich’s wife doing nothing but hitting the slots, so Ulrich was always hurting for cash.

“Well, Logan here has nothing valuable to grant us. What can we do with him now?” Ulrich asked, gesturing to Sorbello.

“Just leave him there; he’ll be dead by the time we’re done with Jenkins,” Michaels said as he turned to Sorbello. “Where would Jenkins have gone?”

Sorbello knew the answer was to find him, but the three men did not. “If not his house, the patrol shed,” he squeaked out, each word causing significant pain. The three men turned away from Sorbello. As they whispered to each other, Jenkins saw Sorbello struggle to pick his head up. He looked straight at Jenkins through the crack in the door and gave him a weak smile. The men came back into view.

“I can get us to the border in ten minutes on back roads,” Michaels offered. Ulrich nodded, and Belford looked content with the plan.

Belford began stuffing weapons into his pockets. “As soon as we find that little 51st stater, you give him to me. He’s mine.” Ulrich and Michaels agreed. Jenkins quietly ducked behind some storage totes as the three men took their lead to go and find their prey.

As soon as they left, Jenkins rushed in and untied Sorbello.

“Logan, are you okay?” Jenkins asked, frantically looking around for any FirstAid item that might help his friend out.

Sorbello choked out, “Get me to your house, and go find them.”

Jenkins swiftly got Sorbello to his house. The police were already there, trying to figure out why it was trashed. Sorbello was given immediate medical treatment, and Jenkins filled them in on the situation. Then he took off.

Belford, Ulrich, and Michaels searched the Montana-Alberta wilderness for a good hour before deciding to check the patrol shed again. They were pleasantly surprised to see fresh footsteps in the nearby mud. Belford signaled for Ulrich and Michaels to stay put before entering the patrol shed.

Jenkins was patiently waiting for Belford in his good ‘ole office chair. Jenkins turned around in the chair when he heard Belford enter.

“Ian Jenkins,” Belford said, greeting Jenkins. “You’re a hard man to find.”

Jenkins nodded in agreement. “I’m glad to see the melon factory was able to reconstruct your dome so easily, Belford. It’s incredible how they managed to make your big ass head even larger.”

Belford sneered. “You talk such a big game for a kid who's about to die, with the last thing he ever sees being his own innards.”

“Too bad, Belford. This time won’t be like last.”

“You have no backup. Your little friend is currently bleeding in a chair, tied up in his own basement.”

Jenkins glared at Belford. “Sorbello’s fine. He’s getting medical attention right now.”

Belford’s smug face dropped. He pulled out a knife, brandishing it at Jenkins. “He’ll recover long enough for me to tell him I twisted his pal’s balls off his corpse and shoved them up his butthole before I kill him too.” Belford began walking towards Jenkins.

Jenkins put his hand out. “Not this time. Have fun in prison. Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll get to shove your own balls inside yourself.”

The patrol shed was suddenly swarming with Feds and SWAT agents sweeping in to arrest Belford, Ulrich, and Michaels. Jenkins watched with satisfaction as the three were carted away to federal prisons. They were charged and sentenced in open-shut court cases.

Jenkins retired from border patrol. At the encouragement of Sorbello, Jenkins enrolled in the police academy and took the detective’s exam so that he could join his best friend in crime fighting and solving. Sorbello ended up making a full recovery, and was more than happy to help Jenkins in his journey to becoming a ‘real officer’.

Finally, Jenkins could proudly say “Officer Jenkins on the scene, over” without anyone denying he was a real officer.

And the best part?

No one could call him a mountie anymore.

Mama,

You have the right to

Dress in your uniformed-striped best and Attend any prestigious institution that you please You will absolutely kill your competition

Break a leg, boy!

Stick to the script, Remember the lines

Cuffs chiseling across your wrists

As you squeeze your fist tightly

Remain

Strong. You can sweat under the spotlight but Do not break character

It is law not to break the fourth wall  Even when it demands attention.

When the headlights are blinding your eyes

De-escalate, don't stress

Hands up but don't shoot

Grab the mic

But remember the camera is watching you. Even if I’m not present, If it were me and not you, I would be

Silent.

Lights, action, camera,

It isn’t a gimmick, when the trigger fires

the flash gives you stage fright

You are about to blow

By that time, the screen fades to black

And scene, chauffeured from stage left on a stretcher.

Shh... The Baby's Sleeping

A Mother’s Love

Fanita Irene Carrawell

You were always ready to help me, whether I needed it or not, slaving for hours in my kitchen –Cooking fried chicken, fried apples with cinnamon and sugar. It was hard to watch you at times because my kitchen was so small. How you found time to dust my furniture and sweep my floors, I will never know.

Especially since you had your own to clean next door. Mothers are special in that way. You knew that I needed you and you were right there, only a knock or a phone call away. At these times I could not do much for myself, drugged up from all the medicine my doctor had prescribed. You restored me back to health with love, love that a hospital could never give. I will always appreciate the way you cared for me –Then and now

Your love is given without measure, you never put chains around it or lock up your heart with anger. Even when you are mad, you can’t stay in anger for long. I guess you have found the secret. The secret to the doors of happiness. Thanks, Mom for sharing that with me, and when you’re gone, I will always have that to remember.

My Father’s Love Language K.C. Terra

My father’s love language is sharing fruits with the family. Every morning, he leaves me some on our kitchen counter. Sometimes it’s one slice from the fruit he was eating that day, or an entire bowl full of something from the fridge. It depended on where I was in my life.

One time, he left half an orange for me.

I always had a strange relationship with him. As I collect my memories of him, I have conflicting viewpoints on whether or not he was a good man. If I look towards my mother, I see him yelling, screaming, and berating her. I used to shake in fear. I didn’t want him to be mean to her. It hurts just thinking about what life would be like without her. Yet, when he looks at me, he smiles and gently asks me how my day was. How could a man be so sour yet sweet at the same time?

One time, he left a slice of apple for me.

After I was done snacking, I would walk with him in the neighborhood. Be it sun, rain, or snow, we’d be up and walking. The cold morning air, the slowness from sleep, and the lack of noise on the local roads was a euphoric break from the chaos in our lives. Although, the apple from before had me hungry for more. Sometimes I looked up at my dad and his thin frame. He used to be very muscular and handsome, but years of chronic illness tore him down. I always stayed quiet as he talked about his schedule that morning. I didn’t want to ruin the peace he rarely had indoors. I wish I had more of it.

One time, he left a handful of blueberries for me.

I remember when my dad started complaining about how old he was getting. He would complain about his strained back, his horrible eyesight, his colitis. He hated taking medications. They had “death” as a side effect written in big bold letters. I told him one day that I needed medication. He asked, “For what? You’re young and healthy. You don’t need to go on medication for anxiety.”

“Yes I do”, was what I wanted to say, but I knew my argument would go nowhere.

“You don’t know the pain I feel from taking medications, Beta.”

“But I need this medication, Dad. I can’t sleep, or eat, or study–”

“No you don’t!”

My ears rang.

“I’m done talking about this.”

He booked an appointment for me the next week.

One time, he left a cut up peach for me

The outside of the slices still had the fuzzy skin on. I joked that it felt like his nonexistent beard. He then realized he forgot to shave that morning. Instinctively, I reached out to touch his face. I blinked. The prickling of his stubble reminded me of when I was a child. He’d hug me and rub his rough face against my soft skin, and I’d laugh because it tickled. When I felt it then, it was nostalgic and sickening at the same time. He isn’t the soft man I thought he was.

One time, he left me a lemon slice.

I was exhausted that morning, and I thought it was my grogginess playing a prank on me. He told me to bite into it. When I did, the flavor stabbed my tongue, and my face scrunched up so much my teeth hurt. I was very much wide awake after that. My dad always worked hard no matter how sour the fruits of his labors seemed. He had to work hard as an immigrant. Otherwise, for him, there’d be no life worth living. As strange as he was, it inspired me to work hard.

One time, he left a bowl of grapes for me.

College was the hardest part of my life. My mother wasn’t home, my mental health worsened, and I wondered if anyone would still care about me. There was a day when I was studying advanced equilibria for a chemistry exam. I was stressed, cold, and hungry. I knew I desperately needed to shower, but I didn’t want to leave my desk. I had to get this concept down. He set the grapes down and pulled a heavy blanket over my shoulders.

“Take care of yourself,” he huffed. “How can I be sure you’ll be as independent as you say if you can’t fulfill your basic needs on your own?”

One time, he left a slice of pear for me.

When my mother left to visit family overseas, I was worried about the duration of her stay. My anxiety had peaked. I hadn’t been without my mother for more than a week. She was my rock, and I was never comfortable sharing personal issues with anyone else. I cried every night. The time I cried during the day, my dad caught me sitting in the corner of the kitchen. He took one look at my tear stained face and handed me a slice of the pear he was eating. It slipped out of my hand and onto the floor. I stilled, waiting for him to yell at me.

“Just know,” he said, picking it up and throwing it away. “That reality is quite different from your imagination. It’s simpler. And very boring.” I live by that quote to this day.

One time, he left an uncut mango for me.

It was a humid summer day. He called me downstairs and taught me how to cut it. It was slippery and very sticky, and I feared my hand would slip and the knife would cut me. My dad was a chatterbox throughout the whole process. It’s from his undiagnosed ADHD, as well as his undiagnosed OCD, depression, and anxiety. He talked for hours about his life stories– my personal favorite being his kite flying and cricket playing days. One day, he spoke about his own father. My mother told me the man was cruel and vicious, and my dad’s tone being filled with poison solidified that description. There were days where he had hid from his father’s menacing stare. The terror of having to hide from someone you’re supposed to trust left a hole in his heart.

One day, there will be nothing on the counter.

While he doesn’t show obvious affection like my mother does, him giving me fruits during the hardest times of my life are proof enough that he cares about me. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to lose him. Eventually I will. Everyone leaves at some point. As a result of his abusive father, he became violent towards my mother. He was rarely violent towards me and

my sisters, but his loyalties were often foggy. As I watch him grow gray hairs, become shaky as he stands, and walks closer towards me just so he can see my face, something in me rattles with unease.

My father’s love language is sharing fruit. Do you love him? No, I don’t think so. Do you appreciate him? In some aspects. Do you respect him? Again, in some ways. He gives me half an orange, a slice of pear and apple, a handful of blueberries, peach and lemon slices, and a bowl full of grapes. And sometimes he teaches me how to cut a mango. He’s broken into little pieces, but I know with this gesture that he’s trying to change. Slowly, but surely.

Our Distance Traveled Amy Kenny

The shoes I wore: once new, now old. Untold their journeying from home to far away. Grimy and old, white-soled, protects my feet and toes. Monochrome, soft bottom, holed. Still, I wear them every day. Black laces twist, and loose cotton holds my waiting foot firmly in place.

From melting heat to pelting rains, we’d go as comrades in arms, not resting until we’re home. Coarse sidewalks and grassy knolls we’ve roamed.

I slide my foot in — ignoring well the rubber’s squeaky drone. I know: the battle’s end has come. Now they sit on my closet floor — tarnished & alone.

Have You Ever...?

K.C. Terra

Have you ever seen it?

I don’t have a name for it. I just know it exists. Your tears may hide, but your fears don’t. Your eyes are puffy from the lack of sleep. You’re physically well aside from that, But your posture has worsened.

Have you ever felt it?

I don’t think it’s tangible. I just know someone is in pain. Your body doesn’t ache, but your heart does. Your head hurts from the hot tears on your face. You’re physically well aside from that, But your movements begin to slow down.

Have you ever heard it?

I don’t listen for it. I just know people go through it. Your voice betrays you, but you listen anyway. Your teeth chatter to the chime inside you.

You’re physically well aside from that, But your being refuses to move.

Have you ever smelled it?

I don’t like its scent. I just know others smell bad. Your body reeks of sweat, but you can’t shower. Your hair and clothes are practically moldy.

You’re physically well aside from that, But your body is decomposing.

Have you ever tasted it?

I don’t want to eat it. I just know people are starving. Your mouth waters from the texture, but you don’t swallow. Your stomach is gnawing at you in hopes for something.

You’re physically well aside from that, But your soul is destroyed.

Have I ever seen it?

Yes, and it’s dark and gloomy. My fears are dancing out in the open. I cover my eyes with ice.

I’m not okay, And that’s okay.

Have I ever felt it?

Yes, and it’s thick and goopy. My heart sinks and burns.

I take some Advil for my head.

I’m not okay, And that’s okay.

Have I ever heard it?

Yes, and it’s soft and sinister. My brain tells me I’m nothing.

I plug my ears to stop the alarm.

I’m not okay, And that’s okay.

Have I ever smelled it?

Yes, and it’s putrid and rancid. My hair is tight and knotted. I take a shower to get rid of it.

I’m not okay, And that’s okay.

Have I ever tasted it?

Yes, and it’s bitter and salty. My stomach twists and turns.

I take a bite of food against my dry heaving.

I’m not okay, And that’s okay.

It’ll all be okay.

Better Off

Bri Petty

You’ve liked me for years

Or so our classmates have told me

We become friends

You’ve liked me for years

We stay friends

And you play hot and cold

You’ve like me for years

But we’re better off as friends

Can you imagine it?

Yes, we’re better off as friends

You’ve liked me for years

As you keep telling me

Every summer that passes

But you’re still hot and cold

So we never go past driving in my car

Speeding down the highway

With laughter in the air

Me a shoulder to cry on

And the voice of reason in your head

You’ve liked me for years

And ask for a kiss

Before you leave for the east coast

But I wave as you board the bus

Unkissed and an apology on my lips

As I watch a knowing

But still disappointed smile

Carve itself into your face

We keep in touch

Because of course we do

But you start pulling away

I give you space

Thinking you need it

Because life has never been kind to you

And now is no different

But you fall

Lost and ignoring that voice of reason

I know is in your head

And now I wonder

As you sit behind bars

Somehow still thinking

Everything is alright

If I should have walked away years ago

If I could have done something before

If that would have kept her safe

From harm

From you

We were better off as friends

But now I think even that might be too much

As you sit

Almost seven hundred miles away

Waiting for a choice to be made

You’ve liked me for years

We’re better off as strangers

Haiku with Inflation

Ian McCann

Inflation nine percent

Endowment record ONE BILLION

Thanks for 5 cents UMSL

Girl Defect

Kaiya Storm

Girls in their bodies like ice sculptures

Femininity like guns in their hands

I was equipped with a stained glass soul

But I want to be just like them

I want the clouds and the flowers

I want to be quiet and tame

I want to be shy but I’m angry inside

I’m filled with a fiery rage

“Black Beauty” Salons

Jada Iman

What is my skin to you?

My skin runs deep like the Mi-ssi-ssi-ppi

My roots remind me that my ancestors bathed our babes in that natural stream

Like birds that were only given a pond to refresh in.

My success is mounted on the back of my grandmother

My grandmother’s mom whose mom was called house wench

Not too far removed was my ancestry.

I washed my hair with the history of my family’s slavery

Is it a foreign concept to you to hold such gruesome familiarity?

Well it’s simply a normality for me because my skin makes my childhood a target

My innocence was stolen from me at a young age

My identity as a human is stripped from me at birth

My social security card isn't a ticket to freedom;

It’s an inmate identification card.

Slavery has transformed from not being 3/5th of a man

To barely having a 350 credit score.

The only thing that the white man hasn’t taken away from me

Is my music and my pride of my mane.

Why was Lucious Lyon able to roar so loud?

He called upon generations of black kingdoms that all sang the same language

I pride myself of my original name, but my other black brethren can’t take sanction in their name

Harris, Johnson, Jackson, and I could name plenty more, but all slave owner names

My people will never be free until our last name holds legacy

My original last name, not my slave owners last name

Inner hate is engraved in my brain like slash marks on my back

I can’t even love my natural hair without silk pressing it today

My homegirl said she could loc me up

My other homegirl just graduated, she kept telling me that she went to a different university than her padre

No correlation to South Central LA, but he was raised by the streets

Slinging more than just Italian beef sandwiches from bodegas

Caught slippin trying to raise a family from illegal mindsets

Too naive to realize that money is earned from more than just street cred

Cash App or Venmo? I asked my barber to line up my side cut Cash only, he replied. I would get upset but all I could do was shrug

Most young black men don't have bank accounts because they can't trust a federal agency

It isn't a phase for me. So many lgbtq members begging their parents to see. This is the style that calls to me. Indie arie, a woman of many words, said it best, “I am not my hair.” but my ancestors said the rest, my roots bind me to my home but my music sways through the grass roots of my depth. My skin to me is more than just sunlight’s host but a pride flag representing hope.

Encaustic Portrait 1

Emma MooreCrayon on Canvas Panel

The Siegels

Malik Lendell

Mrs. Seigel was a great cook. Sure, she burned most meals in the oven or stove, but when she and her husband cooked together, they were unstoppable. She was a great singer too. She did not sing much anymore, but for Mr. Seigel, her presence alone was a beautiful song. She was also a peculiar dresser. She only wore pink bathing suits around the house, and sometimes, she stood around the home topless. Even with guests around, she did not seem to care much for how she dressed. They did not live for the approval of outsiders. All that mattered was the strong love between Mrs. and Mr. Seigel.

Mrs. Seigel’s mother, however, disliked the couple.

Her two failed marriages and her countless other hopeless relationships fueled her jealousy for the couple. Mrs. Seigel’s mother clearly did not want her daughter to be happy.

“Philip,” she yelled. “What did you do to my daughter?”

Her mother froze in the entrance of the hallway. Mrs. Seigel waited at the opposite end with one bloated and one deflated breast. Her stale stare stretched to the ceiling. Her unfazed gray eyes did not acknowledge her own mother, and she refused to speak. Mrs. Seigel clearly had enough of her mother's criticisms.

“Mrs. Baker, my wife's attire is none of your concern,” Mr. Seigel said Mrs. Seigel’s mother was such a prude. Mr. Seigel, however, always spoke up to support his wife.

“She can make her own decisions.”

Mr. Seigel grabbed his wife’s hand and looked at her eyes. They remained glued to the ceiling.

“My love! You are cold to the touch!” he said. “Let me warm you up.”

Mr. Seigel picked up his wife from her waist.

“Where the hell are you going with my daughter?”

Her mother followed Mr. Seigel as he rushed past her into the kitchen. He leaned Mrs. Seigel against the cabinets and opened the stove.

“This ought to warm you up.”

He kissed his wife on the forehead.

“Oh no!”

Mr. Seigel opened his hands. Two of Mrs. Seigel’s precious pinky and ring fingers broke off into his hands. Her ring cut through her swollen discolored finger. However, this did not detract from his wife's beauty. In fact, her flaws made her more loveable.

“I'll get some bandages for you, my love!” he said.

“Jesus Christ,” her mother said. “You are worse than I thought.”

“If caring for my wife makes me a bad husband, so be it,” he said.

Her mother was just a judgmental bitch. She never cared for the Seigel couple, but that would not stop them from loving each other.

“You can leave.”

“I will not leave without my daughter’s body.”

Her mother grabbed Mrs. Seigel by the legs and dragged her across the kitchen tiles.

“Leave!”

“No!”

Mrs. Seigel’s mother cried. Mr. Seigel was a loving but wise man, so her mother’s crocodile tears could not fool him. He always chose Mrs. Seigel’s happiness, before her mother’s.

“I’ll call the police!”

“Please do!” her mother said.

“My love, trust me! I will save you!” Mr. Seigel said. He grabbed his wife’s shoulders and pulled away.

“Let go, you freak!”

Mr. Seigel did not let go. His love was too strong and too true to betray his wife.

He yanked on his wife’s head. Mrs. Seigel’s face remained expressionless as her head flung into the oven.

“My love!” he said.

Mr. Seigel jumped to the oven to save her. He tried to grab her head, but it was already stuck to the burning oven rack.

“You fool!” her mother said.

He grabbed a spatula and tried to lift her head up from the rack, but he only pushed her head further in the oven.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he said.

Mrs. Seigel’s mother broke off her daughter’s arm and threw it in the oven.

“Maybe we should have considered cremation in the first place,” her mother said. She broke off pieces of her own daughter and threw them into the fire. Her mother was heartless.

He tried to retrieve her other body parts out of the oven, but he was too late. A black crust formed on her head, and the oven's heat cracked her skull.

“You murderous bitch!” Mr. Seigel said.

He flung his head into the oven to get one last look at his wife’s face as the black crust formed over his own head.

“I will never leave my love,” he repeated until his speech slurred away and his lips melted shut.

Encaustic Portrait 2

Emma MooreCrayon on Canvas Panel

Garden of Heathens

Esmeralda Flores

She knew she wasn’t supposed to be there; she was supposed to be home, nice and warm under her covers. At the same time, how could she resist? The garden was calling to her by name; it lassoed her with the intent to treasure forever, but she didn’t mind. It was alive, and for every exhale, she inhaled a new lustful desire for life. Tip toe, tip toe, the emerald grass gently pecked her bare feet, carrying her deeper inside. She only hesitated for a second to look back for… no, she was completely alone. That’s strange, she thought. The second thought didn't have the chance to enter her mind, not when the garden was pulsating with a bright soft blue aura of companionship. Lime leafed arches curved above head, dripping chandeliers of crimson apples. Condensation dripped onto her tongue, leaving the oh-so-sweet taste of temptation. She had no time to waste though, there was so much more to see.

The garden’s green chest of double doors exhaled open as she intoxicatingly inhaled. She practically levitated through, the tender ghostly strings pulling her by her soul. She was carried to the very center of it all, and once her eyes adjusted to the vibrant energy that surrounded her, she was too stunned to speak. It felt like she entered the Grand Central Station of the garden. Glowing flower heads of all kinds exploded like fireworks in complete disarray as they whizzed past her, sounding like twinkling fairies. Fall leaves floated gracefully around each other in a sensual dance, all while the slithering vines looped and draped from the beautifully crystaled ceiling that showed her kaleidoscope reflection.

She looked up in a daze, only to be met with a feather touch of a flake that landed – not melted – on her upturned nose. She stared curiously, but not daring to tamper with its fragility. She stared until she saw one after another coming down from all sides. The perfect winter wonderland. She was completely entranced in the wondrous magic show that not only took over her vision, but her body. She felt the liveliness of everything around her; it took over her entire being until she swayed and frolicked without a care in the world. She nearly tripped over a tiny bush with a familiar crimson-colored delight. Her hand took grasp before her mind fully knew what it was. Her lips quickly wet with her saliva that yearned for just one lick. Her teeth grew an almost glutinous animal instinct as they sank in. She could have melted right then

and there, seeping into the ground, finally becoming one with the garden. Maybe she could become an illuminating oak tree with hundreds of apples to share. That would be alright. That would be…bliss.

“Eden!”

Like a stake through the heart, it was damn near crippling to get sunk back into reality. What felt like heaven quickly oozed away until it was pitch black darkness.

“Oh my god, you idiot! What did you do? How much did you take goddammit?” The penetrating voice yanked the shrooms out of her hands as she lay still on the dirt floor of the cemetery.

“You are never doing this shit again, you hear me? Guys! Come help me carry her to the car!”

“Let me go back…” she croaked, her cottonmouth getting the better of her.

“Hell no. Whatever world you just went into was your first and last visit.”

“But I have to…it was my garden, Adam.”

Droplets of Light

Meghan GallagherPhotography

A Werewolf, A Vampire, and Just Some Dude

Aimee Pieper

“Okay, so what if, and hear me out – you both bit me at the same time?”

“What??” Mel grinned at his two friends, who were staring back at him in horror. He had invited his friend Buck, a werewolf, and his friend Ronion, a vampire, to go out drinking with him in order to propose this exact absurd situation. They were having this conversation in the alley between two noisy bars, so that no one would overhear, and if all went well, would just think that they were making out. Was he a little drunk? Yes. Was his judgment severely impaired? Almost always. But he felt that tonight was the night.

“It’ll be fine! I’ve got nothing going for me in this human life, and I know you each got your own weird things going on, but what if they were like, combined? What kind of crazy stuff might you experience?”

“You’re literally suggesting ‘what would it be like if a vampire and a werewolf had a baby’.” Ronion said. Mel realized that Ronion was not quite as drunk as he thought he had been from the contempt in his voice, but ignored that.

“Noooo because absolutely no babysitting or caretaking would be involved. I’m a grown man! I can take care of myself! It would just be like a science experiment! No one would have to know, and later, I could come back to you all with notes.” Ronion glanced uneasily at Buck, who was stroking his large beard thoughtfully.

“You can’t actually be considering this!” Ronion hissed, whacking Buck on the arm.

“I like science! I think we should do it. After all, Mel’s consenting. What’s the harm?”

“This could all go horribly wrong.”

“Ronie, if it all goes horribly wrong, you are allowed to tell me I told you so, and – and I will also allow you to show me off at your secret hex-guys coven or whatever you call it as a scientific anomaly. And then you could hex me or whatever.”

“I wouldn’t hex you.” Ronion snorted. But as he downed the last of his fruity drink, Mel knew he had convinced him.

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” They all shifted to a darker part of the alley so as not to attract any attention, not that the drunk people drifting between bars had much of an attention span anyway. Mel jumped up and down and shook out his limbs, his body tingling with excitement.

“Oh man I never thought you guys would say yes to this!”

“Keep it down or I may reconsider!”

“So how are we going to bite him?” Buck asked.

“Just do it on three, before I can really think about it.” Mel answered.

“I’ll count. One – two – three.”

Ronion and Buck went in, only to pull back suddenly as they hit their heads going in for the same side of Mel’s neck.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you’re supposed to bite the opposite side!” Ronion said, his ashy complexion looking a deeper color of gray than usual.

“Why do you think I asked how we’re going to bite him?”

“Whatever, try again! You all can kiss and quarrel about it later!” Mel cried, waving his hands in the air. “On three! One! Two! Thre-ooooouch!”

Buck and Ronion had successfully coordinated their bites this time – one on each side of Mel’s neck. Once they pulled away, Mel clamped his hands over the bite marks and asked weakly,

“Okay so I didn’t think this far ahead, but am I going to bleed out?”

“No, your wounds should heal fairly quickly.” Ronion said, wiping his mouth. “But I’d be careful of showing them to anyone.”

“Naaaaah, we’ll just say they’re hickeys! Perfect coverup. C’mon, it’s time for more drinks! Let’s celebrate our new vamp-wolf baby!” Buck tossed an arm around Mel’s shoulders and led him back into the pub, while Ronion trailed behind, muttering that they were not calling him that. ***

A few weeks later, Ronion and Buck were waiting for Mel to appear for brunch. It had been a while since they had seen their friend on that fateful drunken night and Ronion demanded that he see them and report on his findings. Not because he was concerned, but because Mel had promised results. Buck had just been listening to Ronion’s fretting about Mel’s wellbeing when an unfamiliar-looking, yet familiar smelling not-so-human walked up and sat at their table.

“Hey guys, how’s it been?”

“Mel??” Both cryptids said. The man sitting in front of them looked

nothing like the friend they had seen weeks ago in a dark alleyway. Mel was wearing what looked to be a trashy purple Party City wig, held in place by white fluffy women’s earmuffs. His physique had stayed pretty much the same, but his entire body was covered with a layer of patchy mouse brown hair. To add to his ridiculous image, he was wearing a wife beater with really short gym shorts.

“You cannot blame these style choices on your – transformation.” Ronion sputtered.

“Good to see you too Ronie! And actually, some of these are necessary!”

“Which parts are necessary?” Buck asked, leaning forward on the wrought iron table so he could squint at Mel better.

“For one, the wig and earmuffs hide my super huge ears.” Ronion and Buck gasped in shock as Mel adjusted his earmuff and wig hair to reveal the largest, pointiest ears either of them had ever seen. Ronion quickly fumbled for his phone and started typing notes onto it as he gaped at Mel.

“What else happened?” He asked.

“Oh boy, where do I continue? I also wear earmuffs because my hearing is so sensitive now. Noise canceling headphones are the best for blocking out far away noises, but earmuffs do just fine for everyday stuff. Within the first week the hair layer happened. It sheds off at the end of every month, making me look beach-ready, but it also gives me incredibly dry skin. Especially when I try to shave it off.”

“Jeez, I had that problem too.” Buck said, putting on his glasses and grabbing Mel’s arm to get a closer look at his hair consistency.

“Yeah, well, the physical stuff isn’t where it stops. Some of it is pretty cool, cause like, I get to eat blue rare steaks all I want now. On the full moon my cravings for pasta and garlic bread drive me insane though. I eat like, five plates of each during those nights.”

“I would say I wish I was you, but I’m waiting to hear the worst of your condition first.” Ronion said.

“Well, I have discovered from some reading and general holiday preparation activities that I can’t celebrate Christmas anymore. It burns and makes me incredibly irrationally angry. I guess maybe that has to do with Jesus hating werewolves? I don’t know too much about the vampire side of things. But! I did do one of those 24-genes-swab-test-thingies, and now I get to culturally explore Hanukkah! Turns out I’m part Jewish!”

“Was becoming Jewish a surprise to you?” Buck said, patting Mel’s

arm softly. He had been weirdly petting it the entire time.

“He was probably always Jewish Buck, that’s how genetics work.” Ronion tapped impatiently at his phone, signaling Mel to continue with the details.

“Right, I was always Jewish, I just found out because I can’t celebrate Christmas and I was a little bummed about it. Uh, let’s see what else… I’m always at the perfect body temperature, but this makes clothes uncomfortable so I try to wear as little as possible.”

“Hence the booty shorts.” Ronion muttered.

“So you’re like a lizard? Like your body adjusts to be comfortable in every temperature?” Buck said, his expression filled with awe. He turned to Ronion and said, “Did we accidentally create a lizard-man?” Mel laughed.

“Maybe! That might also explain the dry skin. But also no.” Ronion hummed as he came to the end of typing his notes.

“Very interesting. This all doesn’t seem too bad though to be honest. I take it that coping with it has been fairly simple once you find out what to avoid. Was there anything else? I’m stunned that no actual problems have arisen so far.”

“Um, well, there is actually one thing that I still haven’t been able to get around.” Mel coughed, withdrawing his arm from Buck’s grasp. Both non-humans looked at him curiously. Mel squirmed with discomfort in his seat.

“So, the thing is – anytime I see a dog on a street, or in their yard –I can understand them now, as a part werewolf, and we get into arguments. And, in what I’m assuming is a natural way to display dominance, I end up in territorial, uncontrollable pissing matches with them.” Ronion and Buck blinked at Mel. When he said nothing, they glanced at each other, and began to snort with laughter.

“Guys come on! It’s the only embarrassing thing about this whole vamp-wolf situation! I’ve gotten arrested for public indecency three times!”

“Well, I know you didn’t get it from my side of the family.” Ronion laughed. Buck wiped tears from his eyes.

“Young werewolf pups generally get along fine with dogs, so it’s not us either! What do you usually argue about?”

“Well usually it’s about like, butt smells, or – look there’s a lot of things, and they’re not really important –” Mel said agitatedly. His thought was interrupted when a lady with a small, white, Yorkshire terrier sat down at the café table next to them. Everyone at the non-human table froze.

“Melvin, don’t do it.” Buck whispered, though he was unable to contain his glee at the sight of Mel and the small dog staring each other down. The Yorkshire gave a small growl.

“That’s not true, it’s a fine wig.” Melvin said softly, his voice trembling.

“It is a fine wig, no need to get upset.” Ronion added. The Yorkshire growled again, followed by two sharp yaps.

“Or maybe I could wear you as a hat to cover my ears, would you like that? I think your fur would look nice on my head while I wait for my better wig to arrive from Amazon.” The Yorkshire responded with three shrill barks, and Mel leapt up from his chair.

“That does it!” He shouted, and as he pulled down his booty shorts, commotion ensued. The Yorkshire continued to yap what could be inferred as insults at Mel while Buck stood suddenly, flipping the wrought iron garden table. The lady in charge of the dog screamed bloody murder as Mel began to piss in front of her dog, only to be forcefully swept away by Ronion and Buck. As they both carried him off, Mel hurling profanities with his dick hanging out of his pants, Ronion sighed and said,

“Straud’s sake, we can’t take you anywhere now, can we?”

How Does it Feel?

Cynthia NathanColored Pencil and Ink

Winter Highway

Daniel J. Grasso

Serpentine sheets of salty sleet

Slither and slide

Across and above The frozen highway. Mesmerizing in its patterned rising, It turns to magic mist

Drawing a curtain across The driver’s eyes. Like incense in some holy temple, Offered to some cruel god of winter Made of rock and stone. Our great engines of the road Combusting, Burning this salty scent in offering, In the forever modern hope of arriving.

Christmas Lizard

Amanda C. RoyerOil Pastel on Paper

Ode to Taco Bell

South Kingshighway, St. Louis

Alex Balogh

Respite from the streets & riverbanks

Ad hoc gathering spot for those in the know How could corporate sales engineers have foreseen the value of $1 grilled breakfast burritos to this transient population getting by on good buys their shopping carts parked outside like cars

Tables & chairs draped with backpacks, canes, wrappers

Two Chicanas in the kitchen shout Spanglish like it’s their own taquería, filling grilled burritos with choice of potato, sausage or bacon as well as unmeasured generosity to carry breakfast bellies over to lunch & maybe dinner too.

They buy a lot

Eat slowly

Savor the warmth as they sprinkle salt & pepper in the dining rooms of their minds. Full array of condiments & napkins grace the tables

Creamy mystery sauce squirted from plastic packets sticks to the ribs

Diners pat their lips as bellies wobble with fullness

So much pomp under the circumstance

It’s such a grey day

I

think I’ll do anything, proclaims greybeard Space Trucker to no one in particular as he fingers a thin plastic rain poncho waiting patiently to punch in the door code on his receipt

. . .

don’t

& freshen up in Restrooms For Customers Only

O oasis of cheap tasty eats —

Refuge of infirm panhandlers, street musicians

& able-bodied tramps alike

Destination for loose-change backpack vagabonds — You cater to no-budget wayfarers

& intrepid travellers of all stripes & types — You fill rumbling bellies

& bestow dignity upon the unseen who will soon scatter out of sight well before the morning rush.

My Arms Are Numb

Aimee Pieper

Limbs suffocate Even though you’re still breathing Which means your blood Is sleeping on the job

Lizard Takes Over Pattonville High School

Amanda C. RoyerOil Pastel on Paper

Growing Pains

Grace DeGuire

When I was little, I don’t remember feeling like my family situation was anything but ordinary. My mom was a stay-at-home mom. My dad worked all day, and made dinner when he got home every evening. I played and watched TV, and four different therapists came over weekly to help my sister’s speech, muscle strength, mobility, and cognitive function develop healthily. And that was normal, the usual routine. I didn’t know that wasn’t how other families were. I didn’t know that my friends’ younger siblings didn’t have to be fitted with ugly shoe inserts to be able to walk properly, or wear glasses with lenses half an inch thick like my little sister had. But when I was about eight, I started to realize that my sister was different – I learned that she has Down Syndrome. Which means she was born with a third copy of the 21st chromosome, so she has 47 chromosomes instead of 46. And ever since, it’s been strange to see how one chromosome altered the course of so many lives, especially mine.

Truthfully, I don’t know what it’s like to have a “normal” sibling. I have fought with that word for a long time. It always seems like an insult to say someone is not normal, but I don’t know how else to describe my sister or the relationship she and I have. Because it is not like the relationships between siblings that are presented in movies, shows, or books. And it isn’t like the relationship my friends have with their siblings. It was out of the sibling norm I was surrounded by. For me, my role as an older sister was to be an extension of my parents. To be her babysitter, her caretaker. I never really felt like an older sister, but more of an underpaid, underappreciated employee to her and my parents.

When I was sixteen, I got my first car. It was a glorious moment, but it was shadowed by the fact that it wasn’t just for me. Both my parents worked full-time, and our school district decided to re-district before my sister’s last year in middle school. Meaning she would have had to switch to another middle school, and then switch to the high school the following year. My parents didn’t want her to have to go through so many transitions consecutively, so they kept her in the same middle school, despite the redistricting. But someone had to pick her up every day since the buses at that school wouldn’t take her to our subdivision. So, the resulting solution was getting a car for “me” to then pick up my sister every day at 2:40 pm. It was a practical solution, one that worked – for the most part. And I love my

little 2009 powder blue Ford Focus. I am grateful that my parents were able to buy me a car at all. Goodness, am I grateful. But growing up having to share everything with my sister tainted the experience. Knowing that I – me and my growing needs – hadn’t been enough of a reason to get a car, that it had to be because my sister needed it, too, stung a bit. And frankly, it still does sometimes. Maybe that sounds selfish, but that’s always how I’ve felt. I never said anything, though. Because who can complain about getting a car? Well, I suppose I just did. But it’s not about the car. It’s about the notion that presented itself in the car: that I was not good enough on my own. That I was only worthy of something if I could use it to do something for my sister, and by extension my parents. It’s a notion that has inadvertently, unintentionally, been drilled into my head for as long as I can remember – because that’s as long as my sister’s been around.

The car wasn’t the first time I had to share something that was supposedly mine with my sister. In middle school, I unofficially became my sister’s full-time babysitter. My mom went back to work full-time, so both my parents were gone until around 6 pm on weekdays. So, I had to take care of my sister from about 4 pm, when she got off the elementary school bus until they got home. Monday through Thursday, it didn’t bother me much. But when my parents started to get busy with trivia nights and happy hour with the neighbors on weekends, I had to start giving up sleepovers, going to Rollercade, high school football games on Friday nights, or seeing PG-13 movies in theaters with friends—you know, the typical middle schooler social scene-to sit at home with my sister. It was torture to go to school on Monday and hear all the things I missed out on, or worse, to see it on social media in real-time. And my parents never asked me if I could or if I wanted to. They just told me that was what I was doing; “Hey Mom, can I go to Maddie’s house to spend the night this weekend?” was usually answered with, “No, you have your sister.” It became a chore. My sister became a chore.

Despite all the things I gave up or missed out on, my parents constantly picked at me to be who or what they wanted, to do things their way. For a long time, I didn’t understand why. I was doing everything they asked of me, and more. It wasn’t until I was in my later years of high school, and the weight of their expectations was heaviest, that I realized it was because they couldn’t do that to my sister. They couldn’t pick at her to do more; they couldn’t push her to apply for scholarships or hound her about grades. They couldn’t tell her to get a part-time job or be more involved in school. They are just grateful that she can get dressed, make dinner, and use the TV on her own. That she is overall a healthy, high-functioning kid. But

that doesn’t mean the expectations and reliance from my parents has been an easy thing for me to carry.

I wouldn’t say this turmoil I’ve felt is on the same level of crisis as a plane plummeting out of the sky, but it felt like it sometimes. I’ve learned a lot of valuable skills from my sister and my parents; including the ability to be grateful for the things I have, even when it’s hard; to be generous, even when I want something to be mine. I’ve learned to live up to my name and carry the dynamic of my family with grace.

I know it’s not easy for my parents to parent a stubborn, moody, high-maintenance teenage girl, let alone one who requires an extra amount of patience because of that extra chromosome she has. So, I did my best to make things easier on them during my teenage years, before that, and to this day. I figured out how to navigate our unique family structure the best I could. And though it is a challenge on more days than it’s not, I continue to do so. It’s made me resilient and resourceful. It’s made me love and appreciate them in different ways. Because I do indeed love them very much, despite the complaining I just did.

Because of my unique upbringing, I am tremendously flexible with my sister and parents, but I try to be with everyone I come across. I treat everyone with respect, and I try to be patient and kind. I am a problem solver to what I think is an impressive degree. I understand that relationships of any kind can get messy. We’re all human, we all have different baggage and emotions that come with it. I think the experiences I have had and the circumstances my family has had to overcome have made me a rarity among people my age. Learning to be a compassionate human isn’t as natural or hasn’t been embedded into their everyday lives as it has been in mine.

So, as it turns out, having to give up slumber parties, miss out on East-side-West-side roller-skating opportunities, and begrudgingly use my car as a sister-transporter were not omens that the world was going to end due to my lack of distance from my younger kin. They were, however, all omens foreshadowing the selfless, flexible, responsible, independent, passionate, and generous person I would become – that I am still becoming, even at twenty-one years old. A person I likely wouldn’t be if it weren’t for my sister and the way my family and I had to adapt and grow for her. And I am grateful for who I am today, for the lessons I’ve learned, and the compassion that flows through my veins. Compassion that likely wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for that one extra chromosome.

Wretched Womb

Taylor Weintrop

Politicians and lawmakers beat their gavels against our caskets and call it a victory. They tell us to treat our bodies like temples & dress us in white just to desecrate what beauty remains. These holy walls of our female anatomy seem to only incite riots except for the times they come for pleasure then leave while we bleed. These bodies crushed beneath the weight of rage passed down centuries upon centuries our wombs have become desolate lands we cradle with trembling hands. We do not care what your ancient texts say – our existence is not cut from your ribs. We are not allegories for your policies. How can you claim we have our autonomy when our rights are open to revision?

We see the faces of women past – bloody from coat hanger operations in the mirror as we face ourselves. What a precious scene of purity. We hear their screams as men stroke the paper with their mighty pens. Only when it is their daughters will they see our bodies as more than rotten grounds for which they must oversee.

Anamnesis

Daniel J. Grasso

On the same bleak paths We walk each day, Weighted by gloom, Leery of what comes before and behind.

Yet on some blessed days Those same paths alight, Illumined by that ever known yet ever forgotten knowledge. Like the flame hidden within the coals, A tremor, Anticipation of aspiration, An unexpected breath, Springs the ash to life.

Quickened, revitalized, and restored In that fact divine, Known all along: That this is— The true way.

The Death of a Day

Amy Kenny

A warm pie oozing down the horizon gooey palettes drip from a light, happy feeling, into a calm slow slumber.

It is a close: the final chords of music In a symphony of the sun and moon. Grateful it happened, pleased with the beauty of the conclusion, sad that it is the end.

It is tranquil and calm, but not silent, no, not silent at all, to those who listen.

It is a beginning: to something softer, subtler, more difficult to discern. Senseless. Elusive.

To understand both is to see the disconnect combined: An illusion of broken pieces transformed, returned to their true positions.

Filling, but only creating the yearning for more. Calm and peaceful, silently going about its work. Continuously.

The low hum of insects, the soft rustle of trees, the methodic thump of waves on the shore, and the slow, even breaths of life. It is smooth, and soft, falling down past your fingers.

The bittersweet smell of a rose tossed by a breeze from its perch. To wither, decay, and die. But still beautiful in its extant form. Life begets life. Unending. The light dying down, into the night, and back again. The singular existence as both an opening and a close.

The setting sun is an incomplete conclusion

Skull

Bob MaddenOil Paint on Canvas

Excellence in Writing 2021-2022

Congradulations to the winners of the Excellence in Writing Contest!

Thank you to all who submitted. There were several great essays in the running, and everyone should be very proud of their work. Our official contest winners are...

1000-level winner: Anna Shuler

“South Korean Militarized Masculinity in Peppermint Candy”

Written for Honors 1330: Men and Women in Non-Western Pop Culture

Taught by Kate Weber in Spring 2022

2000-level winner: Nick Black

“Malaria”

Written for Honors 2030: Disease of Fear and Fear of Disease

Taught by Rob Wilson in Spring 2022

*3000-level winner: KirstenMarch

“Period Poverty: How the Difficulty of Accessing Menstrual Products Affects Women”

Written for Honors 3030: International Political Economy

Taught Charlie Herrick in Spring 2022

* Denotes featured contest winner

Period Poverty: How the Difficulty of Accessing Menstrual Products Affects Women Kirsten March

Period poverty is one of the world’s biggest economic health crises, but is hardly ever discussed. Many different cultures consider menstruation a taboo topic and ignore the problem of product unavailability. Over half of the world’s population menstruate, but five million people lack access to period products and hygiene facilities (Geng, 2021). When menstrual products are not readily available, women suffer. The connection between a person who menstruates and their cycle is intimate and significantly influences their self-image. When those in poverty cannot easily access period products and hygiene facilities, it can have a considerable impact on mental and physical health, self-esteem, and other different aspects of life. Period poverty is an invasion of human rights that needs to be more widely discussed. Many people consider menstruation a graphic topic.Therefore, period poverty is not commonly discussed making the scale of this crisis unknown to the majority. The taboo air around menstruation contributes to period poverty and affects many different facets of women’s lives. Periods are considered a highly explicit topic not to be openly discussed. Even now in the 21st century, where so many strides have been made in women's rights, there is an air of confusion and mystery surrounding menstruation and all it encompasses. However, there have been moves to destigmatize periods. One of these attempts is the Pixar movie Turning Red. This movie is about a young girl going through puberty and her experience with entering womanhood. Upon the release of this movie, it immediately received bad reviews from people who felt the topic was far too mature for children. According to Radhika Menon (2022), a writer with bustle.com, parents felt the topics discussed in the movie, namely menstruation, were too mature for PG audiences. The age range for PG movies starts at eight. The average age for a girl to start her period is twelve. Publicly proclaiming that a pre-teen girl, who has most likely already started going through puberty, is too young to watch a movie about her current situation is highly damaging. This thinking causes young girls to feel shameful about something completely natural and a huge part of life as a woman. It also prohibits them from fully learning about and understanding their bodies. According to a study done by Censuswide, nearly half of girls do not know what is happening the first time they have their period, and do not feel confident enough to tell anyone else they have started their period (PashaRobinson, 2017). This issue is a common experience. Girls are often discouraged from asking questions about their bodies. Girls as young as eight can start their period, but have no idea what is happening to them because they do not receive the education they need. Yemi Lufadeju, a journalist with unicef.org, writes

about how menstruation stigmas cause this lack of information. She claims that many girls do not have an accurate understanding of menstruation “as a normal biological process” and asserts that educating young girls before they have their first period “builds their confidence, contributes to social solidarity, and encourages healthy habits” (Lufadeju, 2018). This information should be readily available to both boys and girls from either home or school environments. Not all home environments are open to these conversations though, and neither are all schools. Menstruation is a part of sex education, and only thirty states require public schools to provide sex-ed courses (State Policies on Sex Education in Schools, 2020). Education about the menstrual cycle should not be contingent on sex-ed courses. This information should be openly discussed to fight against misinformation and to teach girls what to expect and how to properly care for themselves. When girls are not taught about menstruation at a young age, they grow up with limited information about their bodies. Additionally, by shaming girls from the time they start their period, girls are being taught that there is something wrong with them and that they are not truly feminine. This feeling influences women and girls to know the bare minimum about their cycles. Because there is a feeling of shame that surrounds the female body, the menstrual cycle is not understood to its full extent by the majority of menstruators. Chris Bobel and Elizabeth Kissling (2011) state in their article, “Menstruation Matters: Introduction to Representations of the Menstrual Cycle”, that menstruation is a constant in most women’s lives for forty years (p. 122). For forty years, a woman deals with misinformation and misconceptions about her period. Bobel and Kissling (2011) explain that there are many factors about the menstrual system that connects with the body's health that many women do not realize (p. 123). They give the example of the endocrinologist Jerilynn Prior’s research that shows how the ovulatory menstrual cycle is linked to the bones’ ability to grow minerals, and that suppression of ovulation—which occurs with hormonal birth control—can lead to early osteoporosis (Bobel & Kissling, 2011, p. 123). When the female body and the menstrual cycle are not fully explained or understood, women do not know to what extent medications can affect their bodies and their cycles. A great deal of this lack of information is due to the way society views women. The way society treats women significantly influences how young girls see themselves as they grow up and mature. Society portrays the message that women’s bodies are objects and their purpose is to please men. This notion is continually reinforced. From ads to movies, women are seen as sexual objects made for men's pleasure. According to UNICEF USA, a study shows that across fifty-eight different magazines, 51.8% of advertisements that featured women portrayed them as sex objects, and 76% of the time women were objectified in advertisements, they featured in men’s magazines (Not An Object: On Sexualization

and Exploitation of Women and Girls, 2021). Young girls seeing these media portrayals and not fully understanding their own bodies cause self-image issues. The differing “representations of the menstrual cycle reveal how women internalize destructive messages about womanhood including notions of our bodies as messy, unruly things … that need to be tidied up, medicated, plucked, smoothed, and trimmed” (Bobel & Kissling, 2011, p. 123). Women see these messages of what a ‘normal’ body should look like, and they hardly ever include common biological experiences. Continually objectifying and sexualizing women causes people, men specifically, to see women as something entirely different from themselves. Many men do not fully understand what menstruation is, and therefore see women who are menstruating as unclean. Tomi-Ann Roberts and her colleagues (2002) in their article “‘Feminine Protection’: The Effects of Menstruation on Attitudes Towards Women,” found that when a man knew a woman was on her period, it caused them to look down on her competence, decrease liking for her, and tend to avoid sitting close to her (p. 133). When women are on their periods, they are often seen as lesser, and the struggles they face are only taken at face value. The way menstruation is perceived and talked about makes it difficult for period poverty to be seen as a serious issue. Since menstruation is a highly censored topic, period poverty is often ignored and not seen as a real problem. However, it is a serious health crisis that impacts a significant amount of the world’s population. Period poverty is explained as “a lack of access to menstrual products, hygiene facilities, waste management, and education” by Janet Michel and her colleagues (2022) in their article “Period poverty: why it should be everybody’s business” (p.1). All of these aspects are difficult to attain for many different groups, especially those who live in poverty. In her article “Menstrual Capitalism, Period Poverty, and the Role of the B Corporation”, Victoria Haneman (2021) makes the statement; “Period poverty is an example of stigma and taboo colliding: The poor are stigmatized and menstruation is taboo” (p. 133). Mass attention shifted to period poverty when different, but common, stories were told of girls around the world using whatever they could to replace the menstrual products their parents could not afford. These stories made many realize that period products may not be as easily accessible as they originally thought. Haneman (2021) reports that 41% of children, including almost 13% of girls, live in low-income families in the United States (p. 133). With so many families living in poverty, it is easy to see why period poverty is such an issue. In “Understanding Period Poverty: SocioEconomic Inequalities in Menstrual Hygiene Management in Eight Low- and Middle-Income Countries”, Laura Rossouw and Hana Ross performed a study on how exactly period poverty affects different incomes. They found that females from households with lower incomes are less likely to have access to clean, safe, and lockable spaces for menstrual hygiene management, and are less likely to have access to soap and water when compared to females living in wealthier

households (Rossouw & Ross, 2021, p. 6). According to Regis College (2021), 1.25 billion females worldwide do not have access to safe, private toilets, and 526 million women and girls do not have access to toilets at all. These things should be considered basic human rights ; therefore a lack of access to these should be considered a failure to provide for fundamental human needs.

Shailini Vora, the author of The Palgrave Handbook of Critical Menstruation Studies, writes about the struggles homeless women face related to period poverty. She reports that single women account for over 25% of the users of homeless services in the UK, and 28% of people in the U.S. experiencing homelessness are single women (Vora, 2020, p. 31). The disadvantages menstruating homeless women face stems from the societal view of what a period should look like. Since it is commonly thought that “the normal body is not a bleeding body,” the cultural representation of “sticky, messy femininity places menstruating women at the borders of social legitimacy,” the deplorable is also personified by the homeless woman for “her body is subject to stigmatization and marginalization; in the public imaginary, she is cast as ‘dirty,’ ‘deviant,’ and ‘transgressive’” (Vora, 2020, p. 33-34). A homeless woman's menstruation experience is especially stigmatized since she herself is already considered tainted. These women do not have clean, safe spaces of their own to deal with all of the effects related to menstruation. Due to housing insecurity, homeless women are constantly moving from place to place, even when it physically pains them to do so. One woman stated she experienced back problems while menstruating, making it difficult for her to move. However, she has to be constantly moving, changing from one house to another, compromising her ability for self-care and controlling her levels of discomfort (Vora, 2020, p. 35). Many homeless women share this experience. To women restricted by their ability to move and poor financial situations, a socially acceptable, clean, and concealed period is near impossible to attain.

Period poverty also significantly impacts students. Since some students do not have the means to buy period products, they often miss school. Due to a lack of access to pads and tampons: nearly one in five American students miss school, 28% of girls in Uganda do not attend classes, and 70% of Malawi female students miss one to three days of school per month (Regis College Online, 2021). Though many feel that schools, especially college campuses, would be a place to find easily attainable products, this is not always the case. The State of the Period (2021) study shows that three in five students rarely or never find free period products in school bathrooms. Period products should be considered as essential as toilet paper and therefore provided in all public restrooms. When schools do not provide free products, students feel as though their school does not care about them, which can lead to educational damages (State of the Period, 2021, p. 2). Studies also show that 23% of students have struggled to afford

products themselves; 16% have chosen to buy period products over food or clothes; 51% of students have worn period products for longer than recommended (State of the Period, 2021, p. 2). Women are having to choose which basic human needs they should provide for because they cannot afford both. Additionally, the prices and taxes placed on menstrual products make them especially difficult to attain.

In many countries, period products are too expensive for women and girls to regularly purchase when needed. Period products are taxed as luxury items in several countries because they are not seen as essential. There are examples of this tax all over the world, most commonly called the tampon tax or the pink tax. In their article “Paying for Our Periods: The Campaign to Tackle Period Poverty and End the Tampon Tax in the UK”, Laura Coryton and Lucy Russell explain the tampon tax in the context of the UK. They report that the tampon tax started at 17.3% in 1973, but was reduced to 5% in 2001 before finally being abolished in 2021, after decades of protests (Coryton & Russell, 2021, p. 2). There are still many countries that have this tax though. In “Period Poverty and the Menstrual Product Tax in the United States”, Bhuchitra Singh and his colleagues (2020) report that the U.S. is a major contributor to period poverty due to the pink tax on menstrual products (p. 68S). They claim that as of 2019, thirty-five states have taxes on menstrual products at rates between 4.70% to 9.90% (Singh et. al., 2020, p.68S). U.S. welfare programs, such as the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) and the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC), also do not cover the cost of these vital supplies. Lower-income women are left with few options on how to access products and hygiene facilities. These difficulties especially plague incarcerated women.

Over the past decade, there has been an increase of women in United States prison facilities. According to Jessica Bostock (2021) in her article “Period poverty in prison: an intersectional commentary on the lived experiences of incarcerated women in U.S. prison facilities”, in 2017 there were approximately 219,000 women incarcerated in the nation; this is a 700% growth since 1980 (p. 2). Many prisons across the country lack sufficient menstrual supplies for female inmates. Because the penal system was originally designed for the male body, the needs of the female body are largely overlooked, and, since women menstruate routinely within a prison, inmates often have to ask for menstrual products from male guards who “can either meet your needs or refuse you” (Bostock, 2021, p. 4). Period products being handed out at the discretion of prison workers is, unfortunately, common. In her article “Bloody Hell: How Insufficient Access to Menstrual Hygiene Products Creates Inhumane Conditions for Incarcerated Women”, Lauren Shaw (2019) reports that corrections officers use this as a “means of control by limiting access to feminine hygiene products as a

punishment or form of humiliation” (p. 476). By using period products as a type of leverage, prison guards promote the view that access to products is a luxury and something that is earned. Some facilities also often sell feminine hygiene products in the prison store. However, many women cannot afford to buy them due to limited funds, increased prices, or both. Even when women can afford them, the privilege to purchase items from the commissary can be taken away (Shaw, 2019, p. 476-477). Making menstrual products difficult to obtain is damaging to a woman’s mental and emotional health.

Many female inmates have felt ashamed and humiliated because they did not have the free use of period products. One New York inmate, who was not given any feminine hygiene products while she was menstruating, was subjected to a strip search, where “while blood ran down her legs, the corrections officer berated her with degrading comments, including how disgusting she was” (Shaw, 2019, p. 477). The feelings of embarrassment and degradation are amplified for women who are housed in solitary confinement. Most power in prison is established and obtained through herd mentality in solitary confinement, inmates have had to menstruate on already unclean floors, covered with bodilywaste due to no provision of pads or tampons (Bostock, 2021, p. 5). Even when prisons do give supplies to the inmates, they are often of poor quality. Bostock (2021) reports that female inmates in different facilities across America were given small wingless pads and no tampons (p. 5). Treating these women in a degrading manner and not supplying adequate supplies during menstruation supports the notion that periods are unnatural and shameful. These feelings can crucially affect a woman’s mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Period poverty greatly impacts the deeper levels of a woman’s life as well.

Difficulty to access menstrual products and hygiene facilities impacts many different aspects of a woman’s life. From mental and physical health, to academic and professional lives, the impacts of period poverty have a far reach. As reported by Lauren Cardoso and her colleagues (2021) in “Period poverty and mental health implications among college-aged women in the United States”, 68.1% of women reported symptoms consistent with moderate to severe depression out of those who reported experiencing period poverty every month

(p. 3). Due to the difficulty of access to adequate period products and hygiene facilities, a woman’s mental health severely suffers. These feelings are exacerbated amongst college students due to the high prevalence of stress, anxiety, and depression already experienced by this group (Singh et al., 2020, p. 5). Period poverty can also have adverse health effects. According to “Period poverty impact on the economic empowerment of women”, a study done by Kerina Tull (2019), women who experience a lack of access to hygiene facilities often develop coping strategies during their period, such as eating and drinking less (p. 2). These coping strategies can cause negative consequences to one's

health, such as dehydration and malnutrition. Women also report that they will use the bathroom as little as possible, since they do not have access to clean facilities (Tull, 2019, p.2). Not using the bathroom when needed causes an increased risk of contracting a urinary tract infection. Studies in Kenya have shown that school-aged girls often partake in transactional sex so they can afford period products. This can lead to sexually transmitted infections and risks of violence as well as other dangers (Regis College Online, 2021). The adverse mental and physical health outcomes connected to period poverty are continually increasing as more studies are done on the topic. Multiple studies on period poverty all report the same thing, women have difficulty focusing on daily tasks when they cannot access menstrual products or hygiene facilities.

Women and girls say they have trouble doing their best on schoolwork (State of the Period, 2021, p. 2), many girls miss class, or drop out of school altogether (Tull, 2019, p. 8), and women miss work on an average of six days a month while menstruating (Michel et al., 2022, p. 2). All of these are the result of not having access to period products or hygiene facilities. These consequences can significantly impact a woman’s life. When girls have school-related troubles due to period poverty, it can compromise their education. Those who drop out of school have difficulty entering into career fields and, if they do, they find themselves in low-paying jobs, continuing the cycle of economic and social poverty (Michel et al., 2022, p. 2). By continually missing school or dropping out altogether, these girls and women will not be able to reach their full academic and professional potential. Studies have also shown that there is a link between menstruation and lost wages (Regis College Online, 2021). When the absences of girls at school and women in the workplace due to period poverty are brushed aside and not taken for the serious problem it is, it sends the message that female needs are not important. When it is accepted that females will be withdrawn from certain parts of their lives while they are menstruating because they do not feel comfortable or adequately prepared, school and work environments further the notion that they would much rather the person be gone than to help them supply for their basic human needs. It sends the message that these places value ‘comfortable’ environments over the needs of women. However, measures are being taken to fight against period poverty today.

Many different companies, nonprofit organizations, and activism groups are trying to shed light on the seriousness of period poverty. Feminine hygiene product companies such as August, Lola, and Thinx donate their products to underserved schools (Impact, n.d.) and women in need (Giveback, n.d.); (GiveRise, n.d.). Other companies such as Flex help women save money due to their products being reusable. Nonprofits such as PERIOD: the menstrual movement and the Myna Mahila Foundation distribute period products, host educational workshops to fight against stigmas, and employ women to make feminine

hygiene products for their communities (Regis College Online, 2021).

Strides have also been made on the tampon tax front. Due to public protests, five states have abolished their tampon tax, and Period Equity, a nonprofit, is preparing lawsuits against the remaining states that have not removed the tampon tax (Regis College Online, 2021). In addition, the EU has committed to eliminating its tampon tax across the member states in 2022 (Rodriguez, 2021). Though it has not been voted on yet, there has been a bill introduced into The House that would incentivize schools to provide free pads and tampons and would require employers with a certain amount of employees to supply period products (H.R.3614 - Menstrual Equity For All Act of 2021, n.d.). Overall, significant strides are being made to end period poverty, but there is still more that can be done.

Allison Casola and her colleagues give many different suggestions in their article “Menstrual Health: Taking Action Against Period Poverty”. They advise having open discussions about period poverty in community settings, such as city council and school board meetings (Casola et al., 2022, p. 374). Making menstrual education more widely available in general is also a great step. When girls and women are educated on their bodies, they are more confident and will be able to safely and properly handle their periods. The topic of menstruation as a natural biological function should be widely taught to destigmatize periods. When the taboos about menstruation are taken away, it will be easier to recognize period poverty as a serious issue. Allison Casola and her colleagues (2022) also suggest looking into one’s own community to fully understand its impact, and to advocate for menstrual equality by contacting elected officials at the community, state, and federal levels (p. 376). There is so much that can still be done to push back against period poverty. If society continues to willingly ignore period poverty and all of the negative effects it has on menstruators, it sends the message that women are still considered secondclass citizens.

Period poverty is a serious health crisis and needs to be considered as such. The fact that over half of the world’s population menstruates, but five million people do not have access to pads and tampons is alarming. The taboo air around periods needs to be dismantled so change can happen. Periods already have a significant impact on mental health and self-image, but when the added stresses of not having adequate products are thrown into the mix, it can cause women to view their concerns as unimportant and second to others. Period poverty should be regarded as the global violation of human rights that it is.

Politicians and world leaders must acknowledge the fact that their citizens are struggling to meet basic human needs. For change to happen, period poverty and menstruation need to be more openly discussed without the stigmas attached to them.

References

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Author Biographies

Nonni Adams is an art education major. She transferred from St. Charles Community College to UMSL in Fall 2020 with hopes of pursuing her passions for art and teaching. Nonni’s hobbies include painting, photography, and writing poetry.

Isaac Baker is a senior in the Honors College who enjoys dabbling in creative endeavors. He hopes to spread peace across the galaxy.

Alex Balogh is a poet of place, currently residing in St. Louis.

Mollie Bettes is a graphic design major. She is currently working towards a BFA in graphic design. She is a photographer and also owns a small business in Illinois. She is hoping to be a designer in a marketing company when she graduates.

Fanita Irene Carrawell is an Alumni of UMSL. She received a bachelor’s degree in Spanish in December of 2011. She also received a certificate in Community Health Worker in March 2016 and a certificate in Medical Assistant in July 2019. She graduated with honors in all of her degrees and certificates. She enjoys singing and writing songs and poetry. She also likes going to karaoke. She hopes to publish her own poetry book one day.

Nino Cipriano is a graphic design student that likes to experiment with traditional media as well. He has a love for the weird and the strange.

Anna Connoley is a group of plot bunnies who have taken human form. Once in a while the plot bunnies work together well enough to actually make something, and the result is an exhausted but satisfied storyteller who never wants to stop creating. The plot bunnies hope these creations have satisfied you enough that you will consider being on their side in the coming war.

Grace DeGuire is an English major with a focus on creative writing at UMSL. She is an aspiring writer and hopes that in sharing some of her experiences, feelings, and struggles, others may find comfort in her words. Because that’s what poetry, books, blogs, and song lyrics provide for her when she is at a loss. She is grateful to have been given the opportunity to share some of her work on a creative, collaborative platform like this.

Esmeralda Flores is a second year English major hoping to graduate with a master’s and use her degree to become a published author and her own per-

sonal cover artist. She loves cooking, playing video games, and practicing her art/writing when she can find the time.

Abby Foust is an Honors College student who has no idea what she’s doing in life, but at least she’s doing something.

Meghan Gallagher is a student of studio practice. Meghan is currently in her senior year and thrilled to be able to work in the field of art. Meghan currently works in elementary education in a before and afterschool program with fifth graders and loves the challenge they present. In Meghan’s spare time she enjoys watching films, crocheting, and doing adventurous things with the people she loves.

Daniel J. Grasso is a master’s student in philosophy from West Palm Beach, FL. In his free time he likes to read Russian literature, go to Forest Park, and watch pretentious movies.

Jorden Hendree is currently a senior in the Honors College, and is graduating in December 2022 with a bachelor’s degree in studio arts seeking to start his own independent business selling personal curations of his artworks. He hopes one day to also become a philanthropist and help more of the community.

Cat Hill is a recent graduate of UMSL/PLHC and certified English teacher. Throughout her college career, she obtained essential knowledge and experience for her career, formed meaningful connections with peers and faculty members, and spent an embarrassing amount of time on dating apps. Nonetheless, she has still been published in Bellerive 4 times.

Jada Iman’s name is a direct translation to “Beautiful Faith” in Arabic. She is an activist, poet, and scholar. She will graduate from the UMSL Honors College in Spring 2023 with an English major and biology minor. In the fall of 2023, she plans to attend an HBCU law school to study malpractice law.

Amy Kenny is a senior in the Honors College, majoring in psychology, and working on an English minor and a certificate in creative writing. She has been writing poems and short stories since grade school and is thrilled to have her work published in Bellerive! She is always ready to write down any story or poem ideas whenever they come to her and looks forward to continuing to explore her passion for writing.

Cullen Landolt enjoys losing tennis matches and inhaling science fiction. He currently works at UMSL Global as an International Enrollment Advisor.

Alicia Larson received her bachelor’s in English from UMSL and went on to earn a master’s in English from Southern Illinois University–Edwardsville while managing the writing center at Southwestern Illinois College–Belleville. She now teaches English Composition at SIUE and works with SWIC's TRIO Student Support Services – to address access issues, knock down socioeconomic and ableist barriers, and to promote overall equity within institutions of higher education. Alicia is also a mother and a wife, and is actively seeking out hobbies and passions that remind her that she is also still a woman – one who enjoys finding new places to eat, biking the MCT trails, creating pottery, writing lyrics and poetry, as well as singing every chance she gets.

Malik Lendell, when not writing, enjoys watching anime on Netflix, brunching at local restaurants with friends, and crying alone in the bathroom.

Bob Madden is a junior pursuing his bachelor’s of fine art/studio practice with a minor in art history. Currently serving as president of the student organization ‘Artists Anonymous’ he intends to continue to work with nonprofits to connect art and society in a way that will positively impact the world we live in.

Kirsten March is a political science major in her final year of study at UMSL. She enjoys writing essays about important social causes in order to raise awareness about adversities people continue to face in society today.

Ian McCann is an eclectic student of life, using what works, and leaving behind what doesn’t work.

Kenny Miller is a degenerate and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. He graduated with a degree in history in May of 2022, probably caused a famine in a third world country, and is currently living in the tunnels under Provincial House.

Emma Moore is an artist, graphic designer, and junior in the Honors College at UMSL. She enjoys exploring new tools and techniques that makes her art stand out. She dreams of having her own studio and having her art recognized. In her free time, Emma attends heavy metal shows, plays video games, and watches horror movies with her husband.

William Mullins is a marketing major who loves photography and being able to share what he sees with the people around him. Hoping to possibly get his name out there.

Cynthia Nathan is a studio art major and Honors College student looking for a good time, not a long time.

Bri Petty is a senior pursuing a biology degree with interests in animal care and conservation. They have had a fascination with art since childhood and hope to make a business out of their art work in the future.

Aimee Pieper is an Honors College student and a Spanish major. Aimee has achieved their minor in studio art, and although they are studying Spanish they are currently working in digital marketing, with the hopes to write and publish more books, short stories, and poems on the side. Their work is most accessible by reading Brain Stew.

Lauren Poitras is a third year student in the graphic design program and a seventh year art student. Creation is her driving force. Lauren graduated from Webster University in 2019, with a bachelor’s in studio art, before attending UMSL to obtain a bachelor’s degree in graphic design, hoping to expand her talent reach in each field. She loves film, video games, graphic novels and her puppy, Lilah.

Amanda C. Royer is a fine arts major at UMSL. Her favorite part of art is creating it. She is influenced by bright colors, texture, patterns, light, personal interests, and values creative freedom. Amanda is a hard-working individual. She is partially self-taught and partially trained by her experiences in her art classes. In her education as an artist, she has worked as a student of Maureen Quigley, Michael Behle, Lisa Scott, and several other artists.

Sydney Stark is a dual criminology & criminal justice and Spanish major aspiring to attend law school. Some of Syd's passions are reading all genres of literature, playing ice hockey, and finding herself through poetry and other forms of creative expression.

Sarah Stith's art revolves around the memories she has collected over her lifetime. Her art explores the themes of childhood wonders through media such as acrylic paint, white charcoal, and Prismacolor colored pencils. Sarah plans to graduate from the Pierre Laclede Honors College in May 2023. By majoring in biology on the pre-optometry route, Sarah hopes to one day become an optometrist.

Kaiya Storm is an English major in the Teach in Twelve Program at UMSL as well as a member of the Honors College. She hopes to one day teach as an English professor to college students and travel the world!

Sunny is a studio arts major looking to get their bachelor’s in fine arts. He hopes to learn all he can in UMSL's art program before going on to an Art and Design school on the East Coast. While they are excited to become a full-time artist one day, he knows he has a lot of hard work and learning to do to get there.

K.C. Terra is a BCBT major hoping to get into dental school. While she often indulges in sci-fi and historical romance, her writing comes from her heart and soul, and she hopes to touch the hearts of readers who may relate to her personal experiences.

Abby Wall goes to school here. Sometimes is funny.

Taylor Weintrop is a graduate student serving as a graduate teaching assistant on campus with UMSL. She is currently a writing center consultant and is preparing to teach first year composition in the coming semesters. Poetry was her first literary love and while she is predominantly working on academic writing at this time, poetry has remained a safe haven for expression that she holds dearly.

Abigail Wetteroff does not know how best to describe herself. Not yet, anyway. She is majoring in English.

Jarron White is an alumni from the University of Missouri–Saint Louis. They self published their first book last year titled ‘Midnight Mirage’ with a focus on poetry and short stories. They love to cook, play piano, and workout. Currently, they are beginning their search for a career and working on different forms of writing.

Staff Notes

ART

“We’ve got three looks, three looks, three looks, Three looks

We’ve got three looks And that's IT!

We’ve got Emma the chair, A couple normal people, Jerrica, Nora, And Jay!”

– Lyrics originally taken from Three Looks by Jenna Marbles

EDITING

The nature of the flamingos in the wild Sumatra are fascinating to observe. Our Editing Committee took a trip into Sumatra to observe how a flamingo might act in real life as research for our passion project, the Wild-ification of Flamingos magazine! It was such a dream of ours to observe the majesty that was the wild flamingo. You’d be surprised at how much they’re like the domesticated flamingos at the zoo!

Our favorite snack that we took with us on this trip was the baked Bellerive that we all made together. Through our labor of love, blood, sweat, and tears, we compiled the most delicious blend of poetry, art, and prose, creating the award winning Bellerive bread. If you try out this recipe, we hope you enjoy, and be sure to fold in the commas gently!

Recipe to crafting a well formatted Bellerive Journal:

3 teaspoons of Sarah Chappell

3 and a half sticks of Anna Connoley

A sprinkle of Greta Fox

A smidge of Gavin Graves

A dash of Amelia Khan

A healthy sprinkle of Aimee Pieper

Then top it off with some Bushra Zaidi

A cup of Lauren Bearden-Kyser

Put it in a room for an hour for multiple sittings and voila! You have a book without type-os

LAYOUT

Layout worships their first typo, Authgor.

Immersed in the battle with Quark, our heroes – Amy, Cynthia, Isaac, and Vernisia– have endured a long but ultimately successful, or maybe just satisfying, journey.

Throughout the semester, Authgor has guided them, tricked them, and occasionally given them hope, only to pull the green, faded, floral rug out from under them once more. Through fierce discussions about paragraph spacing and fonts, eating red grapes Cynthia brought (damn Aldi, nice job there), and many an “a-ha!” moment.

All hail Authgor, daemon of Quark, and the blood of the creatives. Bellerive, child of Authgor, shall continue to grow and thrive under Authgor’s tutelage at the University and perhaps, one day, the world?

STAFF PICTURE

Back Row (L to R): Amy Kenny, Cynthia Nathan, Jay Gaskin, Jerrica Davis, Anna Connoley, William Mullins, Isaac Baker, Vernisia White, Drew Ryherd, & Gavin Graves

Front Row (L to R): Aimee Pieper, Sarah Chappell, Bushra Zaidi, Nora Stith, Emma Moore, Lauren Bearden-Kyser, Amelia Khan, Greta Fox, & Audri Adams

Special Thanks

To our alumni:

Though you have moved on from UMSL, you remain a valued part of Bellerive You’ve been published by us, and sometimes you’ve also been Bellerive staff members. You complete the cycle of writers at all stages of development. You inspire with your continued pursuit of creative endeavors and your willingness to share your creative works.

To our readers:

Your purchase of this volume signifies an investment in the future of Bellerive and supports the Honors College’s goal of promoting excellence in the arts. We hope you enjoyed this issue and continue to be a patron of ours. We can’t operate without the continued support of readers like you, and we hope that you will enjoy Bellerive for years to come.

To our future submitters:

We look forward to and welcome your creative works. If you’d like to submit your previously unpublished poetry, prose, art, and music to the upcoming issue of Bellerive, you can find our submission form through this link: bit.ly/3PKvHf2. Our submission window is from January 1 through October 1.

To our current and future contributers:

We can’t thank you enough for your financial support of Bellerive. Your helping hand literally publishes our book. If you’d like to be a part of benefitting Bellerive, please visit bit.ly/givebellerive, and select “The Bellerive Fund.” Thank you!