Allora e Adesso - Issue 02

ALLORA ALLORA ALLORA ALLORA ALLORA

ADESSO

SNAKE PRINT

CONTENT WARNING

Viewer discretion is advised

The material in this issue may cause discomfort for some viewers.

This issue includes content regarding:

Objectification and sexualization of women

Semi-nudity

HIV/AIDS Sex

Profanity

Oppression

Religion/spirituality

Politics

With careful research and personal testimonies, we have created pieces that coincide with the topics listed. The Snake

Print team understands that the following topics are severe issues throughout our world and have decided it is beneficial to discuss the topics with this consideration in mind.

SNAKE PRINT

OWNER:

Allison Rainey

WRITING & COPYRIGHT TEAM:

Chief Editor:

Isabelle Hancock

Director of Writing:

Diégo De Jesús

Writers:

Kailynn Bannon, Caroline Bryant, Aurora Dube, Beatrice Fleurant, Natalie

Garrison, Isabelle Hancock, Diégo De Jesús, Emma Matzen, Allison Rainey, Maggie Walker

DESIGN & CREATIVES TEAM:

Creative Content Director:

Caroline Bryant

Director of Design:

Sydney Silva

Design Production:

Kailynn Bannon, Caroline Bryant, Beatrice Fleurant, Natalie Garrison, Isabelle Hancock, Capri Procopio, Allison Rainey, Sydney Silva, Capri

Costume Design: Madison Blithe

PHOTOGRAPHY TEAM:

Lead Photographer: Morgan Shelton

Photographers: Kevin Bua, Isabelle Hancock, Jack

Portune, Allison Rainey, Sydney Silva

MARKETING & PUBLIC RELATIONS TEAM:

Community Outreach Coordinator: Natalie Garrison

FEATURED MODELS:

Emmy Aguilar

Naomi Awe

Steven Badorf

Sami Beason

Caroline Bryant

Shane Claycomb

Aries Crosby

Mikaela Dick

Zach Donofrio

Beatrice Fleurant

Ariana Foster

Sophia Francisco

Natalie Garrison

Naryah Grant

Isabelle Hancock

Raven Harrison

Kaela Hester

Elyssa Horwitz

Jessica Hudak

Jane-Elizabeth Hudson

Malachi Jean

Diégo De Jesús

Chloe Johnson

Natalie Leah

Lily McSpadden

Amo Oehler

Capri Procopio

Allison Rainey

Anna Shen

Morgan Shelton

Sydney Silva

Zion Virgil

Maggie Walker

Jack Wilkens

Tanzy Zviitwah

ALLORA

Allora e Adesso:

Italian for “then and now.” This idea was sparked when the topic of female portraiture came about in my college art class. These paintings were of Renaissance women who needed to maintain themselves to the standard placed by men of this time. They were adorned with symbols of their husband’s families and were flaunted as if they were decor themselves. I was disgusted. Then, I thought to myself that this wasn’t just a moment of the past; this is something that is currently infesting modern lives.

This thought created a spiral of conversations, and we soon found similarities from the 14th century to specifically the 70s and on. The constraints on women, LGBTQ+ people, religion, race, etc. There are many moments in time that we look back on and think about how much pain and suffering occurred. We are currently living in moments that will be mourned and remembered. This issue comes to highlight the problems that were prominent in the Renaissance (then) and compares them to more modern themes (now).

There was so much beauty in the Renaissance. It was a time of rebirth. Culture, art and religion were the focal points. In more modern times, we see the celebration of culture but also the utter disrespect that is shown to multiple cultural groups. Religion is something that has been in discussion for quite a while. Religion provides hope and morals but also feeds into the idea of “who is right?” From the Crusades to the overturning of Roe v. Wade, religion has been used as a weapon.

Throughout this issue, you will see topics that are pulled from either the Renaissance and/or the 70s, and on. Please enjoy, and on behalf of the Snake Print team, thank you.

IN IN IN IN IN IN IN

TUNED

Take a listen to our curated playlist.

Flip through and enjoy the tunes that radiate the energy of this issue.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

By Maggie Walker

I have never really been “out” in the workplace. There have been places where I have not actively tried to hide it, but I have never broadcasted my gender or sexuality, and 99% of the time, it does not come up.

My first job was as my church’s primary babysitter. I had a few jobs working as a barista, but I excelled at taking care of kids. I still do, and I still babysit for the families I have stayed in touch with. I applied to work at a daycare in the summer of 2020 after my first barista job fell through. The daycare was run through another church, so I knew some of the problems that could arise, but because my dad was a pastor, I knew how to navigate a Christian work environment.

I spent a lot of time in my dad’s office and church nurseries growing up. I know how Christian men communicate their “very important” ideas about God, joke about their wives and poke fun at every denomination’s little quirks without ever confronting anything meaningful about the ideology they are poking fun at.

I know how Christians talk when they want to sound like they are putting in a lot of work in their relationship with God (they start talking about the importance of their daily morning prayer).

I also know how Christian women take their daughters who can’t sit still in church to the nursery so they can entertain toddlers instead of having to sit through another boring sermon. I know how to sing songs about Israelites escaping from Egypt and teach kids about Noah’s Ark over the animal crackers we feed them at snack time. I know how to sound pious, I know what words to say to impress a Godly person, and sound connected to the Creator of the universe through the way I serve Him.

Several context clues told me that this workplace cared about the sexual ethics of the teachers, but a good indicator came from the gossip people shared on my first day. The gossip was that their coworker had just moved in with her boyfriend (the scandal).

I remember the day of the 2020 election, I went in early to cover a coworker’s shift in the infant room. I was greeted by my coworker’s Trump jersey first and foremost, and many of the others were decked out in American flags or Trump gear. I sat down to rock one of the babies, and the teachers began talking about voting.

“Trump! Trump! Trump!” my coworker in the jersey chants. One of the teachers comments that she does not like Biden, but she would not hate anyone for voting blue.

“We can disagree and still be friends,” she says. The coworker in the jersey says she was disappointed to find out one of the parents of her kids planned to vote for Biden.

“I don’t hate Biden on most issues; I just don’t like abortion. That’s the main reason I’m voting for Trump,” she explains. One of the other teachers stops by to talk about how her husband put a Trump sign in their yard and how he wanted “everyone to know who they were voting for.”

I felt isolated and unsure of what to say. No one asks me to confess any deep, dark political secrets, likely because no one suspects me or even remembers that I can vote in this election, as I am the youngest worker in the room by far.

I wonder, for a moment, what they would think if I said something. What would they think if I said I was voting for Biden? What would they think if I said I was much further left than him? What would they think if they knew I liked women?

I suspect they would treat me like an alien, a queer invader there to snatch up the children, even though I have been working with children for over half my life and long before I even knew what being gay meant. I have a feeling there would be a talk with the director, and she would gently explain to me that they still wanted me to succeed, but elsewhere, preferably away from childcare facilities. Or maybe she would scold me for talking about “what I do in the bedroom,” as if

I am not a product (victim) of purity culture, terrified to even insinuate the concept of sex.

I didn’t say anything. Maybe I should have, and maybe, in a different timeline, that would be the right decision. The right decision, in this timeline, was to use my lunch break to vote for my rights.

When Will the Days be Good?

By Beatrice Fleurant

When change occurs

There will always be those who Don’t like it

Most are scared of the future

Some are ready to take the risk

And a few refuse it altogether

And long for “the good ol’ days”

Days that were Challenged

Protested

Questioned Days that forced some to hide

Who they are

Who they loved

Days that encouraged shame, hurt and guilt

Days that built systems that continue the oppression of countless minorities

Days in which people that looked like me were seen as less than human

Days in which the words of men were the loudest and the rest were silenced

Days that people paid with their lives to change

For the hope that the future days

Would be better

That generations to come

Would have courage to continue to change

The days they live in

When change occurs

There will always be those

Who are scared

Who are ready

Those who wish for those “good ol’ days”

But most important

Those who continue to fight

Fight for when the days

Will be good

Madonna and the Commodification of Women

By Aurora Dube

Sex sells. We use it to inspire art and sell beer; we sell the act itself in seedy underground bars and we sell the illusion of it in sold-out arenas. More often than not, it is women and their bodies that are commodified. This isn’t a new phenomenon; we’ve in fact seen the commodification of women in a repeated cycle for centuries. The iconic Venus paintings in all their many forms were one of the Renaissance’s representations of this. These were paintings of women, most often nude, from the perspective of the artist, most often male. They had a voyeuristic quality to them, with the viewer experiencing these women as the painter did. As The Venus paintings were being created, so were those of the Madonna.

The Virgin Mary is often referred to as The Madonna, Queen of the Universe and is famous for her body. In Christian religions, the Madonna is the perfect woman. She is the ultimate representation of purity and innocence, and her value as a figurehead is intrinsically tied to that fact, making her portraits stark in contrast to those of The Venus. Her value as a woman is placed in the simple fact that her body was never touched. Her body is a different kind of commodity, sold to us for its lack of sex and portrayed as the ideal version of a woman. She is the subject of many artworks, most often portrayed in white and soft blues that are symbolic of purity and innocence respectively. These paintings come with a different brand of voyeurism, where we put the Madonna on a pedestal as the symbol of what femininity should look like.

Madonna Ciccone, publicly known by her stage name Madonna, is a pop icon known

for her sex-positive discography. Her 1984 track, “Like A Virgin,” is an iconic piece of pop culture that capitalizes on the same commodification that The Madonna and The Venus represented before her. This is the idea that we can look, but it’ll all be ruined if we touch. However, Like a Virgin is so much more than that. It was Madonna’s second studio album, but the first one she took complete control of. She used virginity as a means of sexualization both in her lyrics and in the iconic music video for the title track. She’s dressed in white but singing lyrics about being touched for the first time, yet her smokey eye makeup and innuendos give the illusion of sex that ultimately sells. With the song, the music video, and the album, Madonna skyrocketed to fame and earned herself the title of The Queen of Pop.

Over the course of her career, she’s been made an icon and figurehead for the LGBTQ+ community. When Madonna published her book, Sex, she stirred controversy with her bold display of sexual liberation. In a time when the AIDS epidemic was rampant and sex was still very much taboo, Madonna used the intrigue surrounding sexuality as a means to highlight real issues that were affecting the LGBTQ+ community at that time. In this way, she used the commodification of her body to her own advantage, rather than someone else’s.

The irony in the parallels between these artistic figures is not lost. In fact, they sit at either end of the spectrum of society’s approved femininity—hypersexualization and extreme purity. They both represent the commodification of women, perpetuating the idea that a woman’s worth is synonymous with her body. They speak to the notion that a woman only has worth if she’s able to be looked at and sexualized. “Like a Virgin” is the artistic representation of both sides of the spectrum, and love it or hate it, it certainly sells.

DO N ’ T

“Attention-whore”

Don’t take my name. I have done what you asked and laid myself bare. Sold my soul for the life I thought I had dreamed of

“Show a little skin and get some attention.”

But it didn’t stop there, did it? Now my every action is a turn-on, every post is an outright tease. Your unwanted comments wait for me at every corner.

“It’s your job to be an object, really it’s a compliment to be so adored.” Everyone thinks that they want this life, but they don’t see how much you’re in control.

“Easy”

Don’t take my name. You all used it once, before I turned into this. Before I fell and fell and fell into the trap you laid before me.

Where hope and love have come to die, with me as their willing companion.

So many of you have come, promising to be better than the last. I cannot help but to believe you each time. Maybe it’s the look in your eyes or just naive hope, but I take you at your word.

I’ll bear the blame, the title of “slut” and become the whore who lets anyone in. But we both know who really knocked down the door.

We both know how you left like the wind.

By Natalie Garrison

“Undesirable”

Don’t take my name. Don’t write me off like I’m nothing I may not be perfect, or good by any means, but please someone tell me I’m something.

I see the other girls, how you hang them out to dry, how you use them until you grow bored. But the world will never be dull enough for you to consider someone like me.

A blessing, they say and I nod and agree, but they cannot possibly understand.

Guilt boils in my gut that I wish you would treat me like her, but it cannot compare to the ache of loneliness in my bones.

To be wanted for something I cannot control must be better than nothing at all? It has to be better than nothing at all.

“Washed up”

Don’t take my name. I have worked for an eternity to hold it for myself Would you be more considerate if I said please? I know how much you love us submissive.

You tear down my sisters for every toe out of line. Every inch that we stray from your desire. We must be docile and obedient, while still wild and fun, otherwise you’ll let us fade into obscurity.

Anything we share is yours for the taking, to shape into whatever fantasy you please. Every aspect of us must be commodified, but God forbid we do it ourselves.

Everyone knows a woman’s naked body is attractive only when it’s against her will.

The Love That Dare (Not)

By Emma Matzen

When people think of the Gay Rights Movement they think of the Stonewall Riots of 1969. However, they don’t always consider the events that led up to the riots. The Stonewall Inn was one of many gay clubs that was frequently raided by police who would arrest patrons and employees. The primary reason for these raids was that engaging in “homosexual behavior” in public was still illegal at the time – though many of these bars operated without liquor licenses due to being Mafia-owned. It was primarily due to prejudice against homosexuality that these raids occurred. The riots lasted from June 28 until July 3.

A month following Stonewall, hundreds of LGBTQ+ people, armed with lavender sashes and armbands, took to marching the streets of New York city. Lavender came to symbolize empowerment from its history of being associated with homosexuality as early as the 19th century. The same year, a homophobic leader of the feminist

Speak Its Name

movement and president of The National Organization for Women (NOW), Betty Frieden described lesbians as the “Lavender Menace” – alluding to the “Red Menace” of the Cold War. However, that didn’t stop lesbians from reclaiming the term, quickly spreading lavender’s meaning to the rest of the LGBTQ+ community.

Lavender isn’t the first instance of the LGBTQ+ community taking back a symbol of hate. The infamous pink triangle originates from Nazi Germany, the downward-facing triangle sewn into the clothes of gay men to not only identify but further dehumanize them. In 1972, an autobiography by Heinz Herger was published; The Men With The Pink Triangle. Following its publication, the pink triangle began to be reclaimed. LGBTQ+ people did not want this piece of history to be forgotten, and by reclaiming its symbol, they were able to achieve that. By the time of the HIV/AIDS crisis of the late 1970s and 80s, the pink triangle reappeared largely because of the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP), who used a right side up version of the pink

triangle to promote their message. In ACT UP’s manifesto, they wrote, “silence about the oppression and annihilation of gay people, then and now, must be broken as a matter of our survival.” Thus came the phrase “SILENCE = DEATH”, paired with the pink triangle.

The HIV/AIDS crisis devastated the nation, particularly gay communities. Lesbians did the most they could to support gay and bisexual men during this time, as they were the community affected the most. Unfortunately, because HIV/AIDS was called “the gay cancer” and thought to be a disease that could only be contracted by homosexuals, it was not acknowledged until 1985 by President Reagan. By this time, the disease made a huge impact on straight communities and children worldwide. Even then, it was only due to a news reporter prompting him with the question, and it wasn’t until 1987 that Reagan would give a speech about the HIV/AIDS crisis, nearly a decade after the disease had first appeared in the U.S.

Today, the LGBTQ+ community has fought many battles for its members’ rights, such as gay marriage being legalized nationwide in 2015. However, in recent years there have been several steps backward due to conservative leadership in government. The overturning of Roe v. Wade in 2022 was a turning point in the lack of autonomy millions of people have over their own bodies in the U.S. The overturning of Roe v. Wade followed multiple state laws taking away rights from transgender people, specifically minors. Several states have enacted a law involving the “checking” of a minor’s genitals to “prove” their gender, as well as disallowing transgender individuals from participating in sports. When one group faces discrimination, it will only bleed into other groups.

It’s been said over and over: we must not forget our history.

I fell a-weeping, and I cried, ‘Sweet youth, Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove These pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth What is thy name?’ He said, ‘My name is Love.’ Then straight the first did turn himself to me And cried, ‘He lieth, for his name is Shame, But I am Love, and I was wont to be Alone in this fair garden, till he came Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.’ Then sighing, said the other, ‘Have thy will, I am the love that dare not speak its name.’

- From Two Loves

by Lord Alfred Douglas

A Dash in Between

By Diégo De Jesús

My identity wasn’t a big part of my childhood. I learned I was Hispanic through my name, but I learned I was Puerto Rican–or Borican, I later learned–when I was in high school from my abuelo. My family’s from Mayagüez, my abuelo told me. It’s on the western coast of Puerto Rico. He would tell me about all his visits to the island when he was growing up, adventuring through the jungle or walking through narrow Spaniard cobblestone streets twisting his ankles. But whenever I asked him what our trade was, he never answered. I continued to ask him over the years, only met with the same answer. I needed someone to tell me more about myself, and it was frustrating how my abuelo wouldn’t, couldn’t, or maybe even shouldn’t tell me. It had gotten to the point where I even came up with stories of who my ancestors were. They could’ve been anywhere from peasants who came to the New World looking for a fresh start to, conquistadors who ruined the untouched half of the world. The latter disturbs me to my core, making me feel guilty just from the hypothetical, and whenever race comes up, people don’t believe I’m Hispanic until they hear my name.

That was at the same timeframe when a Dominican substitute teacher came in and urged all of the Hispanic kids to put accents on their names. He was calling attendance at the head of the room for history class. I was used to our history teacher coming in with a shot of espresso held by sallow fingers with the acrid aroma of his cigarette break. I guess the cigarettes caught up to him since he was “unwell” that day and remained so for the rest of the term.

“Diego

De Jesus?”

Everyone else said “here,” but I said “aqui.” I wanted to appeal to him. To be Hispanic enough and not some white-passing guy who only knows licks of Spanish. Nothing came of it, but I felt embarrassed. I wasn’t sure if I was out of place or if saying it was.

“Make sure you put accents on the ‘e’ in Diégo and the ‘u’ in Jesús,” he said when he got to me. He was one of those fastidious substitute

teachers that actually cared and, better yet, wanted our assignment done on paper by the end of class.

Until then, I didn’t know that my name had accents.

Diégo De Jesús.

It was “my” culture. It wasn’t a huge difference. Without accents, my name is Diego De Jesus, pronounced the same way too. My name feels and looks naked without them. It’s like not giving credit to an entire culture; Puerto Rican or Boricua. It’s even more chilling now that I’ve learned untold histories and realize my ancestors were oppressed only for me never to know them. Only to learn about their suffering later on in my twenty-one-year-old life and be overcome with a sense of incompleteness.

He continued.

Ladrón, on the “o.”

Marín, on the “i.”

And Rodríguez, put yours on “i” as well.

The bell rang, and we all handed in our papers.

The next period was lunch.

Lunch was always at noon, at least for me, and conveniently for most of my friends. My friend group would grab whatever the lunch ladies were serving then we’d go into the study hall on the top floor. The hall guards were chill; they didn’t care as long as we didn’t make a mess. The meal of the day was pizza, and we all obliged. We grabbed our slices and went up to the study hall, where we could watch TV on a couple of couches.

I was particularly tired that day and didn’t contribute much to the bullshit and teacher shit-talk. I just enjoyed my pizza and waited for my grandfather to pick me up after calculus.

A couple of hours later, I was in the

back of my grandfather’s van with every poison you could imagine. Rodenticides. Insecticides. Herbicides. Bactericides. There were some metal cages piled on each other and snap traps missing the bait. My grandmother was riding shotgun. I was on my phone, stretched across the back seat. I was probably watching another Markiplier playthrough of an indie-horror game. We were done working for the day and pulled up to the apartment building where my grandparents lived. I made twenty bucks a day being my grandfather’s little assistant carrying his pest arsenal back and forth. Sometimes I got tips.

Sometimes.

It wasn’t a bad gig either way.

I don’t remember how much I made that day. I just remembered that it was Friday, cause I was looking forward to the weekend. They usually picked me up on Fridays. Both my parents worked overtime. I always loved getting picked up by my grandparents. It was either hang with them or be the last kid picked up at after-school again at 9 p.m. I remembered the times when my grandfather met with his dealer for an ounce of weed.

My grandfather was a huge stoner. His dealer would pull up on a red scooter with a fat blue book bag. An exchange here and there, then my grandfather had an ounce. He would wrap some green sprinkles into Stella tobacco wraps, then order chicken in ostrich sauce from this Chinese joint down the block from the apartment building where my grandparents lived. I always ordered chicken and broccoli without broccoli. My grandmother always ordered pork fried rice and a large egg-drop wonton soup in a cylindrical plastic case that she always shared with me, and those noodles that we’d dip in orange duck sauce. As we approached their apartment building, everyone greeted my grandfather and got caught up in at least three conversations with folks sitting out front or leaving.

When he arrived at the front door, you could hear Diamond and Jack clawing at the metal door and barking. We opened the door, and Diamond, a German shepherd, jumped on my grandfather, standing as tall as him. Jack, a jack terrier named so because of his breed, would bark louder than

Diamond with his little untrimmed nails scratching at our calves–it always sucked when I wore shorts. After the commotion, Diamond would patter towards the living room past a wooden gate that my grandfather installed to keep her specifically out of the living room.

Before we ate, he would step onto the concrete slab of a balcony with a Stella. After five minutes or so, he would come back and slump into his worn computer chair he called “his throne” for his apartment, “his kingdom.” He would ask me, again, how my day was. I said “good” like the first time, but he would persist until I gave him the real answer. I’m your grandfather AND your godfather; tell me, little D-Man. I was already an old man by the time I was in high school; it was and still is like pulling teeth to get me talking about anything except with him. Finishing his chicken, my grandfather exclaimed that you have all the family you’ll need right here. He pounded my shoulder, and I jokingly uttered ouch. I still believe what he said. After dinner, he asked me to join him outside on the balcony.

“What’s wrong my godson?” he asked, pulling another Stella out of his patch pocket.

“It’s Mom; I don’t know why she keeps saying it,” I said.

“…”

“Yeah, she said it the last time she picked me up from your crib when a group of people was walking across the street,” I pointed toward the intersection. “She just said it, and I had to be the one to say, ‘Hey, I’m part Puerto Rican too. You shouldn’t say that.’ It’s been bugging me lately. Especially now that I’m here, it’s just reminded me of it.”

He stood there and took a drag leaning on the balcony, never averting his gaze on me. It grew quiet for the waves and gentle peach sky to speak for themselves.

“Diégo, I’ve met a lot of people while living here and met a lot of interesting characters in my day. But I’ll tell ya, there is nothing better than a smile from a stranger when it’s facing you and you know it’s facing you. Just think about stuff like that and what you look forward to because I can’t guarantee everything’s going to be okay. So appreciate the small things…”

My grandmother was a storyteller; it was a new thing about my family every day. One day it was how my great-great grandfather jumped from a boat into New York Bay; another day, it was why he was an outcast in his family with the big dream of coming to America and that’s why he left. That day, it was how we used to own rolling vineyards in Piacenza and would make our own wine. I always asked questions where our family came from and found out about new relatives that I knew I was never going to meet. She told me that I have cousins in Piazenza, and on the outskirts of the city, among the same quiet hills, there’s a town named after our surname Buzzetti. Buzzetti was and is a name that feels foreign, yet I’m told they’re family. I always asked, and still wonder, how they would react if they met me. I guess I’ll never know and I’ve left it at that— something to talk about.

Mom always somehow showed up when we finished dinner like clockwork. My grandfather would walk me down the stairs, sometimes with his jittery German shepherd and aggressive jack terrier with a black spot on his side. We lived in Staten Island, and there was always traffic on the Verrazano, so getting home was a stretch. I always ate two dinners when I spent the day with my grandparents. One with my grandparents. One at home. Dinner at home was always homemade with fresh ingredients that Mom prided herself on.

Our boxers, Lola and Ciara, would almost always trip me, traversing across, through, and around my legs, scratching their unclipped nails on the fake wooden floor, nearly falling from the excitement on their white paws.

It was chicken parm. The bubbling rigatoni was almost done in a molten pot, with the marinara settling under a steamed lid across the greasy oven top. I grabbed the cold parm from the fridge and drinks, silverware, and plates. Our boxers almost tripped me again, but I made it, dropping the plate stack onto the clothed table. Mom came out with the still-steaming aluminum tray and a colander of dripping rigatoni on top that nearly broke through the thin sheet. My father lifted himself off the couch and sat at the head of the six-chair table. I sat beside him. We talked small while serving ourselves, mostly about our day and how it went. I always said “good” to finish the conversation because it usually wasn’t a good day after school. After two spoonfuls of rigatoni and chunky

marinara sauce, I grabbed the spatula and took two chicken cutlets topped with sizzling bronzed mozzarella cheese. I wiped the spatula clean with my fingertips and ate the small bits with the most flavor dripping with oil.

I grabbed the green container of parm and shook it. I shook the parm again, breaking all its parts and multitudes. After a few shakes, I looked at the transparent bottom for cold chunks that could easily break apart every day, all day, to be shaken and broken again.

As we finished serving ourselves, Mom took a forkful of rigatoni and sauce along with one chicken cutlet plopping them onto her plate. We usually used paper plates, but that became no different from paying another bill, so we stuck with the chipped monochrome plates of laurel wreaths. It was therapeutic for Mom to wash dishes rather than throw them away and never use them again–therapy for a few more bucks.

I cut the first piece, the crispy corner, and with the fork, I prodded three pieces of rigatoni, disturbing the sauce’s parmesan snowcap. Lola’s short hair brisked against my shin as she and Ciara lay down on their crossed white paws. Mom would innocuously feed them rigatoni as they peered their heads past the table and then looked at me sideways, sometimes overhead, with bulbed eyes. They then enjoyed the rigatoni with their family, and when they were done eating, they waited to be served again.

After dinner, everyone dispersed, even Lola and Ciara. My dad would get back onto his old red couch, watch some camping videos and take a nap. I went up to my room and played video games while Mom lit some green spell candles in the kitchen and prayed.

I wasn’t close with Mom, but she would attempt conversation with me, but I would just give her the “good” response. Like any mom, she opened the door without knocking. I had my what-thehell-mom moment, and she sat on the corner of my bed. She gave me a glum look. I turned off the TV. She opened her arms, waiting.

“I’m sorry for everything,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

She told me I was Italian and gave me the golden horn.

VENICE OR AMERICA

By Isabelle Hancock & Allison Rainey

Let’s play a simple game called “fill in the blank.”

______’s voters are/were uneducated and uninformed. Those who claim to be well-informed are loyal to one political party rather than examining the policies of all.

Venice: The majority of political stances were heavily influenced by the church, and these elected religious officials were from prominent wealthy families. Those running for positions would be well known in the area and, most of the time, be a large contributor to wealth in the city.

America: Although there’s an established “separation of church and state,” politicians are heavily pushing a religious, and specifically, Christian agenda. Christians will vote for a politician just because they’re Christian, and Democrats will vote for Democrats just because they’re a Democrat.

______’s history involves the massacre of millions, whether for political or religious gain.

Venice: Hundreds of Venetian ships filled with thousands of men were sent to capture coastal cities in the Middle East during the First Crusade in 1095.

America: Honestly, where do we even start… the mass murder of Native Americans and continued mistreatment of native tribes, the enslavement of Africans and indigenous peoples, The Civil War, The Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, The Vietnam War and the list could go on.

______’s history is/was created in a more favorable light in order to keep their reputation intact for generations to come. Purposely overlooking/neglecting crucial information that not only hides the truth but rewrites it.

Venice: Appointed official historians to maintain the history and reputation of Venice. Painting the city-state in a light that would uphold the “myth” it was widely known for.

America: Continuously changing our public school system’s educational curriculum. Politicians are deciding what is taught in schools throughout the U.S. and even going as far as banning/altering educational material that speaks about topics such as; the civil war, religion, LGBTQ+, etc.

______’s government is/was run by wealthy families or monopolies that would have a significant pull in any decisions made.

Venice: The Mocenigo Family was one of the most powerful families in Venice. This family had officials in the military, and church and appointed seven doges (the highest official position in the Republic of Venice.)

America: America’s history is filled with corrupt monopolies that held/hold immense amounts of political and economic power over the citizens. J.P Morgan, John D. Rockefeller, etc. Even though laws have been passed, there are still political parties that receive donations and support from large wealthy companies.

Whether you chose answer A or B, you are unfortunately right. The fact that we can compare current events to those that occurred in the 14th century is frightening.

Help make a change. Contact your representatives.

What Does Religion Mean to Me?

By Caroline Bryant

I want religion to have meaning to me. I want it to mean finding trust in a supernatural being. I want it to mean bettering myself for others. I want it to mean a community that will have my back when I fall. I want it to mean that I will live happily ever after in a world in the clouds as I watch those below me. I want it to mean Heaven. I want it to mean Jesus. I want it to mean God.

But what I want it to mean is something I can’t have.

Religion’s followers are to blame.

Christianity has evolved into a Costco-looking warehouse called the “mega-church” full of millennial-aged girls wearing the Christian-girl autumn hat in a row of pews with those who look the same. If you don’t look like you’re transported into a different universe when you hear a Gospel hymn sung by a husband-and-wife duo on a multi-color lit stage, you get guilt-tripped into being a “fake” Christian.

Toxic Christians like these manipulate the word of God to justify their actions too. They feel as if one proverb serves as an apology for their wrongs, erasing millions of memories, hardships and traumas that they’ve bestowed onto another. I feel as if they do the bare minimum because Christianity thrives on forgiveness. They need forgiveness because if there is none, what did Jesus die for?

Therefore, they feel that forgiveness is expected straight from an apology. But how can I forgive an apology that isn’t made from their own words? It doesn’t feel meaningful. And I’ve been shamed for not forgiving.

Many Christians also believe that the label of “Christian” gives them a straight shot to Heaven. But, according to German philosopher Dietrich Bonhoeffer in his book Discipleship, calling oneself a Christian does not make one a Christian. Attending church does not make a Christian. Someone can not be Christian without accepting God’s vocation.

If they accept the call, the Christians must devote their life to suffering. Bonhoeffer states that suffering requires Christians to “kill” their old self– to separate their lives from the world and everything they know to become individuals. Such change is considered a costly grace.

A Christian can not answer the call without suffering because if one doesn’t become an individual, God can not create a direct relationship with the Christian. Earthly problems distract the individual from reaching the highest level with God.

The Christian should also be ready to drop anything and go. When suffering follows change, the Christian is left blinded in uncharted territory, waiting to follow God in His path. Following is simple obedience.

In return, the Christian becomes a new person. For instance, in the book of Genesis, God commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son, Issac. Instead of protesting, Abraham proceeded to sacrifice his son. God gifted Issac back as a new man in return for Abraham’s obedience, as good things come to those who suffer.

Bonhoeffer states the second component of suffering is forgiveness: forgive those who refuse to forgive. Forgiveness is a sign of “loving thy neighbor,” a theme stressed throughout the Bible. Loving for the sake of love’s existence is what sets Christianity apart from other religions.

Christians used to properly suffer when the religion was a minority. But as Christians have settled into their power over the years, many have relaxed the rules.

Bonhoeffer would consider modern Christianity “fake” Christianity. Nowadays, people expect forgiveness more than they forgive. And they expect it more from those who don’t hop on the mega-church bandwagon.

In the end, the ones who made me feel bad for being a fake Christian are fake Christians, as well. But, what sets us apart is that at least I can admit I’m one.

What’s

Summary

2022-2023 has felt like multiple reality television episodes compacted into a never-ending, drama-filled year. No matter how much you try to unplug yourself from the media, breaking news of who broke up with who or another bill being proposed to the Senate made its way into our brains.

Roe v. Wade

On June 24, 2022, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, allowing states to ban abortion after 50 years of legal protection. As the U.S. criminalized abortion, other nations such as Columbia and Finland eased their restrictions. After Roe v. Wade was overturned, many feared that the right to same-sex marriage would be challenged when Justice Thomas urged the Court to reconsider past decisions such as Obergefell v. Hodges. The Respect for Marriage Act was introduced months later, protecting interracial and same-sex marriages on a federal level, regardless of those decisions were to be overturned in the future.

Student Debt

Forgiveness (On Hold)

In Aug. 2022, the Biden Administration created a plan for student debt cancellation. This forgiveness policy would cancel up to $20,000 in debt for students with federal student loans. However, shortly after its introduction, the policy was paused until further notice by the Court of Appeals due to legal challenges. Court hearings discussing the legal specificities of the plan are ongoing.

Happened?

War on Ukraine

Russia performed a full-scale attack on Ukraine's capital, Kyiv, on Feb. 24. In Russia's attempt to overthrow President Volodymyr Zelensky's government, hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians were killed with over 97 billion dollars in direct damages.

#RIPQueen

Queen Elizabeth II, the longest-reigning monarch in the U.K., passed away on Sept. 8. She died peacefully from old age at 96, leaving a legacy of a 70-year reign. Her eldest son, King Charles III, took her place on the throne.

RESTRICT Act

The RESTRICT Act is an active bill is Congress demanding the need of the U.S. government to restrict technology that poses a threat to national security. This infamously includes Tik Tok.

Tigray War

War in Ethiopia came to a halt after two years of the Ethiopian government being at war with its own region, Tigray. Hundreds and thousands of Ethiopians were killed, and millions were displaced, causing more damage than the war in Ukraine. In Nov. 2022, the two parties came to a cease-fire, ending the civil war.

By Kailynn Bannon and Caroline Bryant

Mass Shootings

As of April 14, there have been 151 mass shootings in the United States since the beginning of 2023. Many of the shootings publicized by the media have occurred at schools, including The Covenant School and Michigan State University. According to the Kaiser Family Foundation, a public health non-profit, gun violence is now the number one cause of death for children and teenagers in the U.S.A.

Florida's Endless Bills

Florida's Gov. Ron DeSantis signed the "Parental Rights in Education" bill, also known as the "Don't Say Gay" bill. This signing banned teachers from instructing kindergarten through 3rd grade on sexual orientation or gender identity. Almost a year after the bill was put into effect in March 2022, DeSantis banned an A.P. African American Studies course. The College Board course educating students on the history of African Americans was banned in the state when DeSantis deemed it contrary to Florida law.

The Willow Project

In March 2023, the Biden Administration accepted an $8 billion oil drilling project in Alaska called The Willow Project. This project is expected to harm Alaskan ecosystems while releasing 9.2 million metric tons of oil a year, going against the administration's sustainability initiatives.

Good News

While bad news consumes the media, that doesn't mean good news doesn't occur. In January, scientists announced that the ozone layer was healing. The EU pledged to promote the "phaseout" of fossil fuel usage. KFF said that cancer rates have dropped by a third in thirty years in the U.S. Trump was indicted. Ancient artifacts are being returned to their native country. Taylor Swift is in the middle of her Eras Tour.

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