The Tom Tom | February 2017 by Antioch Community High School Tom Tom

THE STUDENT VOICE OF ANTIOCH COMMUNITY HIGH SCHOOL

VOLUME 55, ISSUE 5 + FEBRUARY 2017 WWW.SEQUOITMEDIA.COM + @ACHSTOMTOM + @SEQUOITSPORTS 1133 MAIN STREET + ANTIOCH, ILLINOIS + 60002

f I

y l n O

u o Y . . . w e n K

FEB. 2017

CONTENTS

OPPOSE 4

GAIN

RECLAIM 14

IMAGINE 50

LIMITED

INVOLVE 24

NUMB

SUFFER

106

Throughout this magazine you will see a purple Tom Tom icon (see left). That means readers are able to scan the page with Aurasma, an app downloadable from any app store. Readers will then be engaged in a virtual reality experience like never before.

VOL. 55 NO. 5

THE STUDENT VOICE OF ANTIOCH COMMUNITY HIGH SCHOOL

VOLUME 55, ISSUE 5 + FEBRUARY 2017 WWW.SEQUOITMEDIA.COM + @ACHSTOMTOM + @SEQUOITSPORTS 1133 MAIN STREET + ANTIOCH, ILLINOIS + 60002

ON THE COVER

This magazine’s cover is empty. We chose not to feature a model because we felt the voices contained in the magazine were all equally important. Instead, you see the black background and an “I,” a letter signifying the pride each of the men and women in this magazine have in themselves and their stories. The “I” is a used as a symbol meant to express the alternative headline to our “What it Feels Like” series, “If Only You Knew.”

the TOM TOM staff

2016-2017 executive team

KRISTINA M. ESDALE Editor-in-Chief PATRICK R. JOHNSON, MJE Adviser PAIGE HOPE Managing Editor REBEKAH L. CARTLIDGE Digital Director JACK A. CONNELLY Digital Director JILLIAN M. EVERETT Print Director JASON R. WOOD Print Director Editorial Board DEPARTMENT EDITORS Rachel Beckman Grace Bouker Branden Gallimore Booker Grass Benjamin Gutke John Howe Lauryn Hugener Gabrielle Kalisz Alexander Ruano Abigail Russell Kaylee Schreiner Logan Weber SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTORS Haley Edwards Dylan Hebior Megan Helgesen Marc Huston SENIOR EDITORS Christina Michaels Natasha Reid

staff journalists Jayme Bailey William Becker Lauren Bluthardt Peter Boeh Nico Chiappetta Jared DeBoer Emma DeJong Taylor Feltner Chloe Grass Griffin Hackeloer Emily Hanes Symone Henderson Brenna Higgins Emily Holmes Jacob Johnson Michael Kawell Jessica Lamberty Chloe Moritz Nicole Peterson John Petty Alexandra Rapp Ashley Reiser Steffanie Richardson Matthew Rowe Allison Smith Ashley Stephens

Annie Wagner Kyle Whitley Monica Wilhelm Diana Anghel Caden Davis Dan Filippone Camille Flackus Emily Higgins Mikayla Holway Robbie Hulting Alex Johnson McKenna Kalisz Alex Knight Madisen Krapf Emily Lara Jessica Nettgen Valerie Rasmussen Aliya Rhodes Karley Rogalski Riley Rush Eleni Sakas Matthew Soberano Kevin Tamayo Emily Torres Skyler Wackenhuth

mission statement The Tom Tom seeks to not only be the premier source of student news, sports and lifestyles at Antioch Community High School, but it also aspires to do so with integrity, respect, responsibility and pride. The Tom Tom believes wholeheartedly in giving voices to the voiceless through unique engaging methods of storytelling, while engaging with the Antioch community to see diverse and challenging perspectives. In doing so, we choose to tell some of the more challenging or untold stories even when they can be controversial in order to make our community stronger, more caring, and more tolerant. This program envisions a holistic experience of quality journalism through print publications and digital content, as well as promotes student spirit and school culture through innovative and inspiring public relations and advertising campaigns. We are the Tom Tom. We are originals. It would be an awfully big adventure if you choose to come along with us and work as one community, One Sequoit.

EDITOR’S NOTE

IF ONLY YOU KNEW What’s on the surface may seem perfect and pristine, but what lies beneath is full of surprises, uncertainties and unknowns. KRISTINA ESDALE // Editor-in-Chief

tticus Finch once said, “you never really understand a person until you consider things from his perspective… until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” Every day we go to school with the same people. Some of them we’ve been going to school with since kindergarten, and others are new acquaintances. We talk to them every day, but sometimes we don’t bother to ask how they’re doing or how they’re feeling. We’re familiar with their faces, but we choose to be unfamiliar with the most important part of them—their stories. In the midst of stressful school assignments and hectic extracurriculars, we forget to stop and take the time to understand that we aren’t the only ones who struggle, or are successful, or experience loss. Everyone has a story worth telling, if only you knew where to start. Two years ago, the 2014-2015 Tom Tom staff got the amazing opportunity to work with Esquire Writer-atLarge Mike Sager. While working with Sager, he gave us the chance to try and write one of Esquire’s well-known What it Feels Like pieces. Sager explained to our staff over FaceTime that the main point of these stories was to tell a story that made the reader feel what it would be like to be in that person’s shoes—a story that embodied the now famous words Harper Lee once wrote. He explained why these stories were so important: sometimes, people are too afraid to tell their own stories, and, in result, their voice gets silenced. That year, our staff discovered a soft spot for these pieces. After the first What if Feels Like magazine was published, we decided to include one in the back of every single issue moving forward. And these pieces are what inspired our now token mantra: give voices to the voiceless. But this year, we decided to bring these stories back to life. Although our whole theme of this year’s magazine is based off of the idea of originality, we decided to bring back the most consistent and unoriginal part of our magazines: the What it Feels Likes. We decided that originality isn’t

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

found on the surface; instead, it’s found deeper. It’s found in the words that people say and the aspects of their lives that go unnoticed. It’s found in the experiences that shape them into the person that you see every day. It’s found in the clichés we tend to limit one another to and within. But when this originality in each person gets lost in the chaos and redundancy of life, we forget how important it is to stop and appreciate the uniqueness of each story that this “small town” has to offer. Considering that this is the largest magazine we have ever published, 118 pages to be exact—100 of which were able to be printed successfully by our in-house printer (the other 18 are featured online and on issuu.com/achstomtom), we decided that each story should be placed in it’s own section. These sections—Oppose, Reclaim, Involve, Gain, Imagine, Numb, Accept, Limited and Suffer— each tell a story within stories. We decided to focus on the different parts of people’s lives that make them who they are--the good and the bad. Much like our magazines this year have done and will continue to do, our section headers spell out the word “originals.” Each story in the sections somehow connect to that word, and, in all cases, our mission and identity as One|Sequoit. Thank you for taking the time to read our magazine. While this magazine started by saying “If Only You Knew,” we hope in the process of you reading it leaves you knowing what it feels like to climb inside someone else’s skin and walk around in it. TT

KRISTINA M. ESDALE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve Gain Imagine Numb Accept Limit Suffer Oppose Reclaim Involve 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OPPOSE

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO 1. disapprove of and attempt to prevent, especially by argument. 2. actively resist or refuse to comply with (a person or a system).

Sequoits oppose. They oppose those around them; they oppose standards that are set for them; sometimes, they even oppose the person they see in the mirror. Following in the footsteps of successful siblings is difficult when you have to live up to their legacy, and thus, can cause defiance. Even within a friend group, there is one friend who struggles to fit in with the rest and oppose the preconceived image that people have created for them. In some situations, a victim must oppose what he/she once thought about themselves. Oftentimes, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s necessary to oppose in order to find the truest version of oneself.

Oppose

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

FOLLOW YOUR SIBLINGS BY JOHN PETTY

When I was born, everybody was ready. My parents were ready to have their third child. My extended family was ready to assist in any way they could upon hearing another Petty kid was about to be born. My sisters were ready to have a baby brother, the first male sibling they would experience. Friends of my parents were ready to see yet another success story sprout from the ever-prosperous Petty family tree, or so they predicted. Everybody was ready, except for me. The simplicity of this stage in my life didn’t last long, as I would soon find out that being a part of my family was a responsibility as well as just a fact of my life. There was a time and place when both of my sisters went to school, but I was too young. I spent my hours playing with whatever I could handle, which usually included a ball. It was often lonely, but I had not yet discovered what that word meant at the time. I played and imagined. At this stage, I learned the value of independence and creativity, as I was often playing by myself. The only real way to stay entertained was to create. I created games and imaginary friends and even songs I would sing to myself. Free time was endless, that is if you created it. When bad weather kept me cooped up inside, I would lay around and dream. Yet, I would snap back to reality as I played in my sisters’ room. Clutter is the wrong way to describe her school work, because it was typically neatly stacked. These provoked my curiosity because I could not yet understand most words written out, but I could figure out numbers. The numbers would jump out to me. Numbers like “100 percent” and “10/10.” I asked about to my parents, and they would tell me that it is the grade she received. That may not have made perfect sense to me, but I gathered that it meant “she was doing really well.” This was only the starting point of a grand realization. I began to understand that my sister was very smart. She would get home and her tests and quizzes may or may not have been placed on the dinner table for show, but it certainly felt like it to me. Not all her grades were perfect, but I continued to see “10/10,” “100 percent,”

6 Tom Tom February 2017

“9/10” scores that I thought anyone would be happy with, especially me. I would sit at the kitchen table in hopes of staying on task as my sister would get home from school. I noticed that the conversations she had with my mom were intelligent and often revolved around assignments or plans to complete said assignments. This wasn’t it, however, as I would hear complaints about teachers and unfair project expectations. Yet upon hearing these, no conversation would end without a way to work around an issue or at least method to deal temporarily. These problem solving skills persay, may have seemed small, but in turn may have made all the difference in the world. Maybe they played a part in her graduating from middle school with the highest Grade Point Average. Maybe they played a part in her membership of the National Honor Society in high school. Maybe they played a part in her four years straight of all A’s on her report cards. Maybe they played a part in her scoring a 34 on the ACT, part of the 98th national percentile, to be exact. Maybe they played a part in why she was selected for the highest position in the Tom Tom, Editor-in-Chief. Maybe they played a part in why she was voted to be the most outstanding female student in her entire grade. Maybe they played a part in why she now attends Bradley University with about ⅓ of her tuition paid for via scholarship. Maybe these things were the outcome of problem solving, but one thing is for sure, and that is that all of her successes are not on accident. While seeing her successes, I also saw the worth ethic to accompany it. The way in which she would stay on task was unrequited. Her assignments would come before having fun or talking to friends or even having dinner at times. In my eyes, she did everything right. I saw kindness and willingness to sacrifice time in order to get it right, in more than one aspect. And I ultimately saw myself a little confused and possibly jealous. There was perhaps a stage in my life where I was more insecure than I am today, and that could only feed into the idea that I wanted things that weren’t immediate to my makeup as a person. Nearing the end of middle school I had lost some academic motivation and just

wanted what she had, in terms of spotless grades and ways to solve just about anything. For some time it really upset me. I thought life would be so easy if school wasn’t my number one worry. Having the significant rankings of things like test scores would mean I was succeeding, or so I thought. I wanted these things to better myself, and not to be jealous or upset. Although it wasn’t simple, I eventually had a change of mind that led me to realize that we were separate people and there had to be things that I had that maybe she didn’t. If I could work for what I wanted, maybe it wouldn’t come easily, but I could get what I wanted in some form. I began to believe in myself and see that I had strengths. My constant love for sports, especially baseball, created a commitment that I would never intend to break. I was always playing and creating, just like I had when I was little. I was free and used my talents to have fun and to try to always improve. I discovered that I loved to write in school, something I wouldn’t confess to myself until I was older. I would write my heart out just as I had put words towards songs I would sing to myself. A thought came to me that I was a big dreamer, a skill that I had learned from the avoidance of boredom. These were the little things that couldn’t be scored that put us apart. A few years ago, I heard my sister say “I wish I could be good at every single sport I tried,” referring to me. Whether or not it was true was unimportant, but instead what it meant. This was a response to a statement of mine that resembled “I wish I was perfect in school,” or something along those lines. My theory of our difference was now proven by a statement of her, a statement I may never forget. What I have learned from my time following a successful sibling is that we are all different. Also, I decided that it is not wrong to want things that aren’t immediate to you. However, it is wrong to think that having a different makeup is the wrong makeup, and a life is better than your own personal life. I realized that being around success breeds success. The longing for perfection is not a crime, and in turn is better than seeing one’s dear to you fail. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

Oppose

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

THE DUFF BY NIKKI RIGNEY AS TOLD TO LAUREN BLUTHARDT

“Middle school was the best,” they would say. When you looked like a beaver who dyed her hair one too many times, that statement changed. Because when you looked at me which I doubt you had, cause man oh man, I surely wouldn’t have - you saw a girl who craved popularity. A girl who strived to be in that circle. A person who shook her mental stability for middle school fame. And if you did happen to see me, you would probably only see her. Her being the go-to, wanna be, “I’m pretty and I pretend I don’t know it,” girl. We all know one, and we’ve all felt like the decrepit, murky sack behind her back. You see the black, foolish blob? Probably me and probably you too, at some point. I know I should have seen it coming. I mean, we all have felt it. Her one layer of mascara equaled three of mine. Her buoyant personality continued to sink mine. I definitely need one more layer of concealer. Boys saw her first, boys asked about her first. I get it, she’s pretty. Every time you mentioned her name I continued to beat myself up for it. I was being submerged at home by a merciless shadow of fear. And on top of that, deflated by you. It wasn’t the way you treated me, but the way I treated myself around you. The way I kept my voice sheltered and how my body seemed to want to mold to your figure. But the more I tried through the years, the more I realized how concrete I was becoming. I desired what she had. She could walk into a room and like owls, heads spun to catch a glimpse of her glorious figure. I definitely wanted that. And with rounded eyes I saw all, felt all and realized how disconnected I felt. Or in reality, how self conscious I felt being around her. We walked side by side for years, but to this day I can’t seem to get her name out of my head. For every time I heard

8 Tom Tom February 2017

that seven letter word, I continued to fall deeper into my thoughts of insecurity. It was at this moment that I realized I am the DUFF. I am officially the designated ugly, fat friend. The one who is continuously shadowed from the social hierarchy. The person who doesn’t truly exist. Just a few more curls. “Hey, beaver head.”

I was on a different level, I could see it when I looked in the mirror, but you wouldn’t know that feeling. For a mirror was as distant a thought as how oblivious she was to the attention she drew. Boys were her mirror. Friends were her mirror; everyone looked back at her in awe, and everyone who looked back at me saw nothing. Boys came to me to talk about her. I get it, she’s pretty. I was just the caved-in wall, where she was the stainless steel spine. Just like a storm, I was basically the cracked memories of the past that became destroyed, and she was the eye. I desired to have her charm. We all knew the chains suffocating my teeth wouldn’t bring any invitations like the flip of her hair did. Yet there she stand, having not a care in the world. For she had half the amount of the self-ruining, black shadow of insecurity that I had. Your mind is content, but mine continues to falter. But still, I desired to be her. When group projects were assigned, she had a group and I was in it of course; invisible. But was I really? We could have been locked in a small room together and I would still feel like I was on the outside. This stuff felt like it mattered. “Dang, that girl is cool.” Not me, but her.

Maybe one more curl.

The desperation in my eyes was masked with layers of mawkish soot while the Milky Way rendition adorned yours with grace. I was the “best friend” and the “go-to” until those words held miniscule meaning. Of course I beat myself up over it; I damaged my own self in the process of striving for a figure I wasn’t meant to have. I was so infatuated with the way you stole the show that I forgot to focus on myself. You were the main event and here I was, the shadow in the back pulling the strings for you. I kept pulling the strings harder, wishing the strings controlled me as well. I kept pushing myself further and further until I had only my thoughts left. And that’s when I realized, I can be pretty; I will be pretty. People say new beginnings are as cheesy as cheddar, but seriously, I realized the summer of 2015 was going to become pretty dope. I was seperated from my best friend, the one who “ruled the school” and killed the game of life, but I found out that without her, I’m even stronger. She was not me, but rather an add on to me, a person who accompanied me in life as my best friend, not a confidence killer. As sophomore year rolled in, little did I know I would find someone special. It was that once in a lifetime type of obsession. In that moment I realized someone does notice, someone does care, and I wouldn’t change that for the world. I brushed out the curl that day, and I came to the conclusion that I sure as hell am not the DUFF. The idea of the friend who is only talked to and used as a safety vest in societal ways has now been redefined in my head. Reality smashed into me hard, breaking the chains of societal norms and the pressure I put on myself to be the best, to be her. It doesn’t matter what I look like, who I am, or more importantly who I was. Shoot, I am carefree as hell, and I wouldn’t change a thing. TT

PHOTO // LAUREN BLUTHARDT

The “I” Issue

Oppose

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

SEXUALLY ASSAULTED BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO REBEKAH CARTLIDGE

It was cold.

I remember waiting in line outside of the bar, and I remember it being cold. I remember the apple vodka that I had in my Subway cup, and I remember it being cold.

I remember the Colorado hat and the long sleeve t-shirt; I remember his clammy hand. And I remember it being cold. It’s rare that I feel good about myself, but at the beginning of this night, I felt so good. I put my dress on and I zipped up my thigh high boots; I was ready to go. I met up with a couple of my sorority sisters; we got onto a janky bus and then we made our way to the bar. The girls behind me were so drunk, but they were drop dead gorgeous--so skinny, so tall and so pretty. I wanted to be them; I wanted the boys to pay attention to me like they were doing to them. However, those girls didn’t even make it into the bar. They were too wasted and were puking way too much. The bar looked lit. Flashing lights were the only thing you could see, the music was so loud, and people were everywhere. My sorority sisters and I had a plan to stick together because the bus was leaving at two, and if I missed it I would be lost and stuck here forever. Well, of course we ended up splitting up and of course my friend that was 21 was nowhere to be found; I had to find someone to buy me alcohol. The rest of my sorority sisters and I were walking around to try and find someone with an orange wristband. That was when I felt someone grab my arm. Colorado hat and a long sleeve t-shirt.

A cute guy that offered to buy me a drink, and that’s all I really needed at this point. So, naturally, I followed him to the bar.

10 Tom Tom February 2017

Next thing I know, this guy grabbed me and started making out with me. Like hell yeah, this is what I wanted; this is what I asked for. But it isn’t what I asked for. He wanted me to leave with him, but my bus was leaving at two, so I told him that I couldn’t and that I was sorry. He seemed okay with it, so we went back inside. We started dancing and making out again, and he started to pull my dress up. I kept telling him to stop and pulling it back down. But he kept trying to pull it up and the next thing I know my entire ass was showing. So many guys saw; I pulled my dress down as fast as I could. Then he tried to pull my underwear down, and I told him no, sorry, which then caused him to yank them down to my knees to the point where I couldn’t pull them back up. I stepped out of them quickly. I don’t know why I stayed, and I don’t know why I kept thinking it was fine. I don’t know why I didn’t just walk away at that moment. We kept dancing and making out, and he kept asking me to leave with him. I kept apologizing and telling him I couldn’t. He kept pulling me in and pulling me closer and closer. That’s when he grabbed my right hand and placed it on his shoulder.

That’s when he grabbed my left hand and shoved it down his pants.

I felt so gross, and he was so much stronger than me. I tried to get out of it, but he had a firm lock on my wrist; no matter how many times I said, I’m sorry, no, he wouldn’t let up. I eventually pulled my hand out and pushed him away and told him to stop. He started yelling at me. But I continued to be nice. I was being so apologetic and nice to this drunk idiot. I know I should’ve left when I had the chance, but I didn’t. Instead I came back. Then he pulled me in once again, and this moment will be one I never forget.

I could feel him trying to move around. I could feel his cold, clammy fingers. I tried to push him off, but I couldn’t. He then pulled his hand out of me and yelled at me once again. No matter how many times I said stop, it didn’t matter. He pulled me in and proceeded to do it again. This time I managed to push him off and get away. With my underwear in my hand, I managed to find my friends. They laughed at me.

One of my friends even told me that at least a guy was paying attention to me and that must have been what I wanted. I felt disgusting. It’s when I figured out that I couldn’t blame him and that I could only blame myself. I just stood there, not knowing why I didn’t try and leave earlier, or why I let it get this bad. My roommate was one of the few people at college that understood, and she made me realize that I shouldn’t blame myself, no matter how much I wanted to. I was sexually assaulted.

I never want it to happen to anyone I love and care about because it is honestly one of the most horrible things. It’s an experience that makes you think about who you are and who others are that you associate with. And it makes those who are close to you think.

I remember thinking this would never happen to anyone, and I remember thinking it would never happen to me. I remember thinking that maybe I would forget about it, and I remember the dreams I’ve had since that won’t let me forget. I remember being willing to go to any bar scene, and I know I never want to go back there ever again. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

Oppose

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

SLUT-SHAMED BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO HALEY EDWARDS

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stop. I saw it. The first tweet posted about me. It hit me like a train. My heart raced in anticipation for what would come next. I was fearful of who would join the attack against me. Reading these tweets made me feel bad about myself. Did people really think I looked like a dead animal? This ran through my mind on repeat. Is this how people perceived me? I became more self-conscious. Refresh. New tweet. Refresh. Three new tweets. What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t do anything wrong. They were not together. He was single. She was single. We were all at a party and it just happened. Why should this one situation define me? Refresh. New tweet: “she’s a ho.” Refresh. “What a downgrade, she looks like a dead [animal].”

12 Tom Tom February 2017

I liked him. He liked me. We did what plenty of others have done. Why was I being singled out? Why was I the only one being shamed? He wasn’t being ridiculed in this, only me. It takes two to tango you know. Why is the girl always shamed? Refresh. 10 more people joined the attack. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. I cannot take it anymore. I am not a slut. I don’t look like a dead animal. I didn’t do anything wrong. I genuinely liked him and now we are dating. What is wrong with this? He didn’t have a girlfriend before. They weren’t together. They were just hooking up. She was ruining my life. I would go to school each day with more hatred for the days as they went by. No confrontation would occur in person, but more and more people began to gang up on me online. I stopped checking Twitter... it was pointless. Why continue to make myself feel worse by checking it? This whole situation was stupid. I felt awful about myself for no reason. I was being shamed for doing the exact same thing my critics have done. They were such hypocrites. I am not a slut. I don’t look like a dead animal. I didn’t do anything wrong. I did not deserved to be shamed. So why was she still trying to get revenge on me? She caused me so much pain. She made me question myself and my self-appearance. She made me question my morals. She made me

feel like crap. She recruited her friends to join in on the shaming and the revenge seeking. She made false accusations about me, about my friends, about my family, but why? Because I got the boy she liked. She was being hypocritical. She has done this, and worse, to others before. I didn’t get it, and I still don’t. Looking back, I realize I shouldn’t have gotten so down on myself. I shouldn’t have been so fixated on what others were saying about me on social media. None of it was true. None of it was justified. Now, I kind of find this whole situation funny. I was shamed for no reason. People joined in on it just for the thrill of bringing someone else down. The exhilaration that comes with that kind of power enticed them. If what happened to me had happened to my attacker she would be asking herself the same questions I was. She wouldn’t understand why it was happening because it’s something many girls, including her, have done. Just like me, she too would get down on herself. She would become mad at the world, feel utterly awful. It isn’t something I would wish on anyone: to feel worthless without deserving it. I wouldn’t even wish it upon her. Shaming needs to stop. Especially when it is one girl shaming another because then others get the idea that it is okay to do too. That it is okay to make others feel low even when their actions were justified. I am not a slut. I don’t look like a dead animal. I didn’t do anything wrong. I did not deserve to be shamed. No one does. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

RECLAIM

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO 1. retrieve or recover (something previously lost, given, or paid); obtain the return of.

Sequoits reclaim. They reclaim what has been taken from them: their love of themselves, their happiness and their dreams. Beaten down and all hope lost, they remain optimistic of the end goal: to be successful and proud. When the going gets tough, we are able to push through and prevail in order to reclaim what was once ours. We are a part of a group of people working to unify the spirit within ourselves and others to take back what is ours.

Reclaim

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

LOVE YOURSELF BY JOANNA DAWIDOWSKI AS TOLD TO CHRISTINA MICHAELS

I used to wake up every single morning and look in the mirror, only to see a reflection I despised; one so cold and unfriendly that if it had the chance to run away from me, it would. I used to spend every single morning dragging my lifeless body to the scale to weigh a body that seemed so foreign to me. I used to spend every single morning recreating who I was with makeup, just to make up my self esteem. Every single morning I convinced myself there were people out there more important than I was, and that if I was gone no one would really care after a while. Every single morning I became my own worst enemy. I entered high school with a poisoned mind and a body that had been ambushed far too many times by self hate. My mental health became a war zone and my physical being was there to prove it; my wrists were heavy with battle scars. I surrounded myself with people that I thought were my friends, but in reality they were my enemies. I was a ticking time bomb ready to self destruct. My sophomore year was when I lifted my

16 Tom Tom February 2017

white flag in the air. I felt defeated and diminished by a deadly disease called depression. I knew I needed to seek help; I knew I could not go on like this any longer. With the death of my former self, came the rebirth of a soul that I learned to love with all of my being. I received help from people that were able to bandage both my physical and mental wounds. My change was drastic to say the least. I would have never guessed that the smallest action would create the biggest reaction. No longer did I feel like a small, frail, fragment to the big picture; I became the big picture. I began putting myself first and learning that both physically and mentally, I am my own best friend. Solitude is a blessing. To me, nothing is more educational than being alone with your own thoughts. I became a teacher to a new student; one that was learning to love themself. As I began to figure out myself, it became easier to evaluate what people wanted to encourage me to grow and who wanted to tear me down to my former self. I wish I could say I made this change all on my own, but I owe some of the credit to a previous girlfriend of

mine named Rocky. She was an influential role model for me and always pushed me to improve. The journey to loving myself was not easy. Do not attack your problem head on. Don’t think of loving yourself as physical beauty, think of it as beauty in your mind. When you’re becoming yourself, it’s going to be a lot of trial and error, and it’s going to be painful. You need to feel pain in order to understand how much self worth you have as a person. Your path to loving yourself isn’t perfect, it takes time before you actually do realize that it is a lot more than you think it is. It’s very mental. I now wake up every single morning and I listen to uplifting music. I wake up every single morning and I look in the mirror to see a reflection that I indulge in with an abundance of love. Every single morning I walk straight past the scale, because I love every ounce of my being. Every single morning I walk out of my front door knowing that the journey I’ve been on was not an easy one, and even though the destination has not been met yet, I have still come a long way. I wake up every single morning now knowing that I love myself. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

The “I” Issue

Reclaim

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

ALWAYS BE HAPPY BY JORDAN DELARA AS TOLD TO GRIFFIN HACKELOER

I have always had a positive outlook on life. It never mattered if I completely butchered my lines in an audition or I went out on stage and danced like a monkey. No matter what, I always do my best. Some may think that people who always seem to be happy never have any bad days. In reality, that is not true. I have had a few rough days recently. With all that has gone on in my life, it has definitely been difficult to keep that smile that everyone expects. Most days I am a very happy and optimistic person. My friends and family are the real reason why I wear a smile on my face every day. They constantly make me laugh and are talking to me throughout my days and checking in with me to see how my day is going. During the day, I am in constant contact with my family, whether that be talking to them via Snapchat or texting them. Those conversations are what keep me going. Along with my family, those who help me maintain my always positive attitude are my friends. My friends fill me with confidence and help me fill every room that I am in with smiles and positivity. One of my favorite things to do is to make others smile. When I make others smile, that is what brings a smile to my face. My favorite way to bring a smile to people’s faces is to make them laugh. Seeing people laugh makes me realize that there’s no reason to be sad. Alongside my family, I am constantly praying to God throughout the day in order for

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God to give me the strength to be the best person that I can be every single day. God plays a major role in my happiness. I am a practicing Lutheran. Having a strong connection with God means that I always have someone watching over my head and someone who will always do what is best for me. Furthering my connection with God also assists me in furthering the connections that I have with my friends. God has played a major role in my happiness as I began practicing Lutheran from a young age. Attending a private school that teaches the practices of Lutheran has helped me to develop a stronger connection with God. In developing this connection between God and myself, it has made me more comfortable because I know that I always have someone watching over me. Not only my connection with God has been strengthened by my practice, the connections that I have developed with my friends will last a lifetime. As a Lutheran, I believe that God is with me all of the time and that He has a plan for me. There have been lots of times where I feel very lonely. After those lonely times I can always reflect and know that I am always happy and am having fun. Growing up at a private school, I grew an independency. Everyone has fears, everyone has anxiety. When I have a day where I am feeling scared or anxious, I know that I can look to God and that no matter what, He has my back. Practicing Lutheran brings a smile to my face because I know that I am developing a strong connection with God and it is what

keeps me happy. And as long as I am happy, I know that God will be too. All of these things help me to be the most positive and happy person that I can be. Knowing that I have these people to support me in everything that I do helps me be a happier person each and every day. No matter what I decide to do, my mom and dad have always supported me. Having this support helps give me the confidence to do whatever I choose to do, and to help others do the same. Always being happy isn’t the easiest thing in the world to do, especially when there are so many negative things going on in the world around us. I have found that when you stop worrying about all the negative things in life that surround us, you can start to really live your life. When you focus on the negatives in your life, you never get the chance to open up your eyes and see life for what it really is. To some, being happy means that they slap on a face and ignore what is really getting under their skin. Some days this is a necessity. For me, being happy has always come to me without a problem. Sure there are those rough days once in a while. But everyone has those, no matter who you are. It doesn’t matter if you are a millionaire living in a mansion or a homeless man on the side of the road. No matter what, everyone is capable of being truly happy. For me, what makes me happy is being with others that make me happy and seeing others smile. Sometimes, just a simple smile can make someone’s day. TT

PHOTO // CHLOE GRASS

The “I” Issue

Reclaim

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

HAVE YOUR WISH GRANTED BY ALANAH BONNEY AS TOLD TO MICHAEL KAWELL

I was about 10 years old when I was told by the doctors there would be no more dance practices or long weekends filled with soccer. I never really understood. I would constantly asking, why me? Why was I diagnosed with Marfan’s Syndrome. The one thing I did know was my life was going to be changed forever. As time went on, trips to the hospital became more and more frequent. This took away from my childhood. Experiences that most kids have growing up slowly were taken from me; I felt like I was becoming less of a kid and more of a test subject with all the tests and different doctors looking at, poking and proding me, and trying to tell me it was going to be okay. Truth be told, it was a long time before I ever believed it was going to be okay or anywhere near okay. I mean how could I? Over the past few months I went from living life carefree to being told “no sports, exercise, or running.” It was like my whole word came to stop. I don’t remember exactly what doctor appointment number it was because there were way too many to keep count, but I do remember my cardiologist coming to me and my parents and talking to us about the Make A Wish program. My doctor said I fit the profile perfectly and explained how great of pro-

20 Tom Tom February 2017

gram they hosted. After conversations with doctors, Make A Wish representatives and family, I decided to go forth and have my wish granted. I wanted to go visit Australia. I saw this as a great opportunity and made this my wish. The next steps included meeting my wish granters and getting to know them. They were going to make my wish possible. The process was draining with countless forms of paperwork, different liabilities, booking flights and making reservations. Even getting there was draining: my flight was scheduled to leave at 10 p.m., but was way delayed until 1 a.m. because of “technical difficulties.“ Then again, I went from super excited to mentally and emotionally drained. Everyone I talked to always said how magical the wish will be and how great of an experience it is. Well, so far nothing had been great. There was no magic and it didn’t look like it was coming any time soon. I just sat their in airport with nothing to do. But then after a long flight we landed down in Australia and it was everything and more I imagined it would be. The trip itself was amazing. The three experiences that I picked to do while I was there were to swim in the great barrier reef, ride an ATV in the Daintree rainforest, and see the Australian Opera House that is famous around the world. The time I spent with my family and going to seeing all these amazing places were great. It

was indeed what I wished for, but what came out of this trip was way more valuable to me than the memoires of swimming the Reef, riding those ATVs or seeing the Opera House. On my trip, I didn’t have to worry about being different or feeling out of place, I was able to be myself and live my life carefree again for the first time in a long time. That feeling of belonging in this world, one that I had lost for a while after being diagnosed was reborn in Australia. I took home this newfound passion for life; I didn’t want to lose that feeling again. I was determined to live my life to fullest and and not be down about my medical diagnosis, as it is something that was completely out of my control. There was no more time to feel sorry for myself; it was time for me to conquer my Marfan’s Syndrome. Once I got back from my trip I was thrown back into more doctor offices and on to surgical tables to put rods in my back to help with my mobility. I did not back down from these challenges; I almost welcomed them in a way. After my surgery, I worked everyday on my rehab and fought through the pain to get back to where I was. There was no way I was going to let Marfan’s win. Why would I? I was surrounded by people who loved me and only wanted the best for me. I couldn’t let them down and I wasn’t going to let myself down either. TT

PHOTO // JILLIAN EVERETT

The “I” Issue

Reclaim

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

SLAP ON A SMILE BY REGAN PENN AS TOLD TO GRACE BOUKER

It hasn’t always been this way. I mean it has, but not like this, not always. Sometimes it’s like walking around in a hundred pound suit all day, it’s like a constant weight that you have to overcome in order to move forward, in order to function. Other times, it’s seeing things far differently than how anyone else sees them. It’s a distorted perception of their reality, but it’s my reality. It’s finding little details that no one else would notice, and using them as weapons against myself. It’s an uphill battle, it’s a war that nobody can see; it’s lethal. But, there’s always the light at the end of the tunnel. People usually only get a two dimensional look at me. They note my accomplishments, like choir or theatre, but that doesn’t mean that my life is going perfectly… at all. Other times, they’ll see that I don’t smile a lot, which is partially because of my resting face, but then they think that I’m just a breathing mascot for depression, and that’s not accurate either. A shadow of truth may ring in this though, because since middle school I’ve had major depressive disorder. Most times, it is extremely difficult to find the motivation to do my work, especially in school. I would rather stay in bed and sleep the exhaustion away, but it doesn’t exactly work like that. I have to come to school, and if I don’t have the motivation, I have to find it. A lot of times when I’m feeling particularly down, I’ll force myself to talk to someone and

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make a joke, because even telling a joke to someone else and making them crack a smile can help. Smiling helps a lot. The devil and the angel on both of my shoulders: that’s the daily battle. If you were to give depression a voice, it would say, “You’re worthless. You’re not good enough.” But then, there’s a part of me, tugging, arguing, lashing against depression, and it’s telling me to keep fighting, to do something, anything, to make myself better. I need to feel as okay as I say I am. Thankfully, I have a really strong support group. Parents, brothers, best friends, therapists, they all pull me out when I can’t do it alone. Sometimes my parents will make me do my homework when I just want to sleep all day, and other times my brothers will invite me to play Rock Band with them. After that, I feel a little better. I also have two anxiety disorders. These are vastly different than depression. Instead of lethargic and blue, anxiety is a purple and green slinky whizzing in front of my eyes and tangling my muscles. For generalized anxiety, I could have a panic attack and there could be no cause. Not a cause that anyone else could see, anyway. It comes on suddenly, without warning. Before you know it, black spots are spinning in front of your face because your brain isn’t receiving enough oxygen because you aren’t breathing because you can’t breathe. And you can’t breathe because your brain is so preoccupied with thoughts that it forgets to tell your body to breathe. And the little power you have left to digest the idea that you aren’t breathing is shrouded out

with fear, immense fear, because your chest is tight and your muscles are numb and you can’t find the way out. You’re in a maze, you’re in the fear simulation from Divergent, and you can’t get out. It’s quite the predicament, actually. Social anxiety is different. It’s more of me worrying way too much about things like what if I wear the wrong shirt or what if they realize that I’m doing this wrong? It’s more of me doing my best to reject the poisonous thoughts in my mind. At the same time, it’s still hard to hang out with people I don’t know super well or even go to practice. It’s less of a panic and more of a general dread. Sometimes, I can’t focus. I can’t focus. I can’t focus enough to talk to anyone right now. I can’t focus enough to do my work right now. I can’t. And when it gets like this, it’s like I’m walking around in a fog for undetermined amounts of time, while simultaneously fighting a war against myself in the background. No one else can see it, but that doesn’t make it any less powerful, any less destructive. But despite the harmful nature of depression and anxiety, there’s always a way to make it easier, if you look hard enough. For me, it’s simply surrounding myself with people who care about me and want to see me succeed, and most importantly, want to see me smile. At the end of the day, the most important anchor to grab onto is a smile, and everything else will come after. TT

PHOTO // GRACE BOUKER

The “I” Issue

INVOLVE

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO 1. (of a situation or event) include (something) as a necessary part or result. 2. be engaged in an emotional or personal relationship.

Sequoits are involved. Involvement is ingrained in the mantra of every Sequoit; whether inside or outside of the school, as Sequoits we feel the need to involve ourselves. No matter how big or small, being involved in something can make a huge difference in someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life. The people who are involved may sometimes go unseen, whether it be one Sequoit in a 120 person marching band, or a Sequoit that can speak three languages without others ever noticing. However, sometimes as human beings we can get ourselves involved in the wrong things, which limits what we can be involved in with the school. Despite how polarizing some actions may be, our involvement oftentimes defines us, both our inner core and our outer dreams. For us, involvement is the backbone to what makes us respectful, responsible and proud.

Involve

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

GO TO BAND CAMP BY MARISSA MILONE AS TOLD TO ALLISON SMITH

This one time at band camp, one of the trombone players left a gallon of chocolate milk in the band room. Little did he know at the time, the gallon of milk would sit in the band room for weeks. Months later, it would spill, making not only the band room smell, but the entire school reek of spoiled milk. The spoiled milk incident was not funny to the rest of the school, but it was hilarious to us band kids. It was one of the many inside jokes I was let in on at band camp. I started playing the saxophone when I was in the fourth grade. As the squeaks and screeches came from the band room on the first day, I knew not everyone would stick with it. At the young age of ten, I didn’t realize this saxophone would become such a big part of who I am today. It started as a fun hobby, something I wasn’t too serious about, but knew I would carry it with me to high school. Over the summer going into my freshman year, I woke up to a call from my dad. He was asking if I was going to attend marching band camp that morning. I had no clue what he was talking about; I didn’t even know Antioch had a band camp. My dad offered to pick me up and take me to the school, even though I was already two hours late. I walked up to the school, saxophone in hand, not knowing what to expect. I knew high school band would be a huge step up from the 20 person Emmons band, but I didn’t know to what extent. I had heard a lot about band camp; the stereotypical crazy stories. Deep down, I knew

26 Tom Tom February 2017

none of them were true, but there was a small part of me that wondered what actually went on. I was about to get the inside scoop of what it was really like to be a band member. I walked onto the brand new turf field where the rest of the band was and found Mr. Untch. He informed me that the tenor saxophone position had quit earlier that morning. If I was good enough, I would be filling in for her. Normally, you need to try out for marching band, but I had gotten lucky enough to bypass the auditions. Knowing I had such big shoes to fill made me nervous. Not to mention, I knew no one in the band. Most of the marching band members were upperclassmen, and already had formed their friendships. Everyone was practicing their elaborate scales. Meanwhile, I didn’t even know what a scale was. Being a reclusive person, it was pretty terrifying being the new kid. We started our day off by tuning and warming up our instruments. Then, we would line up and run through the motions with our dot books, which are sheets showing us our placement on the field. After practicing placement multiple times, we would take a water break and apply sunscreen. Considering camp was from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. for a week in the middle of August, it was crucial to stay out of the sun and stay hydrated. After spending hours running through the steps, we would finally add in our instruments. Going through the motions on the field was the easy part--adding the instruments was when it got tough. Playing an instrument is hard enough as it is, but adding in marching and staying in sync with the rest

of the band is beyond difficult. Before everything comes together perfectly, collisions are very likely to happen. Take one step in the wrong direction, at the wrong time or with the wrong foot, and you throw off the entire band. Collisions often lead to injuries. It may seem hard to believe, but it happens on the daily. The last thing a band member wants is to end up injured. Injuries mean missing practice. Missing one day of practice means falling 14 to 20 sets behind the rest of the band. While marching, you have to constantly focus on those around you. Band is centered around relying on others; without every instrument working cohesively, it won’t come together as it is meant to. Once you step out on the field to perform, there are hundreds of people watching. Competitions are the most stressful; we are judged on every move we make and every note we play. There is a lot of room to mess up. With all of the pressure that comes with competitions, I have learned that no one is perfect. It is a lot easier to recognize the fact that you are doing everything you can. Although I might not see myself as great sometimes, I know I am one of the parts that makes the entire band flow. Marching band makes me feel whole. I know I am a part of something incredible, something everyone wishes for. The enthusiasm and passion in a band member’s eyes is something you do not find on any team. If it had not been for my dad’s call on that summer morning, I would have missed out big time. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

Involve

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

BE TRILINGUAL BY NIKOLAI KUVSHINIKOV AS TOLD TO TAYLOR FELTNER

Growing up knowing three different languages is like growing up in what feels like three amazing yet different worlds all at one time. I am so grateful that I had the chance to grow up not only communicating with my family differently, but also with people from other nations. I speak English, Russian and Spanish, but Russian is by far my favorite. Knowing these different languages has helped me expand my knowledge on knowing more about important news stories and things going on all around the world, not just the United States. I also feel like I can memorize things well and am pretty good at problem solving because I can see things from many different perspectives. Being trilingual can be amazing, but also so strange at the same time. Like sometimes in the middle of an English class, I’ll be thinking of something in Spanish or Russian and the teacher calls on me and I have to rewind my brain a little bit to have it come out in English in order to make sense. Yet, the thing I really love is being somewhere and hearing people talk in different languages because I can help them out if they need directions to somewhere or just need help in general. I feel a little bit different with each different language that I speak because I just love being able to convey myself in a different manner.

RUSSIAN

I feel that Russian is such a rich language

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because you get to say things that are way more complex and expressive than in English and Spanish. I have known Russian pretty much my whole life. My parents would throw in some words for me here and there, but my grandma helped me the most. We read books in Russian together and even studied Russian grammar. I oftentimes think in Russian and then have to speak what I am thinking out loud into English, so people can understand me. I also feel closer to the Russian heritage, and I feel a sort of sense of pride in myself.

SPANISH

I learned Spanish from my entire family because they have the ability to speak it more fluently. I love how the words just roll off your tongue. I went to Argentina over winter break with my family and every person there assumed I did not speak Spanish since I was a young, blonde boy with blue eyes. Most people in Argentina have darker hair along with brown eyes, so the people there just assumed I could only speak English. Quite a few times while we were there, people would be talking about something that was going on, and on occasion, I would respond to what they were saying in Spanish. When I did that, their eyes got so wide that you would have thought they had just seen a ghost or something. Then these Argentinian’s started talking to me more as if they were testing my fluency, and sure enough I had an answer for everything they asked. However, when I came back to America after my two weeks of speaking straight Spanish, I almost felt as if I could

not speak English anymore, no matter how hard I tried. However, once I said one word in English, everything was back to normal. It felt almost as if there was this switch in my brain with three different settings and when one switch is on, the rest are off and I have to try to find a way to turn the switch of the language that I want to speak on.

ENGLISH

My whole entire family and surroundings caused me to learn English at a very fast rate. English is obviously the easiest language I’ve learned, since almost everywhere I have gone since I was born was all English speaking. Yet, I honestly think English might be my least favorite of the three because I feel like it doesn’t come off as smoothly as the other two languages do. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy knowing English and all, but it just isn’t one I would choose to speak all the time if I had the option. I feel like knowing these different languages has caused me to become more open-minded and formed me better as a person with each different language I know. I look forward to being able to use trilingualism in my future if I am in need of a job or if I want to travel around the world. I am also very excited to keep expanding my vocabulary in all of the languages and learning more and more about each culture as I continue to explore them. TT

PHOTO // JR JOHNSON

The “I” Issue

Involve

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

BE PRINCIPAL BY BRADFORD HUBBARD AS TOLD TO KAYLEE SCHREINER

There’s no formula for how to be principal. I mean sure there are plenty of books, but ultimately you have to do it in a way that comes naturally to you. I’m the type of person who doesn’t know how to do it any other way than I’ve been doing it. The responsibility piece for me is really, really important and it’s something that I think about all the time. There are 1,300 and something kids that go here along with 150 staff members; I certainly can’t control everything that goes on. But everything that happens falls on my shoulders, or at least I view it that way. A lot of it is self-induced stress, and I realize that. At the end of the day, the decisions that I make impact students and their lives, which is a huge responsibility. A typical work day doesn’t really exist. There are always meetings, but usually I’m in the office for no more than five minutes before something else is happening that needs my attention. I could be having a conversation with a teacher and literally a second later I’m managing an evacuation or in contact with the police department. Every once in a while, it hits you that you have to wear so many different hats and be so many different people. But every day is different and that’s the most exciting part about the job. Another exciting part is the pride that comes with being principal. There’s so much pride in being able to say ‘My name is Bradford Hubbard and I’m the principal of Antioch Community High School.’ I love it. I am so proud to be here. For a superintendent, a board of education and a community to put

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that much trust in me to make the right decisions, do the right things and care about the right stuff that is an honor. But the way that I’ve chosen to approach the job has come with sacrifice. The most striking one is the sacrifice that I make between my two families. I have a family at home and I view this as my family here at school. When I’m not here, I’m there, and when I’m not there, I’m here. There’s been a lot of times where there has been one, two, sometimes even three or four days that go by where I literally don’t see my kids. Other than walking in the room and seeing them sleep, I don’t get to see them. I’m out the door before they’re up and I’m home after they go to bed. And then there are times when I walk away from the school and say I’m not touching this place for a few days. And even though I’m enjoying the time with my family, I feel like I’m neglecting stuff here at school. I’ve tried to commit to myself that I wouldn’t miss out on anything big, but there’s always things that I miss. The amount of sacrifices that have to be made hit me like a ton of bricks two years ago. It was the end of the first semester of my second year as principal and we had a birthday party for my oldest daughter who was turning five. I make all of the cakes for my girls from scratch, that’s just a thing I do, so I had made the cake and I placed it in front of her. We had all of this family and some friends over, and we told her to make a wish. And she said out loud so everyone could hear her, ‘I wish my dad didn’t have to work so much.’ And it was… it was just shocking. She has said it other times and articulates it in different ways, and even my younger

daughter who is now five has started to say similar things. Over the course of the last four years, I’ve tried to pull back a little bit to spend more time with them, but I can’t. I can’t do what I feel I need to do serve them and the school. I realize that something has to give at some point. Otherwise I fear that 15 years from now I could look back and say ‘what was I doing? Why didn’t I spend more time as they were growing up?’ That’s why leaving is so crazy emotional. As a principal, I’m the guy. I’m the person. But when I leave, I’m not going to be sitting with students at football games. They’re not going to have a fathead of my face in the stands. That’s the kind of stuff I’ll miss like crazy. Being principal has taught me an awful lot of things that I didn’t know. But ultimately I think that it’s taught me how to be a better person. It’s taught me how to care about the right things while allowing me to do what I’ve always wanted to do: have an impact. To me it’s all about culture and climate and creating conditions for students to feel like this is a cool place to be. And then to feel like this is a place where they can learn something and become successful at something that they’re passionate about; that to me is the whole purpose. This job is all I ever wanted and it’s such an honor to be able to do it. It’s really emotional for me to be walking away. Every day that gets closer, the more emotional I become because I really, really love what I do. I’m going to miss being the principal and I’m absolutely convinced that I’ll never find anything that I love more than this. TT

PHOTO // KAYLEE SCHREINER

The “I” Issue

Involve

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

SUSPENDED FROM YOUR SPORT BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO JOHN HOWE

It felt pretty awful to be suspended from my sport. That may seem obvious, but there’s really nothing I can think of that relates to that feeling, at least in my life. You feel like you have let your entire team and coach down and have to just sit and watch as your team competes. It sucks to know you could’ve done something else, but you decided to ignore what the outcome would be. As an athlete, you’re told to stay away from the temptations that can get you into trouble, but occasionally you’re not going to be the so-called “coach’s pet” and always do exactly what they want from you. Once I was caught, I knew exactly what was next to come, how could I not? It had been preached to me my entire career. I knew I would be in trouble, but had no idea how long or what I would have to do to make up for my mistake. I heard stories about people getting suspended, but never imagined it would happen to me. I have never been so unsure of what my future held. When my parents found out, they were obviously disappointed and upset with me and my actions. They were not expecting to go to my games to watch my teammates compete without me. Witnessing your child do something they love is said to be one of the greatest joys as a parent, but seeing them sitting on the sideline out of a punishment, not even wearing their uniform, is the complete opposite. I had felt like all of the other parents were judging my parents for not raising me right or snarling at them as they heard about

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what I had done. I felt as though my parents were embarrassed to be my parents. Telling my coach was the worst part. I tried to act as professional as I could and tell him what had happened, hoping he wouldn’t hate me for the rest of my high school career. The whole time talking to him, I knew he would be upset with me and my actions. All I could do was just apologize for what I had done and say that it wouldn’t happen again. Wearing my uniform to school was something I looked forward to every week, and to not be able to do so was awful. Every day that I wore my uniform, I was overcome with that good vibe of “game day” and that it was going to be a fun day. On the day that everyone was in uniform for the first game, I felt like everyone knew what had happened and was judging me, based solely on the glares I would receive from my peers in the hallway. I continued going through the day with my head down, trying to stay happy and normal, but that was a poor excuse for happiness. It just wasn’t that “game day” feeling every athlete aspires to have before a big game. There’s really no way to describe it until it’s gone. This was only the build up to the season opener. My mind couldn’t even begin to fathom what the game would be like. During the first game, it was awful seeing my teammates have a good time making the school proud of their sports teams, and I had to just sit and watch. I stood there thinking, not about me, but about the team. I had let down the people I had been competing and performing with my entire life. I would then turn to the crowd and think about the fans, these were some of the people that have been

watching me since I was still in elementary school, and that hurt. The next week at practice I cracked. I was scared and didn’t want to go through another game of watching, unable to compete with my team. I feared going to practice every day. What was the point? I wouldn’t be performing, I wouldn’t be making anyone proud and I was definitely not any help to anyone. I gave up in a sense. I didn’t want to try anymore, and was on the verge of quitting. Luckily, with the support of my teammates, I was able to look past the bad and get excited for my return to doing what I loved. My teammates were surprisingly supportive through the whole process. After they had their fun making jokes about my mistakes, which was awful to say the least, they were excited for me to return to competing with them. They saw how upset being suspended made me and tried to cheer me up as best as they could. If it weren’t for their support, I have no idea how my season would have gone, or if I would have even made it through. Once the whole fiasco was over, I was able to finish out my season stronger than ever before. It was a relief to see people proud and excited to see me doing what I loved once again. I know I made a poor choice and I never want to feel that way again. Nothing has ever felt so upsetting knowing I let my entire team down. Watching the whole team work their butts off as I sat by for a silly mistake I had made felt terrible to say the least. I now know what it means to never take anything you love for granted. TT

PHOTO // STEFFANIE RICHARDSON

The “I” Issue

Involve

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

ACHIEVE YOUR DREAM BY JILLIAN FOOTE AS TOLD TO ASHLEY STEPHENS

My softball journey began seven years ago. I didn’t realize how many bumps I would face along the way to achieve not just my goal, but my dream. It may just be a game for some people, but to me it is something that I love. There were multiple times I considered just giving up, but one amazing opportunity changed everything. I always knew I wanted to play at a high level, so when my high school coach set me up with a tryout with one of the top Illinois travel team, Illinois Chill Gold, I was thrilled with the path I was headed toward. If it wasn’t for Rocco, I don’t think I would have the opportunity to play at a Division I college. With the opportunity of joining Chill, it also meant leaving behind friends and teammates. I felt like I let them down. Many of them did not like me anymore and didn’t really support my decision. My dad was the coach and people counted on him and I to help the team out in the summer, but I knew that this decision was the best thing for me because I realized I wanted to play softball in college and I needed to put myself first. As a result of joining this new team, it made me a better player and exposed me to colleges. This team gave me many new friendships and experiences that are hard to find. My family and I made many sacrifices over the years traveling to several different states to play the game I love and dedicate

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myself to. I miss out on many things throughout the summer because of softball. It is hard to be able to balance family time, summer activities and traveling on vacations because softball becomes your life. After years of playing, an opportunity finally came my way. I was able to attend several camps at my dream college, the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay. I was in close contact with the head coach in hopes of playing for her. I’ve never been more determined and excited to play for Green Bay. Things were looking very positive until I received the news that the coach was leaving Green Bay to coach at another college. My dreams were crushed the minute I found out and it destroyed my motivation. I felt like giving up and I began to lose all hope. The next season of softball was really tough. I thought I couldn’t do anything to get to my goal because of the coaching changes. My confidence was very low. I was already down about Green Bay, but I continued to move forward. I mean, that was the only thing I could do. I faced a lot of criticism, which made it very difficult to be positive. But what kept me going was my love for the game. I get nervous before every game because I want to play my best and help the team as much as I possibly can. I also become very aggressive and that helps me focus more. I began noticing other colleges offers once Green Bay was out of the picture. One of the schools that I was interested in was University of Wisconsin-Parkside. I started talking to

the coach and he made an offer. The Parkside coach also ended up leaving and luckily he went to Green Bay, so I could continue striving for my dream school and I achieved it. It feels great knowing I finally achieved my dream. There were bumps along the way, but I kept fighting and was successful. My family and friends always thought that I could play college softball. They built up all of my confidence when it was low. My dad has been a big part of my career. He has shaped me to the player I am today. He always helps me perfect my swing, which really helps. My mom is also a big supporter. She comes to all of my games for travel and cheers for me at every game. My family was so happy for me. My parents were on Green Bay’s campus with me when I made the decision to play there. We celebrated that weekend with a special dinner. Committing to Green Bay lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. I had been working hard for years to just commit to a school. There was so much pressure during travel season because I always had to look my best even when I messed up or struck out, and that was especially hard. I hated just being up in the air about schools and always wondering what they were thinking about me when I was playing. I still get a little nervous playing in front of my coach, but I also feel relieved. I feel like I can finally just play the game instead of stressing out about what a coach sees or doesn’t see. TT

PHOTO // VALERIE FOOTE

The “I” Issue

Involve

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

A TEACHER BY ELIZABETH POHLMAN AS TOLD TO NICOLE PETERSON

When I first started to teach it was work, eat, sleep, repeat. There is not that much free time at the beginning. I was drowning in the workload. To balance the work I have to constantly reprioritize so the things that need to get done get done. Sleep is last on the list otherwise I feel guilt towards my kids at home and my kids at school. Now I’m just perfecting the lessons that I teach, so there is not that much planning. I have a calendar with what we are doing for each unit. If something needs to be tweaked to make it better for next year the science team I am with will tweak the schedule or lab activity. Sometimes it gets frustrating. One time, the kids were given two weeks to take notes on their reading before the lab practical. When I was looking over their work it looked like they did not read, so the next day I told them whoever had notes could use them for the lab and only one person in my eighth hour did them. It made me really mad. For the first

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time I had to add some rules. Most things do not upset me, but when students do not do their work that really gets me mad. When the topic is dry, the students still do their work. They always have something that will make it interesting and fun to learn. The questions they ask are on topic or off topic. The questions make me have to think about the response because they are really good questions. It makes me happy that the kids get into the lesson even if it one that is not as interesting. Even if I am home the students know how to get a hold of me and that I will get back to them as soon as I can. During the week, after school, I take my kids to Boy Scouts, religious ed and all their other activities. My husband or I help them with their homework. We go over previous worksheets to make sure they understand what they did. If they got a question wrong especially if it was class work we would talk over what they did wrong to see if they now know the answer. We then sit down for family dinner. During the weekend I do minimal grading because the weekend is

designated for family time. We do fun things including roller blading and sometimes go to the movies. We also set up playdates with the kids’ classmates, so they can can build relationships outside of the classroom and play with friends from their old school. Staying home as a stay at home mom was not an option for me. My kids drive me crazy when they fight with each other. At the beginning of the summer I am excited to hang out with them, but by the middle of the summer I am ready to go back to school. Coming back to school is the start of a new year with a new group of kids I can call mine. I can teach them how to think and use their minds. Coming back to school is great because I get to come back to a group of kids that I can teach valuable things. I know most people will not use biology and anatomy, but they will be able to use the skills I teach. The main ones are thinking, work ethic and being a family. Being a family inside the classroom I’ve never had a student that thought I did not have a life outside of school. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

The “I” Issue

GAIN

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO 1. obtain or secure (something desired, favorable, or profitable). 2. increase the amount or rate of (something, typically weight or speed) Sequoits gain. This gain, however, isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t necessarily as obvious as one might think. In some cases, Sequoits reach far beyond the classroom to gain leadership through new experiences, such as starting a new fraternity at college. Others gain in their love of themselves; in one case, it is through faith that one found a new life. Outside of the walls of ACHS, Sequoit community members even gain through their opportunities to improve the lives of others both in charitable donations and fighting fires on the front lines. Or, sometimes the gain is from seeing your favorite team finally take the crown, even after over 100 years of waiting. For these Sequoits, life is about the journey to grow.

Gain

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

ON THE FRONT LINES BY LIEUTENANT ORION RICH AS TOLD TO JR JOHNSON

E4 specialist to E5 promotable of the US Army to Lieutenant O’Brien of the Antioch Fire Department, but one thing stayed the same: defend the red, white and blue. I knew when I turned 18, I would defend the red, white and blue for the rest of my life. It all happened so fast. I was moving from different bases for my training. The training, the sleepless nights, the studying and thinking about the worst: the unknown. Two thousand ten was my year, it was time to leave the luxury of normal life and go into the blazing fire of Kandahar, Afghanistan. I fought along side my brothers and sisters for 13 months. No mom, no dad, just my brothers and sisters. After that miserable but life changing year, I was a lucky one that got to see my family again. I got back and, for the first time in a year, I was able to step onto the soil of the land of the free because of the brave, like me. That is when I knew it was in my blood to serve my country and help the people of it. I decided to become a man that will run into a smoldering building instead of running away from it. My job is not to just smother fires and rescue people; I overview the fire itself. I am the accompany officer. My job is to make sure everyone is safe and is able to work to their most efficient capability. Before we go busting through doors, we have to come to an agreement that this is the most safe and efficient way to approach the situation. I wake up at 5 a.m. to begin my job. I drive to the fire station, shower, shave and put on my uniform, but that is only step one. My crew and I then have to check the engines

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and ambulances for proper equipment and make sure everything is functioning. If anything is broken, we must replace it. By 6 a.m. my crew and I are fully ready to respond to emergencies. Now it is time for roll call. We sit around the kitchen table just like a family does; after all, we are a big family. We discuss our day and our players. Players meaning who has what certification, who is on what vehicle and who is assigned to what tools. After roll call we eat breakfast as a family. Everyone is around the table; small talk is going around, jokes are being cracked. Once breakfast is all cleaned up and dishes are done, food is put into the three different massive fridge raiders we have. Then we begin our day. By the start of the day, we do not just sit around and wait for a call to come in. We do our weekly checks, which are a more in depth examination of our equipment, taking off the caps on the engines, checking tire pressure. Usually around 9 or 10 a.m. we begin our training. We train every week to keep us up to status with the most effective and new methods skills. Depending on calls, it’s typically around noon when we eat lunch as a family again, whether it be going out or cooking for ourselves. After lunch it is time for house chorBeep* Beep* Boop* Engine 211 car accident on 173 and 83* Engine 211 car accident on 173 and 83* This is second nature to me. It is now around and time to do house chores. We do not have maids. We have to clean our own bathrooms and mop the floors, clean up the living room, clean the trucks and the truck floor. After all of our house chores are complete we do our reports. Basically, we sit down and go through a series of checklists

about numerous things, whether it be the most recent call or just writing down what got fixed or what still needs to be fixed. Typically around 3 o’clock, it is free time. Most guys work out because we have our own personal gym in the basement of the fire house. Depending on the day and how many calls we have pulled, some guys like to relax or study. Beep* Beep* Boop* Engine 211 report of a structure fire at 123 North Avenue Engine 211 report of a structure fire at 123 North Avenue That’s me again. This happens on a regular basis; many times I have to stop what I am doing to attend to a call. Once we get back from a call, we debrief and that is when we discuss the call. Then it is just like normal. Everyone goes back to what they were doing. After dinner, all we usually do is attend to calls or play board or card games with each other; it’s our relaxation time until we go to bed. When I do go to bed, I lay down and realize how much I truly do love my job and the people I work with. When I lay down in my bed every night, I say the fireman’s prayer. “When I am called to duty, God,/ Whenever flames may rage;/ Give me strength to save some life,/ Whatever be its age./ Help me embrace a little child/ Before it is too late/ or save an older person/ from horror of that fate./ Enable me to be alert/ and hear the weakest shout,/ and quickly and efficiently/ to put the fire out./ I want to fill my calling/ and to give the best in me/ to guard my every neighbor/ and protect his property./ And if, according to my fate,/ I am to lose my life,/ Please bless with your protecting/ my children and my wife.” TT

PHOTO // JR JOHNSON

The “I” Issue

Gain

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

START A CHARITY BY LISA FISHER AS TOLD TO ANNE WAGNER

Working at a school can bring about a whole new perspective on the way different people live their everyday lives. When I had first heard about a student who had been bragging about going to McDonald’s three nights in a row until dark, and not just to indulge in a Happy Meal, but to keep warm and not rely on the glow from candles to get around their house because the family’s electric had been turned off. I became overwhelmed with sorrow and thought to myself, we are not living in the inner city stuff like this should not happen in Antioch. I wanted to do something to help this student and her family. I had started by collecting clothing items, toiletries and nonperishable items to give to this student for the holidays, to make hard times a little bit easier. Eventually, I wanted to do more for them. Delivering items once every couple of months had turned into once every month for about two years. Unfortunately, this family moved out of the district, and because I never met the student, or the family, I could no longer provide them with my assistance. I was heartbroken, who was I going to help now? I began asking my friends around town how we could begin to help less fortunate students around Antioch. In the summer of 2014, I began collecting clothing items for students size 6-20. I know that there are metal bins all around town to donate clothing to,

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but I felt uneasy donating to them because I never knew if people in need were really benefitting, or if companies were just making money off of the clothes donated. It started off rather small. My coworkers would contact me with size information and I would bring in bags of clothes for students to choose from. I’ll go through each clothing item donated one by one to make sure that they do not have any funky stains or smells. Although I had never met the students, I knew that they enjoyed the fact that they could pick through what they wanted, and not just take what was handed to them. This went on for about a year, but when I was hired as a paraprofessional at W.C. Petty was when I decided I still wanted to do more, and create something bigger. I decided that a clothing drive would be the best alternative to help even more families in need. It was named the Antioch Traveling Closet. I created a Facebook page and had emailed some student’s families in order to get the word out; I wanted to help as many people as I could. At the first event about 40 families showed up. There were clothing, winter gear, shoes, school supplies, very limited toiletries and the families could even get complimentary haircuts. The gym was full with tears of joy from the parents of the children who were able to wear new and slightly used clothes at the beginning of a new school year. Since the first Traveling Closet had made such an impact, I decided to hold the event

three times a year, each one bigger than the last, with more and more items donated and picked out by the families each time. I attribute the Closet’s success to neighbors helping neighbors. It would not be what it is today without the people with such generous hearts so willing to donate. It takes about seven hours to prepare the day before each event, but it’s easier with the help from local businesses and the gracious volunteers. The same thoughts rush through my mind the night before each event. Will people show up, will there be enough stuff for everyone, just the usual jitters. The nerves set in even more when families begin lining up outside of the doors two hours before we open. However, my nerves start to subside when the ear to ear smiles begin to surface, and the tears of joy start streaming down. I have formed some relationships with the children; sometimes when they see me in the halls they will run up to me and say, “look Mrs. Fisher, isn’t this pretty; I got it from you; I love it.” It’s one of the most rewarding feelings, and makes the whole process all worthwhile. I am just so blown away by the amazing generosity from the people of our community. I am completely overjoyed by how well this small community can come together to form something so impactful to help their neighbors in need. The Antioch Traveling Closet has taken a life of its own, and has become something I had never thought possible. TT

PHOTO // ANNE WAGNER

The “I” Issue

Gain

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

A CUBS FAN BY DAVE ROONEY AS TOLD TO MATTHEW ROWE

1950: just five years after the Chicago Cubs won the pennant, but lost the World Series to the Detroit Tigers, I was born. I grew up on the North side of Chicago with my mother, father and two younger brothers. My dad was always a Cubs fan, and my mother was too, but she seemed to never really care much about it. My brothers and I were always intrigued with baseball, Wrigley Field and the Chicago Cubs. I can still remember when I was eight years old. It was a Saturday. I can’t remember the exact time, but it was a sunny day and my father brought home a 1954 Murphy U198M radio. My brothers and I were very excited. We plugged it in and tuned to station 720 AM. That’s when we heard it. “Ernie Banks up at the plate, with a runner on second and third. The pitch, Banks swings away and a hard hit ball right through the gap, one runner in… the throw. Safe! The second runner beats the throw with a slide. The Cubs take the lead 2 to 1 in the bottom of the third.” From that day, I could say my life changed forever. I would listen to almost every game that I could. I fell in love with baseball and the Chicago Cubs. Whether it was buying baseball cards with Cubs players, or standing outside of Wrigley during games. It all meant so much to me. It wasn’t until I was 11 or 12 when I got my first Cubs hat. In fact, I still have it now. I would wear it everywhere. Going to school, going to the market with my brothers, or playing baseball with neighborhood kids. It was a hot Wednesday on July 21, 1965. I can remember it like it happened yesterday. My father had got my brothers and me Cubs tickets to see them face the Philadelphia Phillies. It was my first real Chicago Cubs baseball game. I was filled with joy when I walked up to the great Wrigley Field. I looked around

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me; there were Cubs fans everywhere. Once we got into the park, It was nothing like I had ever seen, except in pictures. But this wasn’t a picture. I was there. I will never forget walking up the stairs to see the stadium. Beautiful green cut grass, the smell of hot dogs and the amazing big green scoreboard. Our seats weren’t the greatest, but to me they were absolutely perfect. The Cubs and the Phillies played each inning, battling to score or making plays in the infield or outfield. The game was tied 7-7. The Chicago Cubs were at bat in the bottom of the eighth when Glenn Beckert, the second baseman, walked to the plate. I was nervous. The pitcher pitched his ball. The sound of the bat when it made contact with the ball sounded like thunder. The ball flew high, it was going back... deep. I stood out of my seat, my eyes opened widely focusing on the little white ball in the air. HOMERUN! Right over that incredible wall of green ivy. The Cubs won the game 8-7. After that game, my passion for this team became a huge part of me. As the years went by, the Cubs had their good seasons and their bad seasons, making playoffs to not making them. A World Series never looked in our favor. There were curses that people believed the Chicago Cubs had with a goat, a black cat and even a baseball glove. To me, they always sounded outrageous. I never believed them. I was true blue and bled blue. I knew sooner or later the Chicago Cubs would win a World Series. In 2003, the Chicago Cubs were playing in the NLCS. We were just five outs away from winning and going to the World Series. I was watching on my television with my wife. When the ball was hit, it was a pop fly. It looked easy to catch. Moises Alou was the left fielder and was there for the catch, but so was a man named Steve Bartman. Bartman reached out and took the ball away from Alou, robbing him of the ball and the Cubs

chance of winning. The Chicago Cubs ended up losing the series. After that I sat there with sadness. I was angry. Maybe the Cubs will never win the world series again, I thought to myself in frustration. For all those years, I waited and waited. I watched and watched. Listened and listened. I was there for the wins and the losses. I had hope; I never lost it. Maybe a few times I doubted them, but I have never lost hope. Any true Cubs fan never loses hope. In 2016, the Chicago Cubs finally made it. We all made it. The team, the coaches and the fans. The Chicago Cubs were in the world series, We played the Cleveland Indians, and in a hard-fought series, it was brought to game 7. So many thoughts ran through my head. Is this it? It has to be the year. How could it not? Game 7 was the most intense sports game I have ever watched. The game went into extra innings. Then 2nd baseman Ben Zobrist hit the game winning run. The Cubs were up at the end of the inning, 8-6. Now we were only three outs away from winning it all, breaking the curses, not being called lovable losers, or forgiving Steve Bartman. The Indians scored. Now it was 8-7 and my heart was beating so fast, I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. The pitch released from Mike Montgomery. The ball was hit, it was a grounder to third, Kris Bryant scooped the ball throwing it to first while almost slipping and overthrowing it, but Anthony Rizzo was there to make the catch. They did it. They finally did it. I could not believe what I saw or heard. “THE CHICAGO CUBS HAVE WON THE WORLD SERIES!” I stood there for a few minutes in shock, then tears started to spill down my face. They were the best tears I have ever shed. 108 years waiting for the Chicago Cubs to bring Chicago a World Series championship. This is why I am a Cubs fan. TT

PHOTO // CHLOE GRASS

The “I” Issue

Gain

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

START A FRATERNITY BY NICK BYCZEK AS TOLD TO ABIGAIL RUSSELL

I wasn’t sure if I was even going to rush because financially it was going to be hard, and college was already going to be a lot. I didn’t think it was even going to be worth it. I thought joining would be something I would never recommend to someone and I would kind of regret. Now, whenever someone asks, I recommend rushing, especially to the people that are still in Antioch. It was an opportunity I wouldn’t trade for anything. I was so happy when this opportunity came up where I could help make a chapter at NIU. This was unlike any other opportunity I have experienced; we could make our own rules and our own prices; we got to do the process that goes with building a chapter-all of that stuff by ourselves. Everyone could just bounce new ideas off each other and we all used each other to make the fraternity life as a whole better. At first, other fraternities didn’t really think highly of us because we were the newest fraternity on campus. They didn’t like us coming in on their turf, but that negative influence just put the ice in our veins. We pushed ourselves to have a lot of fun and make the experience our own. We had to work with all these new people that hadn’t been in greek life before and make them leaders. We are unique in the fact that we have some upperclassmen on our executive team, but we even

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have a freshman on that team as well. While that is intimidating for the underclassmen, they have brought so many new ideas and have helped with so much to make our fraternity that much better. This idea that we could respect underclassmen and upperclassmen has helped us bond. Just by being in the fraternity, I made so many new friends; I had 53 new friends after we finished rushing. It is truly a brotherhood; we instantly became friends and brothers. They’re so encouraging. We’re always supporting each other to join intramurals, join a club, join the sports teams. If there’s anything one of our guys wants to do, we all support each other. School is included. We just started in November and we’re the third highest GPA in all of greek life at NIU. The nationals called us and told us they thought it was fake and they had to check our numbers again because of how high they are and how new we are. We aren’t completely official yet and we are already showing how well we can do. By “not official,” I mean that we’re still in the process of getting chartered, or recognized nationally, and getting accepted by all the other fraternities on campus. Like everyone on campus knows who we are, but we haven’t been recognized by the national organization as a chapter on our campus yet. Even though we aren’t nationally recognized, we try our best to be the best we can, we tell our guys to really hustle and we fo-

cus on our school work. We all aren’t perfect, we don’t expect everyone to be, but we try to stay away from some of the negative stereotypes of fraternities. It isn’t like we force our guys to stay completely away from partying, but we tell them that if you work hard you can still go out and have fun. We don’t have a house yet so we can’t throw parties. We are still searching for a house, not just to throw parties, but the house will truly help to establish ourselves as a chapter and help us become more well known throughout the community and nation. We’re encouraging our members to try to be active in the community, to get ourselves more known and to make our image more how we feel we are as people and as a fraternity. To help with that, we definitely want to do a lot more charity work and encourage each other to be more like philanthropists. It feels like a big goal right now, but we’re already starting to take it on little by little. Right now we took a big step by starting to work with five charities to help their cause. We’re definitely going to look more into being at more social events with them and supporting them in our community. We just want to help our NIU community in general. We’re working to be the best we can be in all areas. We don’t want to be the newest fraternity on campus, but the best fraternity we can be. TT

PHOTO // EMILY HOLMES

The “I” Issue

Gain

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

FIND FAITH BY JESSICA BORKOWICZ AS TOLD TO JAYME BAILEY

One of the worst things was constantly hearing “everything will be fine”, but the reality is it is not fine nothing is “fine.” It really started freshman year, that is when I really felt lost; I did not know who I was anymore. During group projects I was the one who would sit there, shutting others out, not talking to anyone. Everyday I thought “don’t talk to me, I’m having a bad day.” The only problem was this was an everyday occurrence. My old group of friends did not help with where I was. The family issues did not help that much ether. I’m a Christian, and with everything going on I fell deeper into this hole and didn’t feel like I could fall to faith for guidance. My mom has had cancer twice: the first time was when I was two and I did not realize what was going on at the time because I was so young. My mom then got sick again when I was in third grade. She had to go to radiation and we couldn’t see her for a week. During that week I really realized how awful it would be to lose her; she is my best friend. This past year she had a cyst on her ovaries. They did an ultrasound and if it was cancerous it would have been her third treatment. This not only got at my emotions, but this also challenged my faith. My dad also struggled, but with alcoholism. He got a DUI; how

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do you explain to your friends that your dad has a DUI and can’t drive anywhere? I soon started to realize that my friends were not the best for me. I remember this one time coming to school in some more comfortable clothes and one of my friends just looking at me and then saying, “what are you wearing? We don’t wear those kind of clothes.” I started to figure out who was the best for me and who to cut out. This helped a little in this situation that I was in, but maybe cutting people off wasn’t the best. I like to ask my close friends what they thought of me when they first meet me, so I did one day and I was caught off guard by the answer. They said they thought I was a bitch, and that they would not have started to talk to me unless I have started the conversation because they were scared to approach me. I even asked my mom, she was not surprised that I got that response; she said she would never talk to me if I went to school with her. This is what really hurt, to know I made someone feel that way, and to know someone thought that about me. I know you shouldn’t care what others think but it was hard not to at that moment. That is when I realized I am someone I never wanted to be. I want to be known as that person who you could tell anything to even if you were a stranger to me. During this time I tried to reflect on who I really was turning into and how this whole situation was affecting my future. I started to really realize who was actually there for

me. There was one girl who wanted me to go with her to her youth group. I was not into it at first; I did not want to go to a place where someone would just shove faith down my throat. She soon became one of the people who was there the most for me, but not only did her support help me, but her attitude towards life helped me too. I would complain about something I was going through, but then hearing the kind of situations she had, and just watching her bounce back and be such an optimist about some really awful situations. Going to youth group really helped me find who I was again and helped me find such a strong group of people who will always be there for me even if I was in the wrong. Faith is what really brought my back. Losing myself was not the worst thing that ever happened to me. I remember thinking why me a lot, like why do I have to have a mom with cancer? Why do I have to have an alcoholic dad? Not realizing that everything would get better with time, and a better attitude towards the bad things that came my way. Right now my life in a much better place than it was back during freshman year. My dad is about ten years sober, and my mom is doing a lot better, and I plan on attending Whitewater in the fall. I still attend the youth group I first attended. I never thought things could turn around then, but now I am such a good place and so thankful for everyone who helped me find myself again. TT

PHOTO // JR JOHNSON

The “I” Issue

IMAGINE

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO 1. form a mental image or concept of. 2. suppose or assume

Sequoits imagine. Each of these stories have a common assumption connected to them: people have trouble imagining things that do not directly relate or impact them. Belief systems that are misinterpreted open up a whole different world for these Sequoits to envision. Others look upon certain situations and oftentimes have stereotypes to go along with them: comfort, atheism, sex and introversion to name a few. The majority may conclude that someone is the way they are because of what they believe, while the minority struggle to maintain who they are. The stories of each of these Sequoits are not beliefs that oftentimes are seen as common to the majority, rather they express a distinct voice of the other. These Sequoits imagine a world where all voices are accepted, no matter how much their beliefs may come in direct conflict with the views of others.

Imagine

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

REDEFINE YOUR COMFORT ZONE BY THOMAS BOEH AS TOLD TO JASON WOOD

I feel like I just opened up really. Kind of like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon, just like “bam,” that’s who I am. An extrovert is the person that you either love, hate or just put up with in class. They’re the person that shouts out an answer to any question. They’re the person who can make everyone laugh and always has a smile on their face. They’re the person you can point out in a crowd. I think that’s the person I am now. But it wasn’t always so easy for me to stand out. I didn’t always shout out the answer to any question, or have a smile on my face, or make everyone laugh, and you definitely wouldn’t have chosen me out of a crowd. For a while I was the kid who was afraid to read out loud in class. I was the kid who wouldn’t make eye contact. I was the kid who tried not to speak because I was afraid of stuttering and being made fun of. That’s who I used to be. I moved to Antioch in fourth grade, midway through the year: obviously not the best time for a kid to move to a new place and have to meet new people. I had moved around a lot as a kid and I think that contributed to my quietness; I wasn’t ever sure if I was going to move again or what would happen next, but even before I came here I had always been the quiet kid. My quietness continued from fourth grade

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all the way through middle school. It was a combination of being the new kid, my stutter, being uncomfortable and not being the stereotypical athlete. I would have spurts of happiness, but more often than not I just wanted to leave whatever situation I was in. I was the kid in the corner that no one really saw and whose opinion didn’t matter. Sports at the time weren’t much better. I was just a short, chubby, white kid that didn’t play football, didn’t wrestle, and that’s what kids like me were supposed to do. Instead I played basketball and baseball; I felt like I was more Lebron James than Brian Urlacher. I just didn’t fit in. Then when I got to high school, something clicked. I was so talkative outside of school with my family and sports teams that I thought, If I’m like this outside of school, then why not be like this in school?. Until my first high school baseball season, I was still the quiet version of myself, but once the season started, I started to come out of my shell. Things changed in the hallways from a simple handshake or a “what’s up” nod, to me being able to say “hi” to people. Baseball helped, but it wasn’t until my sophomore English class that I started to become who I am now. That class was filled with people from all different cliques, so nobody could really judge each other. Up until that class, I had never been able to feel comfortable at school, but for some reason I did now. That feeling spread into the next year. Ju-

nior year I really hit my stride. That’s when I hit my absolute “this is me” feeling. This is who I was supposed to be, this outgoing guy, and it felt so much better than being quiet. I used to worry about getting excited because it would cause me to stutter, but then I realized that I wasn’t enjoying life, so I figured I should just be excited. I figured that stuttering happens and people can get over it. I used to say “sorry” when I would laugh out loud, but now I’m not afraid because apparently it’s so loud that it’s contagious; I probably get that from my mom. I used to be afraid to do anything in public, but now I’m dancing at pep rallies, and supposedly I’m not half bad. I used to not want to go out and play pickup basketball games because I didn’t want anyone to say anything bad about me, but now I’ll even be talking fake trash when I go to play a game. I had always been afraid to put my voice out there, but now that’s all I do, and I think I’m most proud about that. Now, I feel freer and just overall happier. I’m finally comfortable in my own skin; I don’t feel like I have to cover and hide anymore. I’m now able to be who I was raised as, but couldn’t show before. It’s just one big weight off of my shoulders. Now I’ve just accepted who I really am, and that’s going to be the kid you either love, hate or just put up with. It’s senior year, so I think that if you don’t already know me, then you’ll start noticing me now, either for my loud voice or semi-tasteful dance moves. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

Imagine

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

BE AN ATHEIST BY ANDREW VAN HERIK AS TOLD TO LAURYN HUGENER

When I was ten or so, I was walking out of a department store, and in my head I swore. And in my head I thought, Oh no, I can’t do that because God will be angry. But then in my head, I was also like, Wait, that’s dumb. Because if there’s an invisible being that’s judging me for what my brain is doing, that’s an awful world of fear and destruction, which doesn’t seem valuable to me. So at about age ten, I entirely threw it out as a belief system. The religious situation I grew up in was a little complex. When I was younger, my mom would try to give us room to experience a lot of different options. So we would go to church, all different kinds: Catholic church, Methodist church, Protestant church. My half brother and his father are Jewish, but my brother has never been a devout Jew. We’d celebrate Hanukkah, and I went to Bar Mitzvahs for my friends. I had a lot of those religious experiences, but there was never any pressure for me to believe things. If there was ever any pressure from my parents about what to think, it was just to critically think, to question things, to not just accept something at face value... but always wonder whether or not something’s true and try to investigate it. My mom is more spiritual, but she didn’t go to church that often. My dad values individualism; he and my brother are both atheists. They are much less kind about religion than I am now. In high school, I was a sarcastic, jerk atheist. Before college, I was sort of an anti-theist. Anti-theists and atheists have largely different meanings. Anti-theists have a mindset of, ‘God is bad, religion is bad, everything is bad, and therefore we have to talk about how it’s bad.’ But then there’s atheism: atheists believe that without God there’s still belief in humanity and its goodness, without the requirement of a divine backing. As an atheist, I don’t think religion is awful. College mellowed me out. While there, I aimed to expand my mind as much as I could in everything, even though I was a philosophy and English major. By looking at religion,

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which exists throughout philosophy and English, and especially looking at Christianity through that, I became a lot more understanding of believers. Now, not only as a teacher, but in life, I try to be respectful and caring toward people of all beliefs, as long as those beliefs don’t hurt others. I know lots of believers who aren’t bad people, who do good things, who are charitable and caring and wonderful. They use their religious belief as a mode of understanding in order to do good in the world. That’s exactly what all of us should be doing, on either side. With any text, if it’s used to promote humanity, to promote our kindness and love toward one another, that’s what matters. There are terrible things that have been done with religion in mind, but it’s important to not be dogmatic or force our beliefs on others, no matter what they are. Atheists try not to be prejudiced toward anybody based off of their beliefs, how they look or how they act. The best way to understand someone’s perspective is to talk to them about it. However, this is a struggle for many atheists; it’s like being gay and closeted in some ways. Because when someone is gay, they don’t automatically project that they’re gay. Atheists don’t automatically project that they’re atheists. They often encounter persecution because of wrongful assumptions about what they do or don’t think, and thus, have a hard time talking about it. Atheism is frequently and incorrectly associated with immorality: the idea that because we don’t believe in a divine order, that we like to be violent, swear and be a bad person without a connection to inherent moral good. Which just isn’t true. I’m not a very public atheist, so I don’t face many stereotypes. A lot of atheists do encounter stereotypes, though: that they don’t believe in anything; that they’re nihilists; that they’re arrogant, destructive and hateful; that they know better than everybody else; that they don’t have friends. But a lot of these stereotypes come from people who are afraid to question their own beliefs; that if they doubt, they will somehow lose strength. I think doubt and questioning build strength. If we’re willing to question, to doubt, to look

into what we believe and why, then how we come out of that is going to be far more true and valuable than where we were going into it. One of the other biggest misconceptions about atheists is how we view hell. As an atheist, I don’t worship hell. Even a lot of theists don’t believe in it. Personally, I see it as a way to scare poor people. Today, hell is used by rich organizations to tell people who are trying to improve their lives that if they don’t join the organization they’re going to have a much worse life, when in reality, those people are already living a personal hell. Hell is used as a scare tool to make religion work because it’s a really scary thing. If we throw that out, and we make religion work toward charity, goodness and helping people, then we don’t need hell. A lot of how Christianity is put forward is in an aggressive, negative way, using hell to justify right actions. If someone doesn’t do things well, they’ll go to a place of eternal torment and torture. If I tell a student, ‘If you don’t do this, you’ll get a detention,’ that’s not a great motivator. That attaches the good thing to punishment. If I tell a student, ‘If you do this, here are the skills you’ll learn. Here’s how you will grow as a person. Here’s what you’ll gain from it’; that’s more valuable. ***

There are moments in life when you are searching for meaning--for strength. I’ve thought about how nice it would be to have an inherent group of connections, a religious group. But ultimately, that would be disingenuous to myself and that group, because internally, my belief system wouldn’t change. I so deeply believe that everything has greater meaning, I just don’t think that meaning is derived from religion. Since I don’t turn to divine order for meaning, I receive mine from my understanding of how people interact with each other. It better helps me understand how humanity works. It’s illogical for me to rely on this external source if the internal force is what matters. That’s the idea. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

Imagine

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

ABSTAIN FROM SEX BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO BENJAMIN GUTKE

Stories from my friends’ weekends always have the same ending, “Yeah, so then we just hooked up, I guess.” In my eyes, what’s the point? Would it have been worth it if three weeks later she lets you know that she’s pregnant? How about if you realized that you actually have no feelings for this girl whatsoever, but she’s going to make you take care of the baby? It’s those thoughts I think about when I hear those stories. I am not sure about you, but I plan on leaving this place when high school is over, and taking a baby with me is not what I want to do. When I go to college and I am asked about previous relationships, being abstinent won’t be the first thing I tell them, but I won’t be shy about it. I think that it shouldn’t be a matter of me needing to announce myself and my beliefs, rather let me do what I want to do and, more importantly, what I choose not to do. It is not just about what could happen, because I am not someone to live life worried about what could happen. I think there is a serious problem with how sex is perceived today. I like to keep my comments to myself for the majority of the time, mostly because of the negative responses I get. Even when

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the majority of my friends know my view on pointless sex, when I speak up about it there is always that one comment like, “Stop being a _____” or “Grow a pair.” What scares me the most is the health factor. My brother is always telling me stories about guys and girls going in and getting tested and getting the awful news that they aren’t clean, then thinking about all the precautions they now have to face. Even that phone call or conversation with your mom telling her that you had a crazy night and got the test results back and you now have a sexually transmitted disease; it just isn’t worth it. I plan on getting married one day, and there will be nothing more satisfying than telling her that I saved myself for her. I will be ecstatic if she replies with the same thing, but the sad truth is that most likely she did not save herself for me. I can’t say it won’t upset me at first; if she is the right one for me, then I will be able to get over it. For me it is about respect for her, so she doesn’t have to think about who was better. If I have second thoughts, or if she has big shoes to fill or not, having her know that even when I was a physically changing teenager during my high school years, I was still true to her. I believe that today’s generation is so caught up with the physical aspect of rela-

tionships that within a couple months of doing the same sexual things, they realize that it is not going to work out. Every intimate moment means nothing. I understand that not every relationship works out, but the focus should be on the mental and emotional aspects instead of the physical ones. It is harmless to get to know somebody and conclude that it just wasn’t meant to be before things get intimate. I am not oblivious; I am well aware that the path that I chose is not for everybody. That doesn’t offend me, nor do I think it is wrong or that anybody who doesn’t abstain is going to hell. I believe that I picked correctly and that is my opinion and I do not want to offend anybody with my beliefs. The biggest problem I have with explaining myself is because of all the misconceptions. You have no idea how many ridiculous questions I get regarding my boundaries or testing my limits. Sexually speaking, I am open to anything besides having sex. I believe it can wait, and, ultimately, if that is why a girl doesn’t want to be with me, so be it; it wasn’t meant to be anyways. Looking back on my choices, I know that I can be happy with what I want and where I am going to end up in life. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

Imagine

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

INTROVERTED BY LENA SLATER AS TOLD TO CHLOE MORITZ

People always say “don’t judge a book by its cover,” but people still judge me before they even know me. Many may like to think that they know the type of person I am. I understand why people commonly see me and think of me in this way. They think I just keep to myself and to the people I already know. They think that I am afraid to try different things, talk to new people and put myself out there. They assume they know everything about me, but in reality, they know nothing about me at all. They see what they want to see, put labels on me, and file me away without even looking to see what information I hold. They like to define me as a shy, reserved person. In more specific terms, people describe me as an introvert. What they do not see is that I’m usually very vocal, or at least I try to be. I try to throw myself out there and talk to new people all the time. In my free time, I love talking in chat rooms. It helps me converse and relate to those who are interested in the same things that I am. We talk about many things ranging from a new episode of a show we recently watched, to what each of us had to eat for breakfast that morning. Some believe that the only people out there are those you

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see every day. What they do not realize is that there are people online that I talk to all the time from all over the country, and even all over the world. While I do talk to many people online, I really prefer to have conversations face to face. For instance, when it comes to my friends from camp, we end up talking to each other through Skype instead of through text or instant messaging. I feel that it is much easier, along with the fact that there tends to be more of a connection that way. This connection is also the reason as to why I love introducing myself to new people. It helps me reach out from my typical comfort zone and causes me to experience new things. People also get the wrong idea that working by myself is me displaying that I choose to shut myself off from the people around me. In a way, that is true, but not for the reason people presume. I feel that when I work alone, I get my work done more efficiently. My independence is what keeps me from being distracted from the task at hand, as it is the same for many others. It has nothing to do with me not wanting to talk with other people. Though if I had the choice to work with my friends, I would definitely say that working with my friends would be my first choice. Most of the time when I am by myself, I

like to stay home where things are familiar. Though when it comes to hanging out with my friends, I do not really have a preference as to whether we hang out at someone’s house or just out. When we do hang out at home, most of the time we tend to bake. One of my favorite things to bake are cookies, my mom’s sugar cookie recipe being one of my favorites. Either way I never feel like I am missing out on anything. If I do not go to certain events, it is because I just felt that I was not interested in what was happening. Would I consider myself as an introvert? I would say probably not. There may be some characteristics about me that make me seem like I am introverted, but my friends typically know me as one of the most talkative and outgoing people there is. If I were to describe myself as either an introvert or an extrovert, I would sort of consider myself to be more of an extrovert. I talk to more people than some might realize, and I participate in many things that I find appealing to me. While I agree that I do keep to myself most of the time, especially when it comes to my schoolwork, I do not feel that is what should be used as my defining point. People say not to “judge a book by its cover,” but there are still those who continue to do just that never taking the chance to read what it is about inside. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

The “I” Issue

NUMB

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE 1. Adj.- deprived of the power of sensation. 2. Verb- deprive of feeling or responsiveness.

Sequoits are numb. On the outside, many people seem tough as nails, hard as bricks. But in reality, they’re broken on the inside. They’re ruined. And in times of insatiable pain, sometimes all that we can do is force ourselves to go numb. While others are able to rise from their hardships or move on, some must find a way to dull the misery and reinforce the façade they put up for those around them.

Numb

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

COME HOME BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO KRISTINA ESDALE

Sometimes, I compare my life to getting out of bed in the morning. It’s a struggle, one that never really seems to get any easier, no matter how used to it you may be: ripping off those warm covers to the harsh cold of the morning, and opening your eyes to complete darkness; wanting nothing more than to close your eyes, dream again, and escape reality. Except, for me, there was no snooze button. There was no soft blanket of comfort. There was only a cold, harsh reality. Oftentimes, I compare myself to a diamond, which is kind of ironic considering diamonds are supposed to be perfect. Well, my life used to be perfect, at least on the outside. I walked around without a care in the world, no noticeable flaws. I was living in a dream; it felt so real and stable. But, life happens. And it sure as hell woke me up when it did. I still compare myself to a diamond, just not in the way that I used to. Diamonds come from dirt. It’s fascinating that something so ugly can turn into something so beautiful, but in a way it makes sense. Things change. People change. But for me, it was reversed. If diamonds could crumble back to dirt, I would do just that. I would crumble. Now, I see myself as ice cold and unbreakable. Not because I want to be, but because I have no other choice. I don’t remember the exact moment that I became such an angry, independent person, which is a weird thing to say. Some may say being independent is a good thing. But that’s not how I saw it. Maybe I see it as something so negative because that’s what the social worker told my mom. But instead of saying independent, she used the word “aban-

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doned.” I liked that word more. It made me feel like the way my life was now wasn’t my fault. “A word I would use to describe her is...angry. She’s just angry.” This sentence has been engraved into my brain. Ever since the social worker asked my dad how he would describe me, I feel like it’s written on my forehead. I feel like it’s tattooed on my body. I can’t make it go away. It was the initial shock of understanding that my dad noticed my struggle, but couldn’t fix it. My mom found her new relationship. My dad found his. But I didn’t lose a significant other. I lost my foundation. I lost my glue holding me together. I lost my support system. I lost my parents. I lost my home. Being at school is like my vacation. I get to wear my favorite mask. I get to pretend to be that person that I want to be: smart, confident and unstoppable. On the surface, I’m fine, at least, that’s what I tell people. No one would ever know with skin as thick as mine. No one would ever know with a game face as good as mine. No one would ever know when I’m as hard as a diamond. Pretending to have my life together, that’s the easy part. Coming home. Now, that was the hard part. When I open that door, I don’t feel comfort. I don’t feel warmth. I don’t feel much of anything, really. I feel out of place and disconnected. I don’t get a welcoming family to come home to. I smell scents that don’t smell like my home. I miss the smell of my home. I don’t get to be close to my friends. I miss being close to anyone. Walking over the threshold is the heaviest step of my day. I feel the weight of homesickness around my ankles as I pick up my foot. I feel it latched onto my body as I try to make it up the stairs. I feel it settle into my chest when I lay on my bed. It

never goes away. I’m never comfortable. Maybe that’s why I’m so angry. Or maybe it’s because every time I walk through that door, I get a reminder of how messed up my life has become. I get reminded by the drink in my mother’s hand. She’s probably on her third or fourth, but I don’t waste my time counting anymore. Or maybe it’s when I see the look of regret and guilt on my dad’s face when I visit him. That’s even worse. Maybe it’s the fact that I had to learn how to do everything for myself. Not just get out of bed on time or make sure I’m fed, but to be there for myself. I’d like to think that I’m strong enough to be my own best friend. Sometimes it works. But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I don’t just want to cry and pout about the bad hand I got dealt. Sometimes I just want it to end. But each and every time, I make it. Somehow, I make it. The phrase “home is where the heart is” has haunted me. It still haunts me. It eats me alive. Every time I see a happy family, I feel sick. This monster inside of me: this monster made out of hate, anger and jealousy, it’s slowly consuming me. It swirls in the pit of my stomach, black, heavy and thick. It makes its way up my throat, choking me. I don’t speak of it. It wraps its hands around my heart in a vice-like grip. I don’t feel it. It threatens to spill out of my eyes, but I hold it back in fear. I would never show it. So I carry on with my day, like a diamond. You would never know that I have this monster hiding inside of me; it never comes out. I won’t let it. The only time it comes out is when I’m safely locked away in my room at night, all alone. Loneliness is my savior. Because the only one who ever really understands me, is me. TT

PHOTO // KRISTINA ESDALE

The “I” Issue

Numb

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

BLACK AND BLUE BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO PATRICK JOHNSON

When you look at a bruise all you can think about is how long it’ll last. That and maybe how bad it hurt. Or, actually, maybe it’s a combination of both. The look of bruises, the black and blue surrounded by a harsh green-yellow, makes me cringe. They’re a flaw; I don’t like flaws. Yet, they subside. They last minuscule amounts of time if you really think about it. However, why does it seem like I’ll forever feel as though the black and blue you made me will never go away? There are two versions of me: the one you know and the one you don’t. Some argue the one you don’t will never come back because the damage has already been done; that person is buried beneath the dark shades of blue and blackness of my skin. That bruise--the one that’s the me you know--that’s because of you. I’ve never been able to be a better me because of you. I still wear that blackness on my skin each day because of you. Despite the visible ring, the internal pain is hidden within the shadows of my insecurity. Once upon a time I loved you; I think I still love you. I couldn’t imagine being happier because I was complete with you; now I’m incomplete without you. But maybe I can’t think of it that way. Maybe I’m better off without you. Once upon a time was a long time ago and that once upon a time never had a happy ending. It wasn’t about the perfect fit of a glass slipper or a true-love’s kiss to wake me from my slumber. Ha. It was nothing like that actually. Every day I took another bite of your poisonous apple. Every night as we crawled into bed I didn’t drift fast asleep counting sheep; I pricked my finger on your spinning wheel of lies, which forced me into a nightmare. It wasn’t my once upon a time, it was yours. I should have seen it coming. Our year turned as cold as you, which in turn changed

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me from a person who loved to a person who loathed. As we sat at the bar you’d sneer and stare every time anyone would be caught in my smile. The desperation in your eyes soon became insecurity in your words. I was “stupid” and “flirty” and a “waste of time.” I was “flighty” and “thoughtless” and a “warm body to sleep with each night.” I was “careless” and “shitty” and a “person you thought you knew.” Too bad you were never right about any of those things; too bad I listened to each and every one. I spent every night with you in your bed. I remember how soft your skin was, except for the nights your soft touch felt like pins and needles. When your nails became knives and my skin became your cutting board. I gave up my friends and myself to keep your cold heart warm. Yet your words never subsided and I was left frostbitten each and every time. As a year grew longer the end drew nearer. The harsh words left your mouth like a barrage of flying fists. And when your words could no longer sting, your fists actually began to fly. I never knew I could take so much; I still don’t know how I did. I was no longer your sounding board; I was now your punching bag. I learned not to roll over at night until you finished reading for one of your psychology or human resources classes. If I did, you’d backhand my face. I always waited until you reached over to turn the light off next to the bed to finally breathe, relax and roll over. You put me on the inside, butted up against the wall. I’ve never felt so trapped in a place where I’m supposed to be comfortable. Initially, I took comfort in being close to you. Toward the end, I felt imprisoned both awake and in my sleep. I waited until the light went out because I didn’t want to upset you. I waited until the light went out because I needed to protect myself. I always thought I was hurting you when I’d talk to your friends. I felt I annoyed you

when I’d fall asleep on your arm while you’d be reading your book or while we were watching a movie you picked out and forced me to watch. Every time you’d yell at me, I thought I was doing you harm. Every time I’d come home to my roommates with bruises, I thought I deserved it. I was going to marry you. No amount of bruised egos or eyes were going to change how much I loved you. But I didn’t actually love you, or at least not as much as I thought I did. If I did, I wouldn’t have slept with someone else the night we bought our rings. If I really loved you, I would have left a long time ago. If you loved me, you would have let me pick out restaurants or movies, or let me sleep on the outside. If you really loved me, you would never have left me with bruises that have never healed. If you loved me, you would have let me end it months before. Even after all of these years I’ve been unable to heal. I can’t commit in fear that what happened before will happen again. We were a relationship destined to fail; it was abusive. I can admit that now, but I can’t accept that so much of me was lost on you. So now I sit and wait for that fairy tale happy ending to finally arrive, but I can’t help but think that my ending will to forever be alone. And I’d be alone because I can’t bring myself to love again because I can’t bring myself to hurt again. I’d be alone because the person I am is not the person others see because you took me from myself. That day you threw that ring back in my face—the same day I placed it on my finger— was the day I thought it was the end. It was never the end.

If it were the end I would not be in the situation I am. I am damaged goods. I am bruised. I am forever black and blue.

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

HAVE A FRIEND MOVE AWAY BY DANIELLE BROSE AS TOLD TO BRANDEN GALLIMORE

When you told me you had to go, I thought it was just another one of your jokes. The ones that are meant to be nightmares and you would laugh about how I reacted to them. But this time, that nightmare that you told me was a reality. All of my favorite memories together donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel the same. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like all of the time we spent together will not matter anymore, like everything is being thrown away. You were my best friend and my go to during any times of sorrow. During the most fun times and throughout the worst you were always there for me. I do not think I will ever be able to replace you. You were the final piece to my puzzle that made me complete. I know that life has different plans for us and that was the reason you had to move away, but I still need you, best friend. When I had to say goodbye to you it was surreal. We used to spend every single day together, but now we could only squeeze a little bit of time together throughout the year. Would we still be best friends? Or would we become perfect strangers? My greatest fear was becoming one of those past friends that you never speak to anymore. The ones that you leave behind while you move on with your life. But luckily, we were stronger than that. If a thousand miles could not break us apart, nothing could. We promised to speak every day. Every single chance that we got to, we would call. But things never worked out the way we

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wished. I wished that you would stay the peanut butter to my jelly. But, life got in the way. From school to sports to other things going on in our lives, we got too busy to stick to what we said. We played phone tag back and forth. Either a no answer or a missed call. But that one time you called me breaking down made me realize how much I needed to hear your voice. I could feel the sadness in every breath you took and every word you spoke. When you were happy, I was even more happy; but when you were sad, I was even more sad. When you told me that you could not make a friendship nearly as good as ours, it tore me apart. It tore me apart knowing that I could not do anything to make you, my happiness, happy. Then, we finally got the chance to meet up and hang out just like the good ol days. We were only able to spend a few days together, but it felt like a lifetime. We had not missed a single beat. It had felt as if we were in your old house five long years ago. Crying, laughing, talking about all of the good times we had together, and sadly thinking about all of the times we had without each other. Reflecting on the past and realizing how different the present was created even more questions in my head as to why we had to be pulled apart from each other. My favorite person in the world was sitting right in front of me after not seeing her for what felt like forever. Saying goodbye for the second time was even harder than the first. It felt as if we fit years of friendship into a few days and I did not want to lose you again. We made yet an-

other promise to keep in touch; this time we did a better job. In the few days I saw you again, it was a wake up call to how much I actually needed you. I realized that all of the laughs I had since the first time you left were not real laughs. Only the laughs I had with you right there with me were the ones that mattered and meant something to me. There was nothing that compared to you. When we departed and were miles and miles away from each other, I did not want to go back to being strangers. You and I made a promise and we were going to keep it this time. We talked more often this time, making me feel as if we were not miles apart, but right at home. I was scared that us being moved apart from each other would pull us apart, but it did not. I thought that we would never connect the same way as we had before, but yet again I was wrong. Everything that I worried about never turned out to be an actual problem when it came to you. The nightmares that I created in my head were never a reality. I was so glad you helped me realize this. When it came to you, it was much more than just a friendship; it was something more. At points, it was magical. You were the best friend that I had when I was younger, but you helped me realize that you were going to be my best friend for the rest of my life. All that I wish for is that someday, somehow our paths will cross again and we will be able to be those two little kids five years ago spending every single day together. TT

PHOTO // SYMONE HENDERSON

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

BROKEN UP WITH BY MARIEL ALMARIA AS TOLD TO JESSICA LAMBERTY

I lost two things that day: my boyfriend and my best friend; but not by my doing. You ended this. You chose to leave me. You wanted to be free. You did this to me. We were happy once. I remember it perfectly, the way you would open up to me in the ways no one else knew existed. I was shy, but there was something about you that made me feel safe. In the beginning, I was blinded by love, but as we approached our eighth month, my thoughts were clouded by anxiety, stress and fear. Sure, we had problems. I won’t deny that. But we would always work them out, so what happened? I know I told you I didn’t want to talk to you anymore, but little did you know that it was your fault. You were already moving on. Even now, I want to tell the others that you’re mine, but then the reality sets in. If we didn’t have time for each other before, there is no way we’ll have time now. You lied to me, playing silly mind games to trick me into pleasuring you. You told me I was your one and only, but after I discovered the truth, our relationship spiraled down. I trusted you, and that is a thing you will never get back from me. You broke up with me to “be yourself.” You felt free, but I was always trapped behind the bars of judgement. A lot of people “know” my story, and they call me derogatory names. I never even did anything worth shaming me for. Sure, I’ve snuck out and lied about it, but to call me “psycho”-- that stings. Even in other relationships after ours, I felt attacked by my past. It was so lonely, especially when my “friends” would bet on how long it would

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be before we’d get back together again. Not only did I feel judged, I felt used. You told me you loved me, but I was wasting my time on someone I could never have. I’ve wasted three years now going back and forth with you. I’ve left my other blossoming love affairs just for the chance to be with you once more. You tricked me into believing that we had a chance, and when I was finally happy again, you came back into my life and played me. When you came back, it broke me because my heart would skydive right back into the whirlpool from which I had just escaped. To me, your presence meant a second chance; maybe we could be together again, just like we used to be. I believe in second chances with all of my heart, but maybe is such a big word. My heart ached for you, but my conscience screamed to let go. I know that if we ever do date again, it won’t be the same. We have both changed so much and our broken pieces don’t fit together anymore, but we keep trying to create a masterpiece. If it was me breaking up with you, I wouldn’t have lied to you. I wouldn’t have taken our time for granted or changed who I am for you. I don’t sugar coat anything, and I would stay true to who I really am, not who you changed me to be. Between the counselors and my mom, I tell myself that I’m young and I have all the time in the world to find “the one,” but I can’t help worrying that I’ll end up alone. I often wonder if things would be different if time erased itself and we could start over again. I would make our time together last. You told me that you “never liked me” and that “I never gave enough.” Was this why you broke up with me? I never really knew, so I tried to give more. I put myself out there and

tried to conform to the person you wanted me to be, but you are irreplaceable and the hole in my heart can’t be filled by anyone else. We went so long without talking, so I let myself fall for others; but for some odd reason we keep coming back to each other. You said that we could still be friends, but we both knew that was not going to happen, especially when the gossip started spreading. The others would say things to you, and you would believe it before you even asked me if it was true. There were so many questions surrounding us, like what we did and why it ended. It was painful trying to answer them without knowing why myself. I hid among the fading wisps of cloud nine, clinging to what we once had and fearing the future. Would I ever find anyone else? What would life be like without you? I lost myself in the idea that everything was in my head. Maybe you’ve taught me more about who I am and what I want in relationships, but I can’t seem to let go of your slang or your mannerisms. I tell you that I’m not afraid anymore; that you don’t make me jealous or anxious; that you’re not the reason for my misery. But I know it’s not true. I am afraid-afraid that I will never fill the hole you put in my heart. I try to forget you so you won’t consume my every thought. In the end, I know we won’t be together again. If you knocked on my door tomorrow, I would be different. Every day, between mascara waterfalls, I put on my brave face and I try to forget you. But here’s a little secret between you and me: the only thing that’s left of me is my brave face. TT

PHOTO // JESSICA LAMBERTY

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

FORGET BY MADISON SHEPARD AS TOLD TO ALEXANDRA RAPP

They were arguing again. How could I take it? Every time he was home, they argued. The arguing didn’t even make sense. It was stupid, taking out the mail shouldn’t be that hard, they didn’t need to argue all the time. I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t get them to stop it. It was just so loud. They were shouting again. Where could I hide? Not the kitchen, I would still hear them. Not the dining room, they would be able to see me. My room, my closet. They wouldn’t find me there. I could hide. I just wanted help with homework, not this. Why couldn’t they just get along? My father works long and often; I’d say between 70 and 80 hours a week. Like three times the average work week: 12 hour days, that kind of thing. Industrial Revolution amount of hours. When I was younger he was never ever around, and when he was around, he was fighting with my brother, and they would scare me. As far back as I can remember, when I can remember him, he was a manager at a company in Antioch. He went to work every day, and worked from home sometimes, but not often enough. Then we had to move houses and he got a new job, with even more hours than the old one, and he was there every single day. Every day of the week, every other Saturday. On Sundays he was supposed to be off, but he still chose to work to get overtime and support our family. Our relationship in three words: simple, timid and awkward. It’s almost like your first

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middle school dance in sixth grade when you go with the first guy who asked you. If I could change something about it, I would want to make myself more willing to talk, because even now I find our relationship very awkward when neither of us know what to say, probably because we never saw each other; I don’t know anything about him. Even though I know that we don’t have a typical father-daughter relationship, I don’t think it really matters. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a typical father-daughter bond. I feel like our dynamic is unique to us. I’m not angry that we have what some people would consider an odd dynamic. I know that even if something had been different earlier on, like if he didn’t work as much or I actually saw him, it would be the same way just because of how we are. We’re just very same-minded. We don’t talk a lot to anybody, so it makes sense that we don’t talk a lot to each other. Dads and daughters are so diverse that there’s no right or wrong type of relationship for them to have. When I was younger, I was angry at him for not being around. Not anymore though, now I understand that he was working so hard and doing what he did so we could have a house, and that we could pay the bills; I don’t resent that. I appreciate the fact that he put in so much effort. I think I just didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why he wasn’t always there, why I couldn’t hang out with him when everyone else was talking about how much fun they had with their dads and all their great bonds. Looking back, I know the anger was just because I was young and I get that now. I understand why he did it. It’s not

like he enjoyed working, but he willingly did it because he knew he had to get paychecks; he had to work for our family. Since my dad was gone often, he really didn’t get much of a chance to shape my personality. I think that parents are a big part of who you are. Even if they’re gone as much as my dad was when I was growing up, you’re always going to have a piece of them, whether you remember that piece or not. As much as you might try to break free of your parent or become different, you can’t. That’s hard, I don’t have as much of my dad in me as other people have in them. One of the worst things about people is their ability to forget. Even if it’s not the entire person, you can definitely forget parts of people. There’s always room to forget something, especially about a person. Even if they were, at one point, the most important person to you, if someone is gone long enough, you start to forget little things. It might not seem like much: small things like how long their fingertips are or the way that they had to tap their fingers when they were nervous; however, these little pieces of a person add up. You can’t put together a puzzle without all the pieces. These things, the puzzle pieces, weren’t things I just forgot about my dad, they were things I never knew in the first place. How long his fingertips were, the way that he might have had to tap his fingers when he was nervous, the way he said certain phrases, even just how many cups of water he had to drink during the day. It’s impossible for me to forget what I never knew about my father in the first place. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

LOSE A MOM BY TIM OTTER AS TOLD TO KYLE WHITELY

Tick. Tick. Tick. I knew it was going to happen. Tick. Tick. Tick. There was nothing I could do about it. I knew the pain she was going through and for months, I knew the time was coming. She was eventually going to leave, head for that better place. The most bittersweet feeling I’ve ever felt. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It was a Monday night. That whole day went way too fast. My friends came to visit the hospital after school let out. They didn’t know that she was in her final hours; I did. They didn’t know that the eighteen years I knew my mother were about to be summarized into one day, one sound, one heartbeat, one hospital bed; I did. The sounds of the heart rate monitor haunted me. The normal, steady beat changing in an instant, I knew she would be gone. I studied it for hours, counted it, recorded it. As long as I heard those sounds, I knew I still had her. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Unfortunately, my mother’s death has separated my father and I even more than we were before. My dad took it hard. The woman he loved for so long was gone and there was nothing that he could do about it. A wedge driven between us, rooted in love, exposed to hurt. He wants to distance himself from me, from the hurt. Sacrificing the one relationship I need the most. Tick. Tick. Tick.

For a lot of the worst and most depressing parts of my life, the only person who was truly there for me was my mother. She made my breakfast on Sunday mornings and told

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me that she loved me every day. Watching her go through the process of dying over the course of a year and a half changed my days from hanging out with friends and going out, to coming home and checking on her, making sure she had not left. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The thing about cancer is that once someone gets it, the clock starts ticking. Even if the doctors can remove it, it’s most likely going to come back. It takes countless amounts of money to save people from it, money that we didn’t have. We couldn’t decide whether or not to put her through treatment because on one hand, it would have prolonged her life and I could’ve shared more of my life with her, but in retrospect, I would never want to put her through that pain. Also, the struggle to raise $80,000 crippled my family. Her medical bills were draining our income and her condition was rapidly getting worse. With every second, she drifted farther away. However, her comfort was more important than a few selfish seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Having a parent die is not a common occurrence for people who are my age, I only had a handful of people that I knew who had gone through this before me but I never talked to them about it. The feeling of losing a parent cannot be described with words, it’s the feeling of knowing that they won’t see you graduate, they won’t see you get married and won’t see your children and care for them like their own. This breaks my heart because she always encouraged me to do great things and to remember her when I did. I wanted to break out of this town and buy her everything she wanted. But I can’t do that. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Whenever anyone that I know dies, I think about my own life. The thought of my own mortality is haunting. I don’t understand how people can be at peace with it or want to die themselves. Someday everyone dies, but I’m nowhere near ready for it. I’ve lived a fifth of my life already and I only remember bits and pieces of it. I’m terrified by death. Even when I arrive in heaven, I’ll be scared. I have been told for years what it’s like but I can’t be sure. I have no idea if in eternal life, I will see the people who I’ve loved and wait for others to join me, but I hope I will. Every second brings me closer to that fear but closer to her love. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I will never stop missing my mom. She was the best woman I’ve ever met and I will remember her forever. After a little while, I came to peace with what had happened. I am unbelievably thankful that she didn’t have to go through any more pain. The pain I feel never goes away. I feel empty; I’m missing something. It’s not that I am depressed or I want to hurt myself, but an immediate feeling of sorrow fills the bottom of my stomach when I walk in my house after school. Tick. Tick. Tick.

When I miss her the most, I remember that the pain of losing her will never hurt any less, just less often. She is in a better place. The cancer can’t hurt her anymore. She is my angel. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I’ll see her again someday and just like when I lost her, the first thing I’ll do is cry. This time: I’ll be happy. That is when I will be at peace.

The clock keeps ticking, the pain keeps hurting and unlike her, I keep living. TT

PHOTO // KYLE WHITELY

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

LOSE A DAD BY ELITANIA TELLEZ AS TOLD TO SYMONE HENDERSON

It was a normal day. I went to school, came home, ate some food; pretty routine. It was so weird that it was that day because it was so normal, like literally nothing was out of the ordinary. I never really knew how death can impact someone so much. I kept telling him, “You should go to the doctor, please go.” But he didn’t. He ignored me and went to the basement. After a while my brother came downstairs looking for my dad. He said he didn’t hear him, so he and I went downstairs together. When we got downstairs, we saw our dad laying on the floor, and I was honestly so scared. I went into this shock that I can’t really describe. Jose and I kept moving and shaking him, wanting him to wake up, but he wouldn’t. At such a young age, I still knew something was wrong, but I never knew it’d be this. I don’t think I could get that image of him lying there lifeless and unresponsive out of my head. Ever. We called our cousin and the ambulance, and then the paramedics came and took my dad away. That was the last time I’d ever see him. I was 11 years old when I saw my dad for the last time. Being so young, the whole idea of his death didn’t really hit me until we got the news at the hospital. When my family and I got there, my aunt told us that there was nothing else that they could do and that they tried everything they could. He died of a heart attack. On that day, August 31, 2011, I lost my best friend; it finally hit me. And that news hit me like a ton of bricks. Losing him felt like my insides were shutting down, or like my world stopped spinning. And to me it had. I just wish I could go back to that day, and tell him that I love him because I feel like I didn’t do

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that enough. I just hope he knew that. My whole center of gravity changed without my dad in it. I remember crying with my brother nonstop that night. I couldn’t believe he was actually gone, it was all so sudden. He was torn away from me. I stopped eating, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone for a while because after he died, all I could do was regret the bad memories that I had with him. That’s all I could remember. Like the time when I was ten and told him I hated him, I remember that so clearly it makes me sick. It was so stupid, all the arguments were. Now I can’t take them back no matter how much I want to. Even though we were on good terms at the time of his death, it still makes me feel so bad. I was never really given the chance to say goodbye before he was gone forever. But it’s weird because to this day, it’s hard for me to remember anything about him. There is one specific memory though; it sticks out to me more than anything . It was when my grandfather passed away ten months earlier. My dad came to me and told me things I will never forget. “I love you Tania, and I’ll always be here for you. If you need anything I’m here.” That memory of him stays with me the most over literally everything else. After the funeral, I didn’t go back to school for weeks. My siblings and I moved in with my aunt. My aunt is so amazing; I love her tremendously. She stepped up so much to take care of us after my dad had died. I consider her to be my mom. Because of everything that she’s done for my brother, my sister and I, she may as well be. After a few more weeks, I began to cope and get past my dad’s absence in my life, but things just kept getting worse. My real mother tried to win custody over us, and that caused an even bigger problem between my family. It just wasn’t the right

time for all of that. She wanted us back, but we didn’t want her. She wasn’t my mother in my eyes, and I was already in the process of getting over my dad, so I definitely got over her too. Therapy then became a really big part in my healing process because of everything that was happening. Going there and talking about my problems at the time was really hard because there were so many; I didn’t know where to start. But I had a really caring therapist, and with her kind words and good advice, her help made such a large difference in my healing process. I’m better now with things like emotion. Showing my true feelings towards others hasn’t been much of a problem for me since then. I don’t have to go to therapy anymore and I’m happy because I’m much more aware of people and relationships and how they affect me. But there’s still no doubt in my mind that my father’s death will be the only thing I’m really connected to. That’s all I can really hold onto now. I don’t think the thought of someone else passing away will ever affect me as much as my dad’s did. Like I said, he was my best friend. Being as young as I was, I think it affected me more than it would have now. Like I’d still be sad, but I’m more understanding about his health problems and why he died the way he did. His death has taught me how to be stronger and become my own person and really cherish the people I have now in my life. But I feel like if my father didn’t pass away, I would be the same little girl I was five years ago: really quiet and shy. And I wouldn’t want to be that person. Even though my life is harder without him, I like it the way it is now. I have amazing family and friends to thank for who I’ve become. I wouldn’t be who I am now without them. TT

PHOTO // SYMONE HENDERSON

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO 1. consent to receive (a thing offered). 2. believe or come to recognize (an opinion, explanation, etc.) as valid or correct.

Sequoits accept. Acceptance is the final, and sometimes most important, stage in learning how to navigate the journey of life. It is when we learn to live with the experience that we can finally achieve that ultimate Nirvana; we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to forget about what has happened, but we can still move on and grow from it. When life gets challenging, we can fixate on our weaknesses--or we can focus on our strengths and better ourselves.

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

PUSHED OFF THE EDGE BY ANONYMOUS AS TOLD TO STEFFANIE RICHARDSON

I am stuck in this hell that you have forever created for me, and I will never be able to escape because you will always be a part of me. I loved spending time with you because you are my mother, and who doesn’t love their mother? I would always love you and thought you would always love me. It never crossed my mind that, that could change so quickly in just the matter of days... minutes... hours… or seconds. I can’t really remember because I try not to think about it. There will always be a part of me that will love you and I hope that there is still a part of you that loves me. I was made by you, but yet I am not a prodigy of you. You can’t treat me how you want to just because you are having a bad day. Your mood swings are never stopping. And I wish that you just showed that you cared. If I could know that you care then maybe, just maybe, I could trust you again. I can still remember that day I woke up to you screaming at me for no reason. Yelling at me, saying things that a mother should never ever think of saying to her child. I am truly sorry for whatever I have done to you for you to think that you can yell at me this way. I am sorry for however I have hurt you, but know that I never have hurt you as bad as you hurt me. I am sorry for myself because I let myself think that it was all my fault and that it would always be my fault. You made me think that it was my fault that you were losing your job. I was just 11 at the time so I always thought that you were right. I thought that I deserved to be yelled at,

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that I deserved to be kicked out of your house and sent to my dad’s. Moving two hours away from everything that I knew—you, my friends and my school—wouldn’t be easy. Going from a school with a graduating class of 150 to a school with a graduating class of 300 scared me. I was scared with being so young and not knowing anything about the town or the kind of people in it. I was scared that I wasn’t going to make friends and that I was just going to be all alone. I knew the moment you called my dad telling him that he needed to pick me up and that I needed to move in with him, that you didn’t care about me. You only cared about yourself and you still do, and I truly feel sorry for you. I’m sorry that you ruined our relationship. It will never be restored to what it once was. You have proved yourself not worthy. I hate to see our relationship crumble at such a young age. You did it to yourself. After a couple of days went by, you called and called for hours on end trying to beg my dad for you to take me back. How could my dad let you take me back knowing everything you have done? Part of me wanted to be with you so badly because you are my mother and I love you, but part of me didn’t want to be with you because you didn’t show that you cared. When you lost me, you started showing that you cared. I wish I didn’t spend countless nights wondering when you were going to change and become the mother that I needed. I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to move on and you needed to move on and grow up. As years went on and I got older, I realized that you

had no reason to yell at me for what was happening to you. I was too young to realize everything that was happening. But now that I am older, I look back at it while questioning so many things. Now that I am older, I’ve realized you may have just been having a mental breakdown and decided to take it out on me. But still to this day you argue with me and yell at me and refuse to let me come to your house. You have pushed me out of your life so much. I can’t and don’t want to imagine my life without you in it. Life would be much simpler if you weren’t in it, but no one loves an easy and simple life. I love my messed up life and everything that has happened in it so far. I’m not going to let this ruin my life right now or my future. I’ve learned many things from many of your mistakes. I’ve learned to think before I act and to think about the consequences completely. I will forever love you, and, no matter what, you will always be my mother. The things that you have done may have altered my opinion of you, but I will always love you. All I can do is pray and hope that you still love me the way you did when I was born. I have grown up to accept the fact that you may never change and you will always be the way you are. Our life might be messed up and crazy, but I’m okay with that now. Thank you for what you did because if you never did it I wouldn’t be the person I am today; I wouldn’t have the friends I have today, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I thank you for pushing me off the edge. TT

PHOTO // STEFFANIE RICHARDSON

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

NOT KNOW A RELATIVE BY ANLI BUTLER AS TOLD TO PETER BOEH

Waking up every day, going to school, talking to friends and then going home to my family seemed like it was normal. Everything seemed normal in my life and nothing was supposed to change. The family I live with and the people who I am told are my cousins, aunts and uncles are my relatives. I didn’t realize that I was different. I didn’t realize that in family pictures, I don’t look anything like my parents or brothers. I kept looking in the mirror and trying to figure out what is so different between me and the rest of my family. Then I started to notice what was so different. First, I noticed that my skin color is completely darker than the rest of my family. Next, I saw how my eyes are shaped differently. I started to realize all of the things different about me and then I figured it out. I was adopted. It is hard to think that way at the age of six. It’s hard to think your whole life just got switched up, that what I thought was real was actually fake. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t know how to talk to my parents about it. I didn’t know how to ask “who are my real parents” to the people who love me and take care of me. How was I supposed to just let this go? I had to ask them. I had to ask them because I needed to know the whole story so I could get closure. I asked my parents where I came from and how this all happened. I am from China; the reason I was put up for adoption was because my blood parents either couldn’t afford me

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or they were teen parents. When I was adopted, I was two and the result of that, I have never been in contact with my real parents. I have never met any of the people who are supposed to be there for me to create memories with, to laugh with and to cry with. I will never get the opportunity to create the things that most people have with their family. I don’t know what is worse not being able to make those memories with the people that you are supposed to make them with, or to make those memories and then never see them again. The only thing is that the family that I have now is my real family because they are the ones that love me, care about me and the people that I make the memories I was suppose to make with other people. Blood doesn’t define who my family is. The people who are my family were complete strangers at one point and I didn’t know them. That is why blood doesn’t decide who is family. The blood that I was given was given by people that didn’t love me at all or at least not enough to keep me around. I will never hear the story of how my parents met or how anyone in my family met. I will not know what my parents look like. I will not be told the memories of them taking me home from the hospital for the first time. I don’t get to hear the things that people really treasure in life. I don’t get to go back in my family tree and see all of the people that came before me. I don’t get to see which genes I got from my dad and which ones I got from my mom by just looking at them. I don’t even get to know my health possibilities. I don’t really get anything with my biological family that I

was supposed to. But most of the things that they lacked, my family that I have now make up for all of that because I get to hear the stories of my family and look at their family tree. I get to see everything that came before them and I can understand our family history. I can’t see my history or even know about most of it, but that doesn’t change anything about the family that I have because the family that I have is all about love and not about blood. To me there is nothing special about blood because blood does not tell you who you love and who you don’t. I understand that I am different, the only thing that poisons me is the fact that I will most likely never get to say a word to my biological family once and it’s not like I have a choice at all. I don’t have the choice because I don’t know anything about them. It is not like I can call them up and talk to them or even write a letter to them. I won’t ever get to see them, but this doesn’t affect my family that I have now because my family is already there for me to see and talk to me every day. The family that I have will always be there and will always love me. I will always remember the memories that I have created with them and I will remember the memories that will be made in the future. I would never want to exchange the family that I have now because that family is the best thing that I can get. I will never know who my blood family is or what they are like, but that family would never be as good as the one I have. Creating new memories with them would never overwrite the memories I already have with my true family. TT

PHOTO // JR JOHNSON

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

INTERNATIONAL BY ELISA POKORNY AS TOLD TO RACHEL BECKMAN

We lived a happy life among the hilly landscapes of a traditional Austrian city. An average day consisted of my going to school, coming home on public transportation and eating lunch. After our large midday meal, I did my homework and played outside with my siblings. Our family shared this lifestyle with our grandparents, who lived on the floor just above us, making our family one that was tight-knit. It was a repeated cycle of normal life that I never would have imagined such a drastic change from at the age of nine. I didn’t believe it at first. As my parents periodically mentioned the move, I didn’t think it was true or that they were being serious. Oh, right. Like that’s going to happen, was my main thought. It wasn’t a life I was destined to pursue, but this new change that was discussed around the dinner table soon became reality. I remember the official announcement. All of us siblings were called into the main room for a “family meeting” with our parents. They told us to close our eyes, and so we did. When the long moments of darkened confusion passed, I opened my eyes to see my father spinning the globe. As Earth was being spun on its little pedestal in the living room of our historic Austrian home, my eyes focused in on the daunting country of America that my father pointed to. My parents affirmed the move that day and I accepted it in uncertainty. And then suddenly, weeks flew by and we started packing away our life. Amidst the busy atmosphere at home, we arranged family meetings each week to prepare ourselves as best as we could for life in America. As if meetings could make me feel better about uprooting my life; we learned basic English vocabulary, proper etiquette and the still confusing metric system. I mean really, what is with measuring in feet (as I looked down at my feet)? I kissed goodbye the sweet memories of my childhood and prepared to face a new life I knew nothing about. I ran up to my grandparents’ floor for the last time to steal their delicious homemade pastries stowed on the shelf. I said goodbye to my school and the

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friends I made while growing up there for the first half of my childhood. As our family of six left for our next stop along the journey of life, I didn’t know how much of an impact this change would have, until it truly happened. I thought I knew what to expect. But as I sat on the uncomfortable, ten hour airplane ride to the US, I was scared. The flight was not only tedious, but it was taking me to a foreign place where I knew no one, or even how to communicate. Despite my fears and hopes that it wasn’t actually happening, the plane did not crash and we landed safely in Pennsylvania. My family and I were no longer in our typical European city. What was once a short drive to Vienna turned into Pittsburgh, and what used to be a relaxed routine of life turned into one that was filled with uneasiness. Everything was all new, and we began to restart our lives in this unknown place. We saw new things, ate different food and attempted to integrate into this confusing society. With this came public school, which I eventually attended regardless of my many restless nights of anxiety and worry. I walked into the modernized school and feared for my life. I didn’t know how to speak one word of English and a student was assigned to take me around and try to show me what to do. I was uncomfortable and a bit embarrassed as kids would come up to me and say things I couldn’t respond to. The teacher always needed to remind them that I was new, a bit scared and came from a different country with a different language. In the end, fourth grade was hard. Really hard. I had to learn to adapt to this new culture, make friends with Americans and learn a new language. I was granted the open kindness and welcoming hands of children who could care less if I was international or not. They just wanted to be my friend. The changing lifestyle didn’t end there. When I was in middle school, I walked into another unexpected family meeting. While the globe took its second spin in my life, my head whirled along with it and I was overcome with the daunting thought of starting over again. Only this time, my father’s hand closed in on Eastern Europe. It may seem like

traveling to another country would restart everything I had learned so far, but I was excited to go back to a region closer to where I grew up. I guess it was something about the familiarity and comfort of this country that made it emotionally appealing to turn to. My family and I then made our next stop in Poland. I got used to the Polish atmosphere and wanted to stay. I was able to attend an international middle school, which was a lot more comfortable as I was surrounded by others facing similar situations to mine. But my family moved yet again, this time to England, where I faced the worst year of school. I hit high school and it was difficult to move when I was just starting to take life, friends and academics seriously. I came to the conclusion that I never had a permanent home; a sanctuary of reassurance and supportive comfort to turn to after my lowly and grueling days at school. Following a stressful year of a strict classroom setting, unfriendly community and demeaning area, I was grateful when I received news of our return to America. As I bid farewell to England, I welcomed back the stable environment of acceptance I once received years ago. Coming back to the United States, this time to Illinois, was both stressful and relieving. Yes, people acted differently around me. Yes, they gave me special treatment. But the stable atmosphere of friendliness in America helped me as I discovered who I really am. People oftentimes think I lived a fantasy life off in Europe and that moving to America was nothing but a disappointment. I disagree with this because for me, it has been so much better than the previous places I had to endure. Although they were hard at the time, the experiences I had while being an international student influenced my childhood and helped me appreciate different countries, cultures and communities for what they are. I guess I’m different. I’ve lived a life abnormal to those around me. I can speak almost three languages fluently without a problem. But I take pride in being international and am grateful for the way travel has changed my outlook on life. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

HELP SOMEONE IN NEED BY TIFFANY GREEN AS TOLD TO NICOLAS CHIAPPETTA

When I first heard that my dad had a stroke, a rush of emotions instantly hit me. It was heartbreaking to think that your dad is okay living on his own, but in reality he is not. He was struggling to take care of himself and he was keeping secrets from me. Once I arrived at the hospital, I ran into his room that he was staying overnight in. When I first saw him, I broke down into tears. He kept telling me not to worry and that this was only a small hiccup. When the doctor came back to the room, he told me my dad had a stroke and that he also had Dysphagia, which makes it difficult to swallow food. He couldn’t even swallow his own spit. I found out that he was not eating, he was not drinking and he only weighed 98 pounds. He looked super skinny and very unhealthy. I didn’t realize it at first because I didn’t see him that often, but he just kept losing more and more weight. A couple days after he was released from the hospital, my family and I went out to eat. When we were at the restaurant, I noticed he still was not drinking or eating because he kept choking on his food. As I came up to ask him if he was okay, he collapsed in my arms; he had another stroke. He kept saying “I will go back to the doctors tomorrow.” He kept pushing it off, but finally I took him because I didn’t want him to possibly risk having another stroke. They kept him on a feeding tube because he could not eat or drink. Although he was living on a machine, I at least knew he was being cared for and watched. Or at least that is what I thought.

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Every day when I would come to say hi to him, I would ask the nurses if he ate yet, and they would always seem to forget. Once they started to feed him, I would show up at random times to see if they were actually feeding him or feeding him only because I would check up on him. I found out they were doing it only if I came. It drove me absolutely insane that they were treating him like this. I took him out the next day and brought him home with me. I thought that it was better for him, and for me, to take care of him because I am his daughter. He was probably uncomfortable with strangers taking care of him anyways. It was tough to take care of him as well as balancing out two jobs at the same time. Soon two jobs turned into one. Then one job turned into a part-time job. After I realized that my dad would need my full attention, I quit my job. We moved from the colder weather in Antioch to Arkansas so we were somewhere warmer. I was leaving behind my jobs, friends, family and even a boyfriend, but it was all worth it to make sure my dad was going to be okay. Helping my dad with basic everyday things was a lot of work, but I didn’t mind it at all. In the morning, I would have to help him get out of bed. Then we’d go to the bathroom. I would have to help him bathe. That was one of the more uncomfortable things I would have to do, but he needed my help. I would then have to help him get ready: picking out his clothes and put them on, or even something as simple as tying his shoes. After that I would help him eat his food. In the afternoon we would walk around outside because he loved the outdoors. We loved looking at the

beautiful mountains and greenery. After a while, I started to believe that he was starting to get better after a long time of being in pain. I thought that having the company of me rather than strangers at a nursing home made him feel better. He would often get fluids stuck in his throat, which led to him getting pneumonia. Every time he had to go to the doctors, I would stay with him. I never left his side because I didn’t want him to be alone with nurses who will occasionally check on him every couple of hours because I knew he needed more attention than that. After leaving the hospital, we would sometimes have to go to rehab centers so he could learn how to walk, and I was always there for him, helping him every step of the way. Soon it became tough to do things. He was having such a tough time walking that he just couldn’t do it anymore. He was uncomfortable with many people around him so we could never go out to eat. I didn’t mind it at all though; I never wanted to put him in an uncomfortable situation. Slowly, his health started to decline. He was losing energy and was still having a really difficult time eating and drinking. Soon, at 82 years old, he passed away. I miss him more and more each day. I wish I could spend another whole ten years with him. I didn’t even mind having to help him. I loved that I got to spend every day with him. It’s tough not seeing him every day like I used to. It was funny to think that once I was a little kid getting help from my dad with all these things, but I ended up being the one helping him. TT

PHOTOS // TIFFANY GREEN

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

IN A LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP BY JORDAN LANAHAN AS TOLD TO DYLAN HEBIOR

I open my eyes, roll over and check to see if I have received a text from my best friend. Usually, I don’t have any notifications when I first wake up, but I just have to look. As I get up and get ready to start my day, a slight feeling of emptiness sets in; the morning is when I feel the most alone. Before I leave for school, I send a quick text to my boyfriend and then I am on my way. Compared to last year, I always got to see him in the halls and now I have to walk by all the old places where we used to hug, kiss and laugh. I usually look for little things like texts to help put me in a better mood. He usually won’t respond right away because he sleeps in a little later than I do, and when he does finally text me, I am in class. Usually around my lunch period is when I am free to text, but right as I get free, he has class. It is really hard to send texts while knowing they won’t be answered or even looked at for a while. We try to fit in a few small talk conversations throughout the school day, but that’s about it. After a long day of school, all I want to do is to sit back, relax and talk to the one person I have been dying to talk to all day, or maybe even FaceTime him. Even though I’m free and out of school, he usually has two more classes left in his day, making me wait even longer just to be able to hear his voice or talk about our days. As a result of our very different schedules, I try to stay as busy as possible. The more time you have to sit around, the more time you have to think, which can get very hard at times. Going to the gym after school puts me in my own little world and helps get things off my mind. Also, I’ve realized it helps to hang out with friends or do everyday things like cleaning up around the house or doing homework. While making myself busy, I constantly find myself checking my phone. Usually I don’t

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have any notifications, but, again, I just have to look. Being in a long distance relationship, you learn to get excited over the little things; you get excited over a text, butterflies when you get a Snapchat and when you get a call or FaceTime, there is no better feeling in the world. Once the time rolls around to 7:30 p.m., I begin to feel a little anxious and I notice I’m checking my phone more frequently because I know my favorite part of the day is coming up. You learn to enjoy the little things, so even though I constantly keep checking my phone to find myself disappointed throughout the day, I know a steady conversation always takes place when it is time for bed. We prefer FaceTime because being able to talk and see one another is 100 times better than calling or texting. Although some days he may have work until really late, which can be a little hard, I try not to take the time we have to talk for granted. One of the harder things to get used to, especially at the beginning of the year, was accepting the fact that he was going to meet new people and do new things without me. I have always trusted my boyfriend, but sometimes you cannot help but get nervous or jealous. A little knot would always appear in my stomach when I saw new people or places in his pictures. It’s very hard. But again, the trust is there so that helps to ease my thoughts. Since he goes to school about three hours away, we get to see each other pretty often. The longest we have gone without seeing each other is about three and a half weeks. The days and weeks seem to last longer during this period. Staying strong and muscling through the hard times is something I’ve become very good at. When the countdown that I’ve been keeping up with in my head has finally made it down to about three or four days, I am nothing but excited. Butterflies begin to creep again into my stomach and there is nothing

else I can think of except for seeing him again. Finally, the moment I have been waiting for almost a month is about to happen and, honestly, there is nothing you can do to prepare for it. My heart is pounding and I can feel my hands getting very sweaty. The second you see each other, you feel like the happiest person in the world and it seems like you’re going to feel like that forever. We just hug and it seems like we’ll never have to let go. But as the days go by, you want to make the best out of every second you have together, but there’s always the thought of having to say goodbye and being alone again in your head. From my experiences, you have to try your hardest to stay positive and I do exactly that. There has never been a moment where I have thought twice about being in our relationship. There’s so much to look forward to in the future and getting through this rough patch is only going to make us stronger. Personally, I believe that if a couple doesn’t plan to go to a school close by, or even the same college, long distance isn’t worth it. One year of being apart is enough and I can’t imagine how hard it would be doing this for an additional four years. While being in a long distance relationship is one of the hardest things to go through emotionally, you know it’s worth it when you finally get to see your best friend and simply spend time with them. The key to making it through such a long year is constantly reminding yourself that although it may seem like forever, it’s only temporary. With only three and a half months left in the semester to go, I’m looking forward to summer break and not having to think of long distance for a while. No more feeling alone, no more having to wait hours for a text, no more having to rely on technology to communicate. It’s all going to feel like a dream come true. Every second that passes by is a second closer to not having to be apart from my best friend. TT

PHOTO // STEFFANIE RICHARDSON

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

DIFFERENT BY ABIGAIL TYRELL AS TOLD TO EMILY HANES

I had always had this feeling, this assumption that something was different. I felt that I was a part of my family, but I also wasn’t at the same time. I had always questioned why I looked nothing like my mom and dad, and neither did my brother or sister. Little did I know that my questions would soon be answered. Ever since I can remember, there was always this woman around; she had a shocking resemblance to me. She had my blonde hair and blue eyes that my parents didn’t have. I would look at her and think, there must be something here, because I don’t look like them. I look like you, but they’re my parents. I can’t explain it, but I had always felt that this woman was related to me and I had always felt a connection with her. That’s when everything clicked: I was adopted and this woman was my biological mother. My biological mom was only sixteen when she had me. Being a senior in high school, I can’t imagine myself having a child at my age, let alone being sixteen like her. My mom knew that if she kept me, she couldn’t give me the life I deserved. I would’ve grown up in a house that was falling apart due to divorce. My grandma would have had to take care of me while my mom went to school, and there just wasn’t enough money or space. It wasn’t

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a healthy environment to bring and raise a kid in. Although I am still very well in contact with my biological mom, I have never met my dad. He knows nothing about me and I know nothing about him. He wasn’t in the picture to begin with and still isn’t. Does he think about me? Does he wish he would’ve stayed? Does he even know about me? These are questions that I know I may never get the answers to, but I am so grateful for the life my parents have given me and the fact that my birth mom is still in my life. Accepting this part of me was not all sunshine and rainbows, although it was at first. I remember being in elementary school and bragging about how I have two moms and thinking I was so cool to have this aspect of my life. I never thought of my situation as different. I had accepted it right away, and thought nothing of it. I didn’t think it would be a big deal to my other classmates at all. Then came middle school. I vividly remember doing family trees in class, and not knowing how to make mine, because I didn’t know some of the things about my family and I didn’t want to talk about it. I became very closed off. I didn’t want people to know this about me or to think I was weird or different. There were bullies who would always tell me that I was a reject, or how no one wanted me. I knew it wasn’t true, but deep down they still hurt me. It was hard to ignore their com-

ments when they all seemed so true. When my birth mom remarried and had children of her own, that’s when it really started to affect how I had felt about my whole situation. I would always get into my head and wonder, why was I not wanted? Why did she keep them and not me? It wasn’t until freshman year that I started coming to my senses. I started thinking, why do I have to blend in? Why do I have to follow the crowd? I realized that I can’t blame my birth mom for giving me up when she was sixteen. I can’t hold that against her, she simply was not ready to raise a kid when she had me, and that’s okay. Eventually, the bullies comments rolled off my back and I became my own person. I realized that I was unique in my own way and if that bothered people, then that was their problem, not mine. I realized that being different is good, it’s never been a bad thing. If everyone was the same, it would be pretty boring, right? Me being adopted does not mean that I am a reject or that I was not wanted. I was wanted, my parents chose me. I love them and they love me and at the end of the day, that’s the only thing that matters. It doesn’t matter that my situation may not seem normal to other people around me. I love having this aspect of my life and being able to proudly share it with others. This is who I am, this is my life, and I would never change a thing. TT

PHOTO // JILLIAN EVERETT

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

A SINGLE MOM BY JEN MINOR AS TOLD TO MEGAN HELGESEN

You can’t have an abortion so I will give you two options: you stay with her and you stay with her forever, or you can leave her, and leave her forever; this is my decision and that is yours. Take it or leave it. Everyone craves a perfect senior year experience, the good times and the bad times, and everything that senior year is supposed to be. Evidently, I ended up with solely the bad times, all from two short and simple words: “You’re pregnant.” I was devastated; I had just completely ruined my life. All of my plans, my whole future, everything I was supposed to do, was about to change entirely. This couldn’t be possible. I was a band geek, I was in all honors classes, I was invincible. Soon I came to realize denial wasn’t an option any longer, but acceptance was. But, the idea of acceptance had to go way beyond me. It began with my boyfriend, then my parents, and onto my peers. But let me tell you, there is a reason I kept them last. No one was nice, yet everyone wanted to know everything. I think it was the rumors. Those were the worst part and it seemingly came from people I didn’t even know. But the ignorance that came with each word that was forced through my ears and into my memory, you don’t forget things that. Here, take this bible. You definitely need it to make the right decision, slut. I heard you got an abortion. Good choice, you would have never been able to raise a child. You’re kind of stupid, no offense. So you’re pregnant? Good luck finishing school. I’d pay money to see that one happen. Seven months later, I graduated, but I graduated alone. My boyfriend and I broke up in the middle of the pregnancy, and at this point I wasn’t really sure if he was going to stick to his word, but I also wasn’t going to put my life on pause either. I committed to University of Illinois-Chicago. I did it, and I proved everyone wrong. College was a hell of a lot different, but way

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more accepting. I knew everyone was coming from different backgrounds, so I felt a lot better about being a single, pregnant college student, but my situation still wasn’t ideal. I doubted him, but he stayed in the picture. He stayed with baby Emma while I went to school during the week, which was a huge help. However, there were days where I couldn’t bear being apart from her, and those were by far the worst days. I eventually started taking her to school with me so I could spend more time with her on the weekdays. During the times I had class, my girlfriends on my floor would always want to watch her, and I couldn’t be more thankful for them. The sense of security and kindness that they gave me was indescribable, and I knew at that moment that those would be my lifelong friends that I would keep forever, and boy was I right. I ended up getting a house with my friend; it was just me, her and Emma. Emma got to go to her dad’s house on the weekend, which allowed me to gain some of the young adult experience back. So by the time I was 21, I got to live it up a little bit. Yeah, the weekends were fun and all, but when the it was over, there was always something else more important, something that kept me grounded; Emma. That little girl kept me tamed. By the time Emma entered grade school, I pushed myself away. I didn’t want to get involved with helping at her school and with the other parents because I still looked like a baby. For me, it was just flat out embarrassing. The parents there were old enough to be my parents. It felt so wrong. I feel so bad looking back now, wishing I could go back and change it all. I was a fluke, it was entirely in my own head. She kept growing and he still kept his promise, but as time passed things began to change. I began to play the role of both parents more heavily. I was the funny one, but also the disciplinary one. I hated it. All I wanted to be was her best friend. I was tired of being the one to constantly yell and push her to do her chores. I just wanted to do mother-daughter things with her. Except, she wanted nothing more than to not talk to me,

and I couldn’t figure out why--until her freshman year. It came to my realization that she was only a few years younger than me. I was sick to my stomach. I decided, ‘I’m going to parent a little less, and relate a little more.’ I couldn’t shelter her from experiences, she needed to see the world on her own. It automatically brought us closer from there on out, and that meant so much to me. My little girl brought me so much joy and inspiration. I no longer felt so isolated from her, I felt like we were one. I’ll admit being a single mother is difficult, but at this point I’m not sure I would want anything else. It sounds so clichė, but I mean it when I say that it truly is the simple, little things that make it all worth it. The little things, like watching her sleep, the sense of peacefulness I get when I see her so soothed and undisturbed. It’s her smell, Emma’s smell, it just smells like home to me. It’s the unconditional love I have for that girl. There isn’t a single thing I wouldn’t do for her. However, there are times where you wonder if you are doing the right thing or not, if you’re raising a responsible, involved member of society. But all I have to do is look at her and realize, she wouldn’t be sleeping this well if I wasn’t doing an okay job; I feel okay again. Sometimes you have a path for yourself, but sometimes God has a better one, and I was pushed down it. My path has become very intense and full of love and life. My world revolves around that girl; I seriously never knew I could love someone so much. I’m not ready to be an empty-nester at 37 while she’s at college, but I am going to embrace that change, like I have with everything else. It will be weird. I’m going to find out what it’s like to just be me. My whole life I have solely been Emma’s mom, and I’ll still continue to be her mom, but just a little farther away. But she knows she has me no matter what. I don’t know what the other shoe is like. I don’t know what it’s like parenting with someone else. What I do know though is that this was my purpose, I was meant to do this. I was meant to be Emma’s mom and I wouldn’t change a damn thing. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

“THE MOM” BY WANDA TEDDY AS TOLD TO BOOKER GRASS

There is a weight. I have never birthed a child, but there are plenty of students that call me mom for one reason or another. People come to me with advice because they see me as a “mom away from mom.” And there is an immense weight to that situation because I would never want to steer someone else’s child wrong because they are not my actual baby. I am not their mother, but I am someone who helps. I think about my mom and how she would always help me through the good times and the bad. She would give me these little nuggets of wisdom that only she could come up with. I have held those nuggets with me for my whole life and I want to be able to pass them down to my students. I want to be like her to my students because I do not have a child of my own. There’s a bond between a child and their mother, and I want to foster that bond with my students. When students come to me and calls me mom and asks for assistance or advice, there is a weight to that, because I think about my mom. I always want kids to see their potential and be the best they can be. There are some kids who just do not have a personal cheerleader, and that is where I

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come in. But there are times when I just can’t be mom. I have a rule. Whatever happens in room 141 stays in room 141, with one exception. If you are hurting yourself, you are hurt or someone is hurting you, that is where I have to become more of a teacher. My mom hat has to come off. I have to report things like that because I may not always have the solution or the answer, and there are people for that. I always try to get them help on the down-low because I never want to out them and cause more hurt. I am the person who you can come to talk to about it in a person-to-person manner. And I will always be here for anyone who is hurting or being hurt because I see that as part of my responsibility. There is a family. I have been teaching for a long time, since 1996 in fact. Is still get calls and Facebook messages from students I haven’t had in class for years. I had a kid who I taught at Zion Benton High School just message me and say, “Mom, I have questions cause I am not happy with what I’m doing and what I am majoring in in college,” and I discussed it with him and tried to get him to a better place. It has always been my joke that once you are one of my kids, you are always one of my kids. I never claim to be someone’s mom, but there

is a bond that I get with kids, and I try to foster that bond always. I will still have kids who will send me baby photos because they see me as part of their family, and so do I. There is no cost. I taught a kid who never really had much. He was my right-hand man and someone who I saw as part of my family. During his senior year, he got a scholarship to go to college, but he needed all the other essentials for his college life, like a microwave and bedding. His mom had issues with drugs and his father was not around, so he never had money to spend. A few other teachers and I took him out and bought him all the essentials. He now works in Gurnee, and if someone goes to his store from Antioch, he always asks, “Do you know my momma Teddy?” If they do, he gives them discounts because I took care of him. I have students who may not have enough money at home to buy a lunch at school, so I keep snacks in my room. There is no cost when it comes to my students. It also isn’t charity because I do not see them as needy people, I see them as my kids who need help. The kids I come into contact with through school are not just my students. They are not just my cast. They are not just my helpers. They are more. They are my family. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

The “I” Issue

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

COME, SEE & CONQUER BY SOMMER SPENCER AS TOLD TO ASHLEY REISER

The best memories I have with Tracy, my mom, are when she was sober for one year when I was in sixth grade. We went to the movies and shopped all the time. We got our nails done and went to the Chicago Botanical Gardens for fun. My mom actually did things with me. We planted flowers on our balcony, since we lived in an apartment, and we did things a mother and daughter should do. Unfortunately, this relationship didn’t last very long. She was a raging alcoholic. The last straw was drawn when one night, I was out with a couple of friends, and she said I got home too late. My mom was drunk, I could tell. She thought I was going to call my dad to pick me up, because that’s what I always did and she hated that. My mom tore the phone out of my hands, scratching my arms trying to grab it. I can vividly remember the smell of alcohol on her breath. I told her she was drunk. I remember wearing a ponytail and her yanking my ponytail back, causing me to drop to the ground. I stood up in a panic and ran from the apartment, and while I was halfway through the apartment door, she slammed it on me, trying to shut the door. The force was so extreme, it broke two ribs on my left side. The very next day, she checked herself into rehab. My mom was in rehab for 90 days, from September to December of my sixth grade year. That entire year, through the next December, she was sober. When my mom came back, that’s when I got kicked out. My mom passed away last summer and since turning 18, I have had to get my own phone plan, and my dad kicked me off of his health insurance. I felt abandoned. All on my own, I was officially 18, I was an adult. For the past three years, I’ve bought my own amenities like shampoo, clothes, food and sometimes even my own toiletries. I have a steady income from my job. Nothing changed too drastically since turning 18, it’s just the phone bill and health insurance, really.

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I think about my mom everyday, I miss her a lot. I have a tattoo to honor her. There are pink tulips because they were her favorite, I have her initials, TS (Tracy Spencer), and then I have a handwritten message she wrote to me on a card on my tenth birthday, “Love of My Life. Love Mom.” It was hard because I have fought on and off with her my whole life, but I always went back to her. I just wanted to feel like I had a mom. I fought with her a lot because she was hanging out with drug addicts and convicts. I didn’t want to be over at her house. I didn’t want to be involved in her troubles, I just wanted to be with my mom. But she wasn’t my mom anymore, I knew that. I’ve called her Tracy for the last three years because I knew she wasn’t my mom. She was always in and out of the hospital. She would go in, get detoxed, come out, have a fall because she was drunk, then go back in. The workers knew her by name. I was sick and tired of getting calls from the hospital, but one day I picked the phone up anyways. It was from the doctor telling me that she decided to begin Hospice. The doctor begged for me to visit her because I was the only person my mom had requested to see. My dad and I spent all day at the hospital with her from morning to night. I wanted to discuss why she chose Hospice, which is where you go when you’re dying and your life is deteriorating. There’s no getting out. She was going to die there. My parents never really fought after they were divorced, they just avoided each other. It was nice to see him come back and actually talk to her. It was like he was coming back to his wife and trying to help her in her last moments of closure. I actually talked to a grief counselor at the center; she said I should make peace with my mom, to tell her that I forgive her, even after all of the hurtful, life-changing things she had put me through. Forgiving her would mean she could die peacefully. I feel like I never got to tell her that I forgave her because she ended up being too loopy from the morphine. She was not coherent when I finally brought myself to admit I had forgiven her. I sat in the room with my mom and told her that she made me

angry, upset, and had hurt me beyond what words can explain. My mom caused me such emotional damage, and I constantly try to fill something that is not there. But I do forgive her for what she’s done and I understand that alcoholism is a disease. I was devastated when I walked into the room, seeing her laying on a hospital bed, no longer breathing; it was traumatizing. I could no longer hold myself together. They asked if I wanted a song to be played for when they carried her out. The song was “Hero of The Day” by Metallica, the San Francisco Symphony version; it had to be the San Francisco Symphony version because that is the only version she liked. I still have the flowers she was holding in a scrapbook I made. I have the rosary she was holding and the bracelet she was wearing, those are hanging on my wall. I have a lot of her stuff in my closet too, but I’m not ready to go through it yet. I am definitely glad I came to terms with my mom, instead of holding a grudge. Her birthday was January 30th, so that was a little weird. A year ago, I got into a fight with her about how she is never there for me, and now she’s literally not even here. I was sad, but it was more of a weird reality check. It was more of a realization moment than me being upset. Every ordinary day usually blends together for me, but that day, her birthday, was different. It felt like my own reality now, instead of me just going through the motions every day. It was very surreal. In these next few years after graduation, I’ll be attending the University of Alabama, granted with a full ride scholarship, majoring in marine science and minoring in photography. I know my mom would be proud of me, but I’m more doing this for myself than anyone else. I want to be the exception to the assumption that kids that have a rough childhood grow up to be their parents or grow up to be less successful. I can’t wait to make my statement in this world, to prove to myself my true potential. But most importantly, to prove to others that overcoming adversity is possible and with the right mindset, I can be the best version of myself ever. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

LIMITED

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE 1. a restriction on the size or amount of something permissible or possible

Sequoits are limited. Some understand what it feels like to not have the same opportunities that others are privileged with. Those within a military family are forced to move around from place to place, never fully getting to know their surroundings and missing out on time spent with their family. Others face racial discrimination and are oppressed by society. And when someone takes anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life, the guilt limits his ability to live with his past. Everyone has a limit, no matter how big or small, and it is our personal challenge to try and overcome these barriers.

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

IN A MILITARY FAMILY BY MIKAELA JORDON AS TOLD TO WILLIAM BECKER

Most people don’t understand how easily something bad could happen tomorrow. I would sit in school, at home, or in the car and wonder if I was ever going to see him again. When my dad was in Afghanistan, I would worry constantly that something would happen to him. At any time someone could decide to bomb a base, and my dad could be there. People don’t get it. Even though he’s home, it’s still tough. I still don’t get to see him as much as I would like, but it’s all I’ve ever known. The first couple moves from Italy, to the Midwest, and then Virginia didn’t have an effect on me. I was young and I don’t remember much. The most recent one was the hardest on my family. I lived in Virginia from second to eighth grade where I was very involved in school. I made friends, and it was like pulling teeth when I had to say goodbye because I knew I wasn’t coming back. With my dad in the Navy, moving was bound to happen whether I wanted to or not. Even though we lost friends during our move, my mom and dad were happy we were moving closer to family. My brother, who was almost in middle school, was leaving his best friend. It was hard for him to “peace out” and leave. I have only one friend I keep in touch with from Virginia. Throughout the years, I grew very close to my family, but I lost friendships along the way. Since we move around so much, the only people I have relied on are my family members. I’ve never been very close or been able to depend on anyone else, including my grandparents or “close friends.” My family is my support group, they’re the people I go to for everything. After moving, I feel uncomfortable being around new people. I have always been an introverted person. I have a hard time inserting myself into groups of people and just being myself, and moving doesn’t help. It frustrates me but it’s who I am. Sometimes I wonder why we have to move so often, and I start to get frustrated. I asked myself, why do we have to move around so

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much, especially when my parents wouldn’t tell us when we were moving. I don’t understand why they did that, but I knew they were trying to keep us calm. It reminded me of the first time he was deployed. They didn’t tell us right away that he was going to Afghanistan, and it frustrated me a lot. At the same time, since I was young, my dad leaving did not seem to be real until the reality drew closer. Soon, before he left, we went on a daddy-daughter date to see a movie. I was so excited I could be with my dad. It was always a tradition to go see a movie for my birthday. Later on, we did something extra special and we went to Build-A-Bear. While I was building that bear, I didn’t know then how much it would end up meaning to me. The time went by too fast from then to when he left. Before I knew it, I was outside the day the he was leaving. My heart was racing. The last thing I wanted was to see him go. I was clutching the bear we made together and didn’t realize I accidently pressed the button on the its hand. It talked. I didn’t know it talked. I started crying because I instantly realized it was my dad’s voice. I would press the button constantly after he left to remind me of him. It was hard when he was gone. I would spend a lot of time thinking about him. I would come home from school wishing he was there, but he wasn’t. During events at school I would look out hoping he was there, but he wasn’t. It is difficult to talk to him because he’s always working; we are busy and there’s a ten hour difference between us. When he was gone, he missed my fifth grade graduation, but he was able to watch it over Skype. He was there, but he wasn’t. The second time he was deployed was when I was in the seventh and eighth grade. It was worse that time. I was so much more upset that he was gone and it took a much bigger toll on me. There would be days where my family and I would just start crying. There were a lot of triggers that would remind us of him. Songs, tokens he gave us, phrases we would say, all affected us and caused us to break down. While driving, a song came on the radio that caused my brother to break

down. It reminded him of my dad and it was too much for him. We would cope with my dad being gone by having a countdown to when he would be back. We would try to look at it positively. When we reached a specific day, we would have a little celebration and do something to remind us that he was coming home. During his second deployment, he came back around my brother’s birthday. My brother was scared that my dad would miss it entirely. My brother was at an assembly for his middle school. His teacher called him up in front of the school and she started to cry. His birthday was the day before, and our dad couldn’t be there so they sang happy birthday to him. As they were singing, my dad walked out. My brother couldn’t believe it. He started to tear up, bolted over to him, and jumped into his arms, knocking him back. My dad is a big, strong guy, but he had a hard time holding up my brother because of how excited he was. Soon after that, even though we all liked Virginia, we moved to Antioch. My dad does a lot of work on base since he switches between administration and training new recruits. As much as I would love to see him, he isn’t home a lot. There are some days when my dad stays 24 hours to monitor the base. It is the best when my dad gets to work the administrative job. I get to see him more and spend time with him doing whatever we want when he works that job. When he is at home, compared to work, he is completely different. It’s scary. I see him in a different way. He is teaching the recruits their job. They need to be respectful. I kind of just sit back and watch because I don’t want to get in the way. I don’t want to get by him. On long days, my mom will offer to bring him dinner because he can’t come home, even though I wish he could. It kind of sucks because I wish I could see him more, but I also respect him a lot because being in the military is something I would never be able to do. Even living like this can be tough sometimes. When it comes down to it, I wouldn’t change anything. TT

PHOTO // WILLIAM BECKER

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

A MINORITY BY TAMIA JONES AS TOLD TO GABRIELLE KALISZ

When I close my eyes, the world is such a big place. With my imagination the possibilities are endless. My mind races as each corner of the world is filled with thoughts that if other people could hear, they would interpret them as insanity. I close my eyes and the world is still. I am the world, the world is me. I am nobody, the world is nobody. Figures taking up space, eyes looking around, places to go, people to see, dreams and end goals simultaneously working together to make one world. I close my eyes and the world is such a small place, my world, the world that others can’t see, and won’t see. My heart fills as the memories of growing up come back to the surface and remind me of my world, not the world you have painted for me. I hear the creak of the swings, the rush of running away, and suddenly become tense as the slide that was once just a trademark of my childhood now turns and represents the slippery slope, the path of my life. I watch as my world becomes bigger, bringing me back to the reality that it isn’t my world. I never left much. Staying in the comfortable, staying in the safe, staying in my own little corner of a world I had yet to realize was being shaped for me, without me. I watched her every day as she came and went, cherishing the minutes we had grasping onto the next one. I knew that she was doing it for me. She wants the world for me, a world I can make my own, a world where my hardest doesn’t have to be four steps ahead of everyone else. A world where my hardest is

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my hardest, not just mediocre in comparison. She told me that he loved me. She told me he would call back. She told me I was different; even though I watched as it hurt her. I watched as she had to explain to me why you always asked me questions about slavery, why you always looked at me differently, why you told me, a nine year old girl wanting her own world, to “go back to where I came from.” He does love me, he does call back and he is there for me. A human being made a mistake, yet because of his skin color he is deemed a bad father. Every Sunday, he reminds that there is something more than what you have allocated for me, that you have allocated for us. My faith is mine, unlike everything you have given to me with a false label and false hope. If it’s mine it is not yours. If it’s mine, you cannot take it and morph it into something you think is mine. If it’s mine, no one else can have it. This is the one thing you have mistakenly given to me without realizing that it is my one escape from the grasp of your words, your thoughts and your assumptions. I close my eyes and take the slide back to the younger version of myself. I was standing at the front of the room as you asked me to read. I closed my eyes only to open them to the same words I didn’t know. Word after word, I watched as you got more frustrated dismissing me back and telling me to learn more. You told me to learn when I didn’t know how. You told me to learn when I wanted to know how. You told me to learn, yet sent me back to the place I had already been. I went home to the safe haven, to the limited minutes, determined as ever to come back and to have learned. I walk down the hallway anxiously await-

ing the moments where you can easily point out our difference. I walk down the hallway as my own person, my own style, my own being, just trying to find my way in my own world waiting for you to accept it. I close my eyes and spin down the slide into the spiral that you created for me. I close my eyes, realizing that when you look at me all you see is my skin, and not what I see. I see the product of a loving mother, a strong community; you see my skin, my gender and my clothes. Within 30 seconds, you have already determined what food I like, my intelligence, who my father is and who I am. You have determined my world. A world you force me to live in without realizing the fate you put on it. A world where I don’t hate purple cool-aid, I have no choice in liking watermelon and where you are not always right. I close my eyes and watch as the spiral gets tighter and the inability to become myself suffocates me. I live a life based on hard work. Forced upon me as normal because you veiw minority as inferiority. I am not a type you can name and assume. I am a work in progress headed down a path given to me by my world, not your world. My world is a constant fight for who I am, up against who you think I am. Who you think we are. Minority is for culture, not for human beings. I close my eyes as the fiery balls of hell inspire me that I am far from living it. I am strong. I am independent. I am successful. I am different. I am not a broken shape of a type you put me in. I am not a minority. I am a human being forced to be better thanks to you. This is my world, a world you refuse to see, yet a world you only wish you could be. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

RACIALLY PROFILED BY BRYAN ORTIZ AS TOLD TO LOGAN WEBER

During elementary school, getting verbally abused was almost an everyday occurrence. The dirty looks that people gave me were blatantly obvious. I learned how to get used to the jokes I would hear. I was never sure if it was because they were scared, or if they were intimidated by my looks. This was the worst time for the abuse because of the immaturity of the kids during the first few years of school. There were not many minorities in our classes at the elementary level, so many people did not know how to interact with me and chose to not talk to me. There were those who were simply mean because they did not know how to treat people who were different from them. This could have been because they had not experienced different cultures. These kids did not understand what they were talking about; they had no filter and repeated whatever their parents would say. This led to many highly racist comments that seemingly could not be controlled. The constant jokes about mowing the lawn or eating spicy foods did not seem like much at the time, but they did have a lasting impact on me. These situations have taught me to learn how to take the insults and brush them off. At such a young age it was tough to take all of the negativity and be able to grow from it, but This led to me becoming more mature and able to become the person I am today. I never had a negative view on anyone because of the things they said to me, but I knew that some of those people simply didn’t get it. As these immature kids became older, it became obvious who had grown to accept my race, and who could still not handle it. I

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became friends with most of the people who accepted me for me, and were not scared of my race. I was actually a great friend to those who invited me into their lives. I learned to zone out and avoid the ones who were not capable of treating me as an equal. In a way, the ones who would make fun of me and call me names were the ones who shaped the person I am today. I am somewhat grateful to them because the person I am is proud of my race and I am glad to be who I am today. There were times when my family has experienced the feeling of racial profiling. My mother is very fair and does not look like the stereotypical Mexican woman, and she does not receive some of the harsher comments that others do. People are surprised to find out that she is Mexican. My father, on the other hand, is the classic Mexican man. He has a bushy mustache and is pretty short and bulky. He is at risk for much more racial profiling than my mother, and my brother and I for that matter. My family owns a restaurant called Fryes, and when people ask for the owners, most of them are shocked by the fact that they are Mexicans. They would suspect a middle aged white man to be the owner, and do not even glance at the fact that owners of a successful businesses could be Mexican. Some people are even disgusted by the fact that Mexicans are in charge of the food that they eat. Out in public, no one really attacks our family verbally, but we do notice the stares. People give us some mean glares from across the room, or stare for an uncomfortable amount of time. They may think that we are lower than them or that we are too dumb to realize that they are staring, but it is extremely obvious.

The worst is when my family and I try to go shopping at higher end stores. It should not matter what color skin you have or how you look; what should matter is the product you want to buy. So when my family and I enter a higher end store, we get looks from the employees like we do not belong. Like we should be shopping elsewhere. Like we are outsiders. This has left an impact on me by not being able to go to some of my favorite stores without getting the usual staredown by the cashier or store employee. Some of the time that I am in the store they will try their best to not allow me to touch the merchandise. My situation will only get worse before it gets better. Everybody is on edge about the new border policies and racial sentiments in the U.S. and beyond that arrived with the new president. This may put more people at ease, or maybe some will start to think of me in a different way; or my skin color will become a badge of ridicule and pain. No matter what, a majority cannot understand what it means to means to carry “hate” with you each and every day. The jokes about my family and I leaving when Donald Trump was elected have already started. I am not worried for my family or myself, but I am worried about the other Mexicans who are near the border where racism is at its highest. The fact that my family and I have to worry about Trump supporters abusing us, whether that be verbal or physical, is frightening because there are so many around the country. In the future, I hope that other Mexicans will be able to walk around without the constant insults and derogatory remarks. I cannot wait for the day when we are all seen as equals. TT

PHOTO // JILLIAN EVERETT

The “I” Issue

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WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

TAKE A LIFE BY SERGEANT GEORGE LOVE AS TOLD TO ALEXANDER RUANO

Split seconds...1...2...3... shots fired!

I knew I had to be there; I had this instinct in my gut. A cop must always trust their gut and mine was bursting. ten years later, I remember that day crystal clear. The call came out around four. I arrived and was on scene for less than a minute when the subject came into sight. The man walked out of the bar and fired his gun. I felt the bullet’s steaming air as it whistled past my left ear. The iron sight of my glock looked like it was the size of a beach ball. In a split second it was over. The man’s limp body lay on the ground before us. My hands were strangling my side arm like an anaconda to its prey. Three rounds were spat out of its mouth, everyone hitting their mark. I did my job: to serve and protect. For a moment, the world stood still. My fellow officers and I went into the bar, weapons drawn, ready for anything. We successfully got the four hostages out without trouble. I knew I did the right thing. You train for situations like this and my experience with the Tac team made me ready. However, the adrenaline release was too much for anyone to bare. I could not help but drop to my knees as I felt the sweat dripping down my face. I was exhausted. I really was exhausted. My body was trembling with all the chemical changes that happened from that event. I had to release all the endorphins that built up inside me. At that point I felt it was him or me; he got the first round off and I did my job by responding. As police officers, we are behind the eight ball; we are not the aggressors in these situations. I was at ease with my decision to open fire since I trained for it just in case events like this would happen. In a perfect world, this would never happen, but since it did, it was up to us to remember our training as we do the best we possibly can to get through the rough situation. Even with great training

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and preparation, the experience was tough. I did not get into this job to hurt people or take lives, but then again it is part of the job when it comes to it. Anything to keep the citizens, fellow officers and myself safe. My personality took a slight change as emotional walls were built up around me. I seized the moment and opportunities around me to go to counselling and open up with my experience. I took full advantage and went to four seasons of it due to my recurring dreams that happen from the event of opening fire upon another human. It took me a few months to get through the dream. The dream itself had nothing to do with my actions, but I knew it was sparked from the event of taking a life. I would be driving in my squad car next to a large body of water and then the front of my car would sink into the water. It was a strange dream, I never had that problem before but it was how my body dealt with the stressors built up inside. I found it helpful to talk to the guys around me and get everything off my chest. We are a family, I can count on my fellow officers and friends to always have my back and be there for me, as I will be there for them. Family is more than blood. Taking training seriously is the best possible to step to prepare ourselves because we never know when a bad situation can happen. Over the ten years now, I noticed a few changes about myself. I am a little slower when it comes to grabbing my fire arm. To be honest, I don’t know if it is good or bad but I have become more hesitant. I noticed this a few days before I was promoted. I was the only officer on scene at a domestic call when a suspect pulled a knife out. I decided to pull out my taser instead of my gun and handle the situation without lethal force. Looking back on it, I believe I choose my taser instead because I have a certain understanding that others are blessed to not share. I’ve been in the situation of taking a life, I know the feeling that will forever be inside me. Our goal is to never do that and by having a greater understanding, I am able to handle situations

that we wish would never occur, but if we have to do it, we do it. Our training is so important; I cannot stress this enough. The Sheriff’s office is excellent at giving us the proper training that we need for instances just like those of Jan. 10, 2007. The training we go through is very important. No matter what training it is, take every season as if someone’s life depended on it. My actions on that day were not easy. Every officer may say, “I can do it, I can do it.” But in reality, you never know until you are in that situation, because everyone is different with many different outcomes. If anyone finds themselves in a similar situation to mine, I hope for them to feel free to come and draw from my experience and drift away from the tempting alcoholism as a way to deal with the emotional stress. Taking a life is a terribly stressful situation. You do not just have to worry about you and your personal behavior, but also the effect it will have on your family. For example, in today’s world, in Chicago there was an officer who was being attacked and decided not to draw her gun due to the effect it would have on her family. Morally, that is wrong. If you fear to do what is right to protect yourself, how can you possibly protect others. One should not fear to do what is right, to do their job to serve and protect because of the horrific outlash that could be stowed upon them and their family. However, this is not a perfect world. Now, we have the media that can do wonderful things for us, but also become our downfall. In this world we must learn to adapt to the unpredictable and become stronger from our own experience. We must always remember that we are not alone, we have friends and family to shower us with their support in our darkest of times. We move on.. If the same thing was to happen again, I would not do anything different. On that beautifully clear day, I reacted to my instincts and returned fire against the man, striking and killing him. I know, what it feels like to take a life. TT

PHOTO // JR JOHNSON

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SUFFER

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO 1. experience or be subjected to (something bad or unpleasant). 2. be affected by or subject to (an illness or ailment)

Sequoits suffer. There are those that we pass in the hallways every day who are suffering, unbeknownst to most. In every aspect of life, there is suffering--in the body, in the mind, in the soul. Not all hardships are drastic or clearly visible though. Sometimes, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the little things in life that people go through that cause them to hurt. However, the stories in this section are examples of some of the most extreme adversities that people face.

Suffer

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

GET YOUR PERIOD BY DEZARAE MOORE AS TOLD TO BRENNA HIGGINS

Aunt Flo visited, but she actually stayed more than I wanted her to—three months to be exact. Other girls’ aunts normally come and visit for a week or so, but my aunt was different. She would stay and I would be miserable. She was good at “magic”; I guess you would call it that: making blood flow out of my vagina on a regular basis. Yeah, that was what she was here for. Aunt Flo is my shark week, my time of the month. She is my period. Three months is unusual for a visit. I was worried. I went to the doctor. I had blood work done to see if anything was wrong. I thought I was ghost pregnant or something, if that was even a thing. I got scared. I did not know what was wrong. Why does it feel like my water is breaking? But instead of water, it is blood. Why is my period so irregular? I mean, normally Aunt Flo is supposed to come visit every 27 days or so, but for me, she does not just come and visit; she stays. When the doctor explained to me what was going on, I started to become relieved. At least I know that my vagina is working every once in a while. Aunt Flo stays for so long because of a little cyst on my ovaries. I have PCOS: Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. If I ever wanted to have children, it will be hard, which does not really concern me right now because I do not want kids. But lets say that one day I do: the struggle will be real. I

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will have fertility issues that come along with having PCOS. With PCOS, it means that I have high testosterone and my hormones are unbalanced. The funny thing is that if you look at it on the flip side, I could grow a beard, which would be cool, because then I can become a David if I really wanted to. When my favorite aunt came back to stay again, I was at school. It seemed like a normal day. I got up, got dressed and left for school. When I got to school, something just did not seem right. It was fourth period and I had to check. I went to the bathroom, and there she was. It was super bad. It got to the point where I went through one extra-large tampon in two minutes. I had to keep changing it, but I couldn’t keep asking to go to the bathroom in class every two minutes. I had no choice but to leave school. It was rough. The next day, it was weird, because my period was gone. It was like a mini-vacation, because the day after that, my period came back and it was the same process. I hated it. Sometimes, it is a walk in the park, but other times I just want to lay down forever and not get up. I am always jittery. I do not know when the next time my period will come. Will it come in a month? Two months? Five months? It has been eight months and still no show. So, I am always anxious about when it will come and I am never aware of the arrival. With not knowing when the time will come, it means that I have to stay close to home. I al-

ways have to be prepared, I always have to be aware, just in case anything happens. Just so I can be comfortable. I have two pairs of pants in my locker, so I am able to change pants and stay in school. When my period gets too tough to handle, I go home and put a heating pad on, just like any other girl does. But in reality, I also get up to go to the bathroom every five minutes to change a tampon. Without my period, on the “regular” days, it feels like I have it, but I don’t. I will start to have cramps. My mood begins to swing. I will have all the period symptoms, just no blood. The mood swings and cramps will last about seven days. When I was in cheer, I was a nervous wreck. If I moved a certain way, something would happen. What if my tampon just fell out? What if when I did a toe touch one of the cysts burst? If a cyst did burst, either I will be in a lot of pain, or it could be fatal. Since graduation is coming up in two months, I am worried that I will get my period during the ceremony. That is my biggest fear right now. I will just be sitting there outside, and my period will come unexpectedly. How embarrassing that would be, walking across the stage with my “aunt.” I am glad that Aunt Flo comes and stays every so often; it means that everything in my vagina is working, just working for a longer timespan. When she comes, it seems like she gains a couple of pounds. She is getting heavier and heavier every time she stays. I love my Aunt Flo, but sometimes she can be a pain. TT

PHOTO // HALEY EDWARDS

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Suffer

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

MISCARRY BY SARAH OGBORN AS TOLD TO PAIGE HOPE

I remember a really sharp pain. It was on a Friday after school and Ms. Taylor was teaching a few of us a dance for the homecoming pep assembly. And then I felt a really sharp pain. I had no idea that something was wrong. I don’t dance, so I was like, eh, whatever; I probably just moved weird or did something stupid. It really wasn’t until the next morning that I thought something could be wrong because the next morning I started spotting. I took another pregnancy test and the line wasn’t as dark as it had been before; this time it was really light. I hurried out and bought one of those expensive tests that definitively tell you whether you are or are not pregnant, and this one said I was for sure not pregnant. And I was like, wait, what’s going on here? By this point, I was bleeding so much; it was just coming out in droves. It was like a period, but quadrupled. It was really clotty and gross. Then, the cramps started. The pain was absolutely unbearable and I didn’t even want to get out of bed; I felt so sick. Hour by hour it just got worse and worse. Finally, I called the doctor, only to be faced with the worst news imaginable. News informing me that I would be unable to bring this child into the world. “You’re probably miscarrying.” I didn’t do a whole lot that weekend besides cry. That next Monday, I had a doctors appointment, and they told me there was zero sign that I was ever pregnant, other than the fact that I was still bleeding. Up until this point I was still holding out hope. I kept thinking that things were going to be okay and that I wasn’t really miscarrying. That weekend, all I wanted to do was drink a glass of wine, but I didn’t because I kept thinking, maybe, just maybe. I decided to come back to school on Tuesday and it was a really bad decision on my part; I should not have come back yet. It wasn’t because of my colleagues that I was about to face because they were such a support for me. I asked a couple other teachers to go ahead and tell everybody what had happened. I didn’t want to talk about it, but I wanted them to tell others so maybe people

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would understand when I wasn’t acting normal. And my coworkers did more than just understand. Ms. D’Andrea left flowers on my desk for me; Mrs. Sutherland brought treats and dinner for that night and somebody else brought dinner too, and it was really awesome. My students, on the other hand, weren’t quite so understanding or considerate. Apparently one of my AP classes didn’t like the sub that I had on Monday and didn’t like the assignment that I had very hastily thrown together for them. It wasn’t a good plan, but I really didn’t care. On my way into the building, a group of girls accosted me in the hallway and started yelling at me about class the day before. I didn’t say anything to them and just kept walking, hoping they would stop talking to me. Then, another group of kids from that class saw me in the hall and decided the best way to deal with what happened would also be to yell at me about how much they hated the sub. It may very well have been that they were just joking, but it was not the time nor the place to joke about it. So I just laid into them: “You have no idea what people are going through. I wasn’t here yesterday; there’s obviously a reason for that.” And then, because I didn’t care anymore at that point, I said, “You guys want to know why I wasn’t here yesterday? You’re going to feel really bad about it. It’s because I lost a baby.” And their faces immediately dropped and one girl started bawling, tears pouring down her face. I said, “I have zero sympathy for any of you.” Things at home weren’t much better than they were at school; I still was really depressed. One night in November, I was sitting at dinner and I don’t remember what I said exactly, but it was enough to finally set my husband off. “Either you need to get counseling, or you need to shut up.” And that was like the snap back to reality that I needed. I don’t think I fully realized how depressed I was. Not only was I miserable, but I was also making the people around me miserable. I hadn’t even realized the depths of my own despair. It took my husband saying this to me for me to notice that he couldn’t handle listening to me anymore.

This baby was his, too; he was grieving in his own ways, and I wasn’t helping him. That’s when I decided that I needed to climb out of this hole. And I did--slowly but surely. I was beginning to feel much better about life and by the time February rolled around, I felt a bit more like myself. As I was still on my way to getting better, my husband and I talked about it and decided around Christmas that we would start trying for a baby again. I think I had doubts about being a mom the first time I got pregnant, but it was pretty clear from how destroyed I was at the loss of my baby that I wanted to be a mother. I may have been uneasy the first time around, but this time I kept thinking, I want to be somebody’s mom. I’m ready. We tried for two months, and while some women try for months and years with no luck, I was getting stressed that maybe it wouldn’t happen or maybe I’d have another miscarriage, and it was torture. And I feel like once I decided that this is what I wanted, I became hypersensitive and suddenly everywhere I went there were babies. I tried to deactivate my Facebook account, which only lasted for a week, because all over Facebook and on TV and everywhere I looked, people were having babies left and right. But finally, that jealousy turned into shared excitement and joy when I found out that I was pregnant again. And then, in October of 2013, I gave birth to my beautiful baby boy: Ethan. Every once in a while, I hear a story of someone losing a child, and it reminds me of my baby that I lost. The pain and emptiness you feel doesn’t really go away and I was only pregnant for a short period of time. I can’t even imagine what other women experience when they lose a baby at 10 weeks or 20 weeks or they lose a child that they’ve already brought into the world and started to raise. I don’t know how you survive the loss of a child when you’ve been able to hold that baby in your arms, and I hope I never do have to experience that because my loss was bad enough. But I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything because it gave me Ethan and he has taught me so much. Ethan makes all the heartache worthwhile. If I hadn’t lost that baby, I wouldn’t have Ethan, and he’s the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

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Suffer

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

DIAGNOSED WITH CANCER BY TATE BAKER AS TOLD TO EMILY HOLMES

I thought I was just sick. cough

I thought it was my asthma acting up again and that was why I couldn’t breathe. Boy was I wrong. cough Towards the middle of the semester, my asthma started making it harder and harder to fully participate in gym and sports. I got sick somewhere along the way and had to play catch up in my classes so that I didn’t fall too far behind in first semester. I thought I was getting better, that this cold was finally going away. Really, it was just a whole bunch of coughing to start with. cough cough cough My mom took me to the doctor to see what was wrong. The doctor did his thing and told me that I had to get a chest X-ray. The dark room was extremely chilling because I thought that I was just dealing with a normal, everyday cold. That’s when we saw it. The tumor. The reason why I could not breathe lately. It started with a whole bunch of coughing because the tumor was growing right on my chest and was spreading throughout my lymph nodes. Since it was growing on my

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lymph nodes, it was getting harder and harder to breathe. When I heard that I had Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma for the first time, I was just angry that I had it. I wanted to continue going out for sports. I loved to play sports. Sports were a huge part of my life and, after football season, I could not wait to go out for other sports this year like lacrosse. I had always stayed as active as I could by going out for sports and I enjoyed being out there with my friends. I looked at the athletes who walked past me after school and down the halls and I just thought, Wow. That could have been me. But no, I can’t go out for any sports right now. Once I actually took the time to think about it, I realized that it was pretty scary. I know that by being a boy, you’re always told to stay strong and stay tough, but I cried. It honestly sucks and I cried. I didn’t care at that point. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I didn’t know what to do besides cry. I cried and I cried because after that initial wave of shock and anger, I just felt vulnerable and alone. I felt like nobody else could possibly know what I was feeling and that I would have nobody to talk to when things got tougher. I thought that people would act differently around me and be more timid when they spoke to me. But I wasn’t alone at all. My family and friends have been there for me since the beginning and are supporting me through it all. I do not think I would be where I am today without their support. My parents and my brother were super worried. I think my dad was more worried than my mom and brother though, if that was even possible. I think he was more worried because his mom died from cancer. But my whole family was scared and did not know how to react because it’s something that you don’t think could ever happen to somebody so close to you. I’m in a good place right now,

so everybody is able to relax a little bit for now. For chemotherapy, I have to go into the hospital so many times a week. I have a port in my chest and they access it with a needle, almost like an IV. The medicine is in a bag just like it would be for an IV. I’ve completed about two months of chemotherapy so far and have about five more after that followed by oral pills for the next two years. The chemo doesn’t really hurt since I have the port, but I just have to keep watching out for the side effects. I’ve still had to play catch up a bit this semester, but it hasn’t been too bad. It is just mentally and physically exhausting. Mentally, I am not the same. Physically, I am not the same. I am always worried about something happening that will land me back in a room with four white walls in the hospital, and it shows on my face a lot. I can’t really make any plans for after school because I have no idea how I’m going to feel. I don’t know if I’m going to feel faint throughout the day or how my body is going to react to everything, especially after chemo because of the side effects. One of the side effects that I’ve had to deal with is a really high temperature. Because of this, I had to be admitted to the hospital, but I’m all good right now. Most days, I feel pretty good. But obviously the days that I get chemo, and sometimes the day after, I feel more physically drained because it’s making my blood count go low. But I’ve learned that I am so much more than my cancer, that I am strong. I know that I have cancer and I know that it is unpleasant and that it sucks. This is how I move forward, by telling myself that it will all work out in the end and that I’m okay. I’m tougher than this and it will all work out. I’m in a good place now. TT

PHOTO // NATASHA REID

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Suffer

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE

POISONED BY CARBON MONOXIDE BY HANNAH COOK AS TOLD TO JILLIAN EVERETT

I don’t really know the order that things happened, the whole situation was a blur. I had just come home from practice one night and I had a spelling bee the next day, which I had not studied for at all. My mom told me that she smelled something weird, but my dad said it was nothing. He had just turned on the oven; no one thought anything of it. I fell asleep with a packet of words clutched in my hands, oblivious to what would happen next. My mom woke up at two in the morning, she stood to go to the bathroom and felt light headed and dizzy. Her heart was racing at what she said felt like a million beats per second. She thought she was having a heart attack. No longer able to walk, she started crawling towards the door and yelling for my dad, but there was no answer. Soon after, she fell back asleep into the land of no cares and blank stares. In the other part of the house, my sister fell asleep early that night. She woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, feeling like she had the flu. When she finally got there, after feeling like everything was in slow motion, she checked her phone and saw a text message from her boyfriend, saying that his grandpa just died. After she read the message, she involuntary crumpled onto a pile of hangers on the floor. At that moment, she knew something wasn’t right. My dad usually falls asleep on the floor downstairs to the murmurs of the television, so that’s what happened this night, right next to the basement door. He remembers waking up and then blacking out, standing up and blacking out, once more, standing up and blacking out. My sister’s boyfriend was concerned based on the text messages he was receiving from my sister, so he thought he would stop by

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before work, around 5 a.m. He arrived and looked through the front window: couldn’t see anything. Rang the doorbell: no answer. Called everyone’s phones: voicemail. He walked around to the back and glanced through the window and witnessed my dad laying on the floor unconscious. He shouted and knocked, did everything he could, but my dad still didn’t stir. He called 911, then decided to knock down the door. He ran inside and shook my dad; luckily my dad groaned, so he knew that my he was alive. Then he went upstairs to check on my sister; she was responsive. He found my mom in the bathroom wedged between the wall and toilet, and she was half awake, so he figured he would check on me. He voyaged on the journey of uncertainty, to my room: I’m not on the top bunk, I’m not on the futon, I’m not on the floor. He searched my whole room and couldn’t find me anywhere. He didn’t know that at some point in the night I had rolled off my mom’s bed and hit my face on her dresser. After what felt like forever, the first responders got to the house and told my sister’s boyfriend to get out while they find everyone. Everyone managed to get out of the house with help from the EMTs, but I was still unconscious and limp as they carried me out of the house. This whole time felt like the creepiest dream ever. It felt so real; I woke up once in the hospital, saw my dad’s bloody hand with an IV in his arm and all I heard was, “Everything’s okay, you’re okay, everything’s going to be fine.” Then, I passed out again; this was a bizarre dream. The next thing I knew I was on the roof. I saw a helicopter; apparently I was being moved to a different hospital. I remember being in the sky for only a portion of the flight. I was so confused, floating in and out of consciousness. I didn’t physically feel anything, except exhaustion. I started to actually wake up, to

reality, when they were rushing me to the ER. I had no idea what time it was at this point because there were no windows in the room I was in. I realized that I needed to pee really badly, so I got out of the hospital bed and I could not keep my balance for the life of me. I was only about 100 pounds at the time, yet it took two people to keep me up on my feet. Now I knew that this was not a dream. This was real. I had been poisoned by carbon monoxide. Just then, I understood that I was by myself in the hospital. I asked the nurse where my family was and she said she talked to my mom; apparently they were coming to visit me later. It registered to me that I wasn’t hungry. I had no appetite at all; I hadn’t even thought about food. Shortly after they told me they were still concerned with my oxygen levels so they put me in a hyperbaric chamber. They put something similar to a scuba helmet on me because it forces oxygen into the lungs. I had to stay in there for a whole hour with a plastic cone on my head. I literally felt like a dog. It was really weird. Everything was really weird. This whole circumstance was weird. The next morning I woke up and I felt pretty normal; I could walk and talk, so I ordered pancakes from the hospital cafeteria and realized that my throat was immensely dry. It felt like somebody had taken knives and sliced the inside of my throat. It hurt way too bad to eat anything. The rest of my family was okay, they weren’t experiencing the same effects as I was. Luckily, my whole family, including myself, have all recovered from this experience. If my sister’s boyfriend hadn’t stopped by the house that morning, we would all be dead right now. The ironic thing: the day before, my mom said she had to replace the carbon monoxide detectors in the house. TT

PHOTO // JILLIAN EVERETT

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Suffer

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO

HAVE BRAIN SURGERY BY LEAH MELTZER AS TOLD TO MONICA WILHELM

It’s been 17 years. Or 204 months. Or 6,205 days that I have spent on this earth. In that time, it has been 536,112,000 seconds and I had never realized that it only takes one of those seconds to turn your life upside-down. My second was about a year ago when my life took a turn for the worst. I have been playing soccer my whole life and I never would have thought that in my happy place hell could take over. When the darkness faded, my eyes began to make out a clear picture of the world around me. I layed there, motionless, on the soccer field, unaware of my surroundings. I can’t exactly tell you how or why I ended up on the ground, but what I did know was that my head was pounding harder than a fist to the face in an MMA Fight. It was later that day, after all the doctors, the scans and the tests, when I was told I had taken two knees to the head before black was all that I could see. Imagine only being able to take a few steps before needing to grab onto something. Imagine your head pounding so loud that you can’t even hear your own thoughts. Imagine laying in your bed, unable to forget the pain to just fall asleep. Imagine the constant pain ongoing for months on end. There was nowhere to run, even though I couldn’t run. There was nowhere to hide, even though I couldn’t move that far. There was nothing I could do to escape the thought that life would never go back to the way it used to be. Soccer is one of the most concussion-prone sports, with chances being doubled as a goalkeeper. I knew I was bound to get one in my life at some point. However, what I didn’t know was that a concussion could escalate into something beyond the comprehension of my own brain as a 17 year old. I wanted

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answers, and I wanted them badly. I was so sick of the same routine: new day, new doctor, same symptoms, same pain, but no answers. Finally, I got a sense of hope. My doctor had put me on some medication that was supposed to help my symptoms, as day in and day out, they were rapidly getting worse. For the first time in my life, I felt that I had no control over myself. I could feel what was happening to my body. I could hear the voices around me. I could comprehend what was going on, but I had no control over what was happening to my body: a seizure. My body began to shake, my eyes started to dance, my flesh turned to gray, and my eyes rolled back into my head, leaving a familiar darkness that has haunted me once before. When my eyes started to function once again, I made out a picture, while a familiar beeping noise echoed around the room. I was laying in bed, with only a curtain giving me privacy from the outside world. I could hear feet shuffling, beds rolling outside the curtain, along with that continuous, annoying beeping sound which assured me that I was still very much alive. Finally my doctor came in and questioned me on the past events that were still blurry to me. He eventually wheeled me down to get an MRI, where hope found me once again. It took a while for my doctor to examine my MRI but the nurses were all very nice to me, so I didn’t mind the wait. After a very anxious wait, I had finally got the answers I was searching for: Chiari Malformation Type 1. It is where my skull was misshapen and pressing downward onto my brain, causing my brain tissue to extend into my spinal canal. Hearing what was wrong wasn’t even the worst part. My ears cringed at the sound that echoed through them. I was 17 years old, and my doctor told me that I was going to have brain surgery. My stomach would turn to the thought

that every day, every hour, every minute, and every second I was getting closer and closer to surgery day. I’m not going to sugar coat it, I was scared as hell. After waiting for what seemed like a month, it was finally the day that I had been waiting for and fearing all at the same time. I found myself waiting in the familiar bed, with the familiar sounds, and the familiar nice nurses...who were actually planning to knock me out cold. I knew it was coming, but it was still weird to think that I’d start counting and then be gone. It was getting close to surgery time and I tried to keep my mind from the needles that they were about to inject me with. I mean, it’s not like this was my first rodeo, but the nerves were just starting to take over. The nice nurse came back and my heart began to beat rapidly as I began to think about everything that I had to be grateful for in my life. I knew I would be okay, but my conscious kept thinking of the what if that continued through my mind. The nurse then injected me with the needle and told me to start counting down from ten. Ten. I’m going to be okay. Nine. This surgery is going to help. Eight. I’m going to get better. Seven. I will get stronger. Six. I love my life. Five. And the familiar darkness washed over my mind once again. I can’t exactly tell you what if feels like to have surgery itself, but I can tell you that receiving that news was one of the hardest things that I have had to comprehend in my lifetime. Recovery was hard. Getting back up on my feet, coping through the post surgery pain, and keeping myself mentally strong were things that challenged me throughout the process. However, what I thought would be the impossible was achieved before my eyes. I found myself once again. TT

PHOTO // JR JOHNSON

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y l n

O f I u o Y . . . w e n K