Callowhill Review Spring 2020 by Brian Goedde

CALLO WHILLR EVIEW SPRING2020

The Callowhill Review is a publication of the Community College of Philadelphia. All contents are copyrighted to the individual authors. Please send all inquiries to the publisher, Brian Goedde (bgoedde@ccp.edu).

Table of Contents A Poem: That Man

Cheryl Hart

Rip to Us

Thalia Perales

How to :

Alexander Fox

A New Chapter

Vu Tran Uyen

End Term of Service

Herman Epperson

Fix You Up

Laila Mitchell

Red, White, Brown, Grey

S. Cole Grzywinski

Gay Bones

Andreas Copes

Sailing Souls

Samir Parker

John Hickey

Courtney Harris

The Greuling Process and Coronavirus Long Shadows Relationship Propaganda

Brandan Thomas

Quinn Grzywinski

Musa Hill

No More Saturdays

Marcus Fant

A Turning Point in the Fight against the Coronavirus? Oriki for the Rose of Virginia

A Poem: That Man Cheryl Hart

That man thinks that he’s so smart He thinks that I’m like ---- a walk in the park So easy ---- so breezy----- and quite pleasing But he just doesn’t know ------ where he can go Just leave me with what I know I know one thing for sure Two things for certain Three things more likely And four things that’s pertinent I am a woman A woman I am With a heart of Gold Unlike that Man

Rip to Us Thalia Perales

This is the last time I’ll write to you. This is the last time I’ll open your letters once again. This is the last time I’ll look at our pictures. This is the last time I’ll use you as my muse. This is the last time I’ll think of you.

I’ve been trying to keep your spirit alive ever since you left. I’ve been trying to recall my pain for poetry. I’ve been trying to remember us.

But that’s the thing; us, it ended long ago. It was bound to end. The pain I held so dear in my heart has evaporated over time. It is now time to let it go. It is now time to find a muse of my own. It is now time to let you go.

So, I make my peace with you, and wherever you are I hope you find peace within yourself.

How To:

Alexander Fox

How to…

Those two words have been so fucking important to me. Do you know what it’s like to question your identity? Maybe. But you don’t know what it’s been like for me.

No, because I used Google to define myself. I had to look up words to find things that seemed to fit. Because the internet, that’s the shit. And those two words, How to, allowed me to look up so much. Defining myself by the skills of others.

How to… Crossdress. When I was young that was my first form of expression, not that I did it. I couldn’t afford any kinds of shit, to embarrassed about it. All I did was look up the skills that one might use. How to shift from the reasonable sizing in men’s and boys to the ridicules shit girls must deal with. How to tuck away embarrassing anatomy, managing to get things to go away from me…

How to… Cast a spell. I was young and I suppose by the goddess it was hell. I was raised with a belief in the spiritual, fueled by several kinds of ritual. So, I looked up more and more, practiced and practiced until I was sore. And I found it, spell working that would even the score.

How to… Be a girl? Asking around for all kinds of things. All I ended up doing was halfcatfishing creepy guys, and finding piles of hypnosis. Listening to all sorts of audio instructional, the entertainment focus. It made me think of myself for years by those terms, a sissy girl… docile.

How to… Deal with Autism. Having to deal with a barely defined spectrum, in a place that used to have a name. A name that is seeped in political problems, from a man who helped the Nazi party define those who were so mentally inform that even he couldn’t imagine them being useful. How to define myself beyond that name, and beyond the words like “High functioning”.

How to… Define my gender. Staring at my ‘sonas, unable to defend ‘her’. I’m unsure of my own mind, weather for dysphoria or something else I might find. I found glorious wikis, places where people filled with their finds and thoughts. A sort of philosophy, of identity, that helps me figure out what my mind hath wrought.

How to… Write poetry. Those were the words that I used when I first began. There was something about it that scared me. Because I wanted to reveal my own fucking identity. But because of this complicated shit, those who dislike forms of rhyme, I was confused to be me. That’s just… it.

How to… Take HRT. I tried just a few days ago to look up the effects of Hormone treatments, what it might be like for me. I think of fears, of not being able to continue things that I want. But I still kind of want to try the idea, and that still scares me.

That’s what it’s like growing up on the internet. From learning about sex and fetish from a very young age, to figuring out who I am so quickly. It’s… hard to know the effects from within but believe me. In the future, those words and my history will… be resourced with impunity. There is a cultural change here, at the beginning of our century.

A New Chapter Vu Tran Uyen

It’s not really a tradition, but most of the grandchildren on my dad side of the family have the opportunity to study abroad. It’s all thanks to my aunt. In the 70s when Vietnam was at war with the US, our country was divided into two regions. Some Vietnamese people couldn’t see a future for themselves in this cruel war, so they decided to risk everything and migrate to another country. My aunt Hạnh was one of them. Most of us don’t call her “aunt Hạnh” but rather “Me”. This was a term we used to call a Vietnamese woman who married a rich foreign husband back in the day. I remember when I was 7 years old, she came back to our family house for vacation, she told many miraculous stories of how America had changed her life. And she suggested that she will be willing to help the nephews and nieces that want to study abroad. Time went by, the oldest cousin in my family, my favorite cousin, and my older sister all went to study abroad. Then, it was my turn. Vietnamese people have many things that they like to show off, maybe this applied to all human being, some people like to show off how much money they have, others show off how knowledgeable they are, Vietnamese parents however like to brag about their children. My mom is very proud of my sister, a smart, outgoing, nimble girl, who received a full scholarship to an American University. I guess, in some ways, there was a time when I was really jealous of my

sister. Unlike her, I was a shy, unapproachable child, who was not very good at studying and had no extraordinary skills. There were many times my mom didn’t want me to leave her because my health was not good and she thought that I would be unable to take care of myself. I must admit, wanted to give up sometimes, but I am a person who like to travel far and wide and explore the world. I can’t stay put at one place. I’m also quite a stubborn child, whenever people advise or demand me to do something, I will go and do the opposite. Mom always says, “Try to study business or science so you can have a well-paying job, study in a city with warm weather all year round and live in a dormitory to give me a peace of mind.” I went ahead and applied to be a communication major with the dream to be an editor, chose to study in a city with all 4 seasons and decided to live alone. Even though my mother didn’t agree with my choice at first, she had to sign and accept it. I vividly remember the day I went for my visa interview; it was a lot of pressure because the number of students who were born in the year 2000 was so high, the graduation rate and interview pass rate were extremely small. Everything you receive is due to your efforts, but sometimes, just a little luck can change your whole future. Even though I am not religious, a week before the interview I displayed my grandparents worship photo, brought fruits, and burned incense to ask for their blessing. I even checked my zodiac sign weekly on the internet just to see if I could get any luck on that week. But most importantly, I prepared and brought out my most confident self. After the interview, I walked out of the building with bright red cheeks and big smile on my face: “Mom, I passed!” After a month of traveling and saying goodbye to all my friends and relatives, the day that I had to leave finally arrived. I had always wondered how my sister felt when she went to study abroad for the first time, so I decided to call her and asked for advice. Here are what I

learned. Even though the plane takes off at 12:00pm, leave the house at 8:00am to avoid traffic. Before you leave, make sure that your important papers are ready to present to customs, make sure that your wallet is secure and make sure that you have your phone is with you. Before you step out the door, make sure that your suitcases are in the back of the car, make sure you hug and say goodbye to everyone in the house, and make sure you hug your dog dearly, he is so old now, this might be the last time you see him. On your way to the airport, try to talk with your friends and family, make sure to talk about some funny stories before you arrive. After you are done with the check-in, find a small café in front of your gate so that you don’t have to run around. Remember to take pictures and check that your papers, phone, passport, and medicine are in your small bag. Before you get through the gate, hug your friends real tight and it’s ok if you are ugly crying; hug your cousin and aunt with a bright smile through the tears; make sure hug dad gently because he doesn’t want to cry in front of you; and make sure to hug mom tightly, say you love her and thank her for everything she has done for you. And finally, after you get through the gate, call your sister, who is waiting for you on the other side of the Earth, and cry to your heart contain about how you are so grateful for everything in your life. “Tell me everything” said my sister. “Well… I woke up at 4 in the morning with mom to check all of my suitcase and backpack. Mom was staring at me the whole time you know. She was oddly calm with everything, she was even ok with me bringing a whole book set.” “Yeah, I guess she has learned to accept your weird ass. Why bring books over here just to make the suitcase heavier” my sister scolded.

“I like those books, most of them are from my friends. Some of them couldn’t come today because it’s the first day of college in Vietnam. But some of my highschool friends were here, my best friend even skipped her class and her job to send me off.” Then I started to sobbing. “You know, dad and mom have always been on bad terms but today they rode the same car together. They even tried to comfort each other… When I hugged dad, his whole body stiffened up, he squeezed me tightly and his hand clumsily patted my head. And mom… oh mom… she didn’t cry and was really calm at first, but the moment I hugged her… her voice cracked up and she began crying like the time when you first went to the US. She told me to stay healthy, call her as soon as I get off the plane, said that… she is proud of me…” I didn’t care that people were around me, I began to cry like never before, I cried as my nails dug into the palms of my hands, I cried with the sound of my sister crying through my headphone. After I had calmed down and my eyes had swollen up, the flight attendant informed that it was time for passengers to board the plane. I took heavy steps to get the boarding gate, looking up to the hot and intense sky of Hanoi. Goodbye, off I go now. The first overlay was from Hanoi to Taiwan, it honestly felt like a vacation rather than a study abroad. Looking out the window, Taiwan underneath look exactly Vietnam with all the green fields and small buildings. I was too relaxed for a young girl who is flying alone for the first time. The three hours intermission in Taiwan airport was heaven. I ate some of the best food like dimsum, sweet soft tofu, and pineapple cake. The trip from Taiwan to Los Angeles was when it hit me that I’m going on a long trip far away from home. The flight took around 12 hours, I was squeezed between two guys, had a hard time to fall asleep and the food was terrible.

I think the nervousness and fear started to come out when I stared down from the plane window, Los Angeles was full of houses, no signs of trees and it looked completely different than any country that I have been to. I could feel my hands sweating and my mind was the thought “Oh shit! I’m really doing this.” The most difficult part of the journey had just begun. When the plane came down, the first thing I had to do was go through the customs gate. I remember that the line was very, very long and I was quite worried because the intermission time was only 2 hours. I needed to transfer planes, meaning that I had to find my two heavy suitcases, drag them to the Alaska airplane gate somewhere, and then carry my tired self to the waiting gate. For the first time in my life, except during exam, I felt the extreme impatience and anxiety inside me. I thought to myself, I’m going on a trip by myself, if I miss the next plane, I might be stuck here. Maybe I watched “Home Alone” too many times. After got through the customs gate, I only had 1 hour left, and I didn’t know where the hell my suitcases were. Luckily, there was a Vietnamese staff member, he helped me find the gate and even helped me caring the heavy bag. Done with the suitcases and important papers, the only thing left to do was to find the waiting gate, I was in tear mode. Because I only had 30 minutes left, I ran like crazy from terminal to terminal outside of the building because those terminals didn’t have connecting doors. I reached the gate exactly when the flight attendant informed the passengers to board the plane. I was so tired from all the running that I ended up sleep throughout the entire flight without looking down to see what Philadelphia looked like. I landed in Philly at 5am on August 22, 2018. It was a long ass ride. I called my sister as I was waiting for my luggage, she came from behind and surprise attacked me a warm welcoming hug.

“Finally, you are here with me” “Yeah… its crazy huh. Mom and I just watched your graduation back in May and now I’m here with you. It’s been a long time since we met.” I said. “2 years… I haven’t been back for 2 years now” my sister replied. “I was with mom, and now she has to live by herself.” “Yeah, it has to come to this. So, how was your trip?” My sister asked while we on our way to the rental apartment. Philadelphia looks a bit different than I excepted. The houses are smaller and closer to one another, the streets are narrower and dirtier than what I saw online. However, I love the atmosphere that the city was giving me. It was still pretty early so the street was nice and quiet. The dawn light gently washed over the red brick wall. Philadelphia was tenderly and strangely beautiful. My sister didn’t want me to have jetlag, so right after finished unpacking my belongs into the closet, dressed up to have some brunch near my new school. I put on a yellow top with dark blue wide-legged jeans, letting my hair down and paint my lips with an earthly orange lipstick. I don’t know why I chose that shirt when I don’t like the color yellow, yet it fit me well. Before I got out the door at 8:45 am, I took a deep breath. Stopping at a red light while searching for the subway station, I looked up at the sky above, realizing that the sunlight here was not as hash and burning hot as it as in Vietnam. The traffic light turned green and a new chapter of my life began to unfold.

End Term of Service A short, autobiographical play inspired by a true story

Herman Epperson

Late March 2017, Fort Indiantown Gap, PA Battalion Headquarters, Career Counselor’s Office Two soldiers sit opposite each other in a small, windowless, cluttered office. Both have combat action badges pinned prominently above the name tapes velcroed to their uniforms. They’re both in their thirties and hold equal rank as Staff Sergeants E-6. For all intents and purposes, they’re the same. These two men have known each other for some time now, having deployed together a few years back, but they’re not close friends. The relationship is professional. Staff Sergeant Epperson is a Combat Engineer, an explosives specialist and minesweeper, and now in charge of his own squad of young men. Staff Sergeant Walters used to be Combat Engineer, but after his first deployment, he changed jobs to become a Human Resources clerk, now working as a Career Counselor at the managerial level that oversees Epperson’s unit.

Walters: Good to see you, man. How you been?

Epperson: Fine. Walters: Rough day? [He asks, his eyes on his computer’s screen has he scrolls and clicks through numerous menus and windows.] Epperson: Just another day. Walters: I hear that… [He finds the information he’s looking for and then sits back in his chair, turning his full attention to Epperson.] Let’s get down to business. Your last drill is next month and your contract’s up after that. Word is you’re not interested in re-upping any more, but for the longest time you’ve been on the fence. What happened? You’re well-liked by higher, evaluation reports are good… PT scores are iffy, but you know the job and you get it done. The Army’s in a bad spot these days, we need noncommissioned officers like you to guide the lower enlisted coming out of Basic and AIT. Epperson: No, thanks. This is the last one for me. Walters: No? Why not? You used to be about this life. What happened? [Epperson narrows his eyes. He is skeptical, unsure if he wants to reveal the truth. He opts for a more politically correct answer.] Epperson: Its just my time to go. I don’t want to do this anymore. The injuries are catching up to me. Doctors don’t take me seriously. It hurts to work out, it hurts to run, and I’m getting fat. It’s hard to keep up, you know? Walters: I do but you don’t have to stay in Combat Arms forever, Epp. Move to Support, take a desk job like I did. There’s a lot of room to maneuver around the state. That’s how guys make

their careers in the Guard, you know? You’re eleven years in, you can retire in nine. Easily! If you want to stay near Philly, there’s openings all over with units willing to take you. Epperson: Desk jobs aren’t for me. I walked out of BDP International after three months in a cubicle. I’d rather risk getting my balls blown off by IED’s again than work in a hostile work environment like that. Walters: Okay, yeah, but this will be the Army, not some corporation. It wouldn’t be exactly the same. Epperson: …. [Both men stare at each other for a moment. Walters’ is reminded of the stress that comes with his job and realized how it could be exactly the same or worse. Epperson knows this and seems to have silently called his bluff.] Walters: Bad example, okay… But hey, if it’s about passing the physical fitness tests, the Army has plenty of resources that – [Epperson cuts him off, having heard this information before. He starts to believe Walters isn’t counseling him, he’s pitching a sale.]

Epperson: I just don’t want to be a soldier anymore. At all. Doesn’t matter the job, I want to get out and do something else. I have my GI Bill, I can finish college without any interruptions now. Walters: Listen, they’re offering a $3,000 sign-on bonus for three more years, and $10,000 for six. Probably can negotiate $12,000 – Epperson: Are you kidding me? I could get a job at Target and probably make double that in a year with two-thirds less stress. Walters: It’s the same deal you took in 2014.

Epperson: Yeah, because I wanted to be here in 2014 and I was up for Staff Sergeant!

Walters: I mean, since the new changes to the promotion system, you’ll have to do all of the new online training courses to get caught up, but knowing you, you’ll be top of the list for Sergeant First Class – Epperson: I don’t care about any of that. The money sucks, it always did. I just don’t have the fire in me to keep doing this anymore. [Walters leans forward, trying to get through to Epperson to convince him to reconsider. He tries to appeal to his sense of duty.] Walters: It was never about the money, I know that much about you. You joined for the same reasons I did. Your file’s on my screen, you didn’t qualify for that big $40,000 sign-on bonus when you enlisted in 2006, that didn’t stop you then. The money was just gravy to you in 2014 too. [Epperson is silent.] Walter: I remember you used to ruck march from your mom’s house in Germantown, all the way to the Drexel Armory to get to drill. All those flag ceremonies you volunteered for the Phillies and Eagles games? Look, I understand, we all have bad years every now and then but it’s important to remember why we do what we do. If there’s anyone who knows that, it’s you. [Epperson rolls his eyes. It’s definitely a sales pitch as far as he’s concerned.] Epperson: Defending the Constitution and our freedoms. Walter: Right! Epperson: The one that’s locked away, under glass in a museum, so the terrorists don’t come and rip it up, right?

[Walter gives him a look.] Epperson: The biggest threat to our rights and freedoms isn’t Al-Qaeda, ISIS, North Korea, or any of those motherfuckers. The biggest threat to the American way of life is Americans! It’s us and the garbage we keep putting into office. They’ll legislate our rights away from under our feet and then what? The fuck we going to defend? [He sighs, frustrated and tired.] Do I really gotta get into this? Just let me sign the declination form and I’ll go.

[Walters raises an eyebrow at him. He tries a different angle.] Walters: Is this is about Trump? Look, we’re soldiers, man. We can vote, sure, but elections can go either way and we don’t get to clock out when we’re unhappy with the results. People felt the same about Obama. Twice. Things might be different in 2020, who knows? Our system is far from perfect, sure, but it’s all we got, and it’s worth preserving to fix. America was never a finished product; we’ve been a work-in-progress since 1776. Surely you agree, right? Epperson: If I can’t “clock out,” why am I in this office with you trying to convince me to stay? [Silence.] Epperson: It’s not just about Trump either. It was the things I saw in Iraq and the Middle East. Leadership’s toxic Army-wide. Dudes of all ranks blowing their brains out with an effective rate of fire of 22 per day. All these push-up videos on Facebook and Instagram, these little marathons y’all run, ain’t doing shit to address the real problem: military culture. I don’t want to be a part of it anymore. Nothing changes.

Walters: You have to be the change you want to see. I see the things you’re talking about, Epp. Believe me, I do. I completely agree, but it’s sergeants like us that need to pushback and advocate for the younger guys. A guy like you leaving would be a disservice to them. [Epperson snaps at the mention of his squad.] Epperson: Don’t give me that ‘be the change’ bullshit. That’s what those useless E-7’s and above like to say at their lame-ass retirement parties, after they spent twenty years maintaining the status quo, making examples out of anyone who tried to challenge their authority and improve things for the rest of us. Motherfuckers get Bronze Stars just for showing up to the war, then gonna turn around say “the Army doesn’t give out participation awards for doing your job,” when I try to put a Private First Class in for an achievement medal. You wanna talk about my guys? Have you been down to the company lately? 95% of them are going to refuse to re-up too, because they’re smarter than this bullshit. Maybe if you fucks up here at Battalion could get your shit together to stop losing their paperwork, get them to the schools and promotions they’ve been eligible for years, they would have stuck around. They’re not stupid and blind patriotic optimism doesn’t pay their rent. Anyone that wants to stay, that’s on them. Fuck ‘em. It’s a lost cause. [Walters sighs, both offended and disappointed by Epperson’s attitude. He leans away and returns to his computer, clicking and typing as he navigates the menus on the screen. When he speaks again, there’s an edge of contempt in his voice.] Walters: With that kind of attitude, probably for the best you don’t reenlist then if that’s how you’re going to be. Epperson: It’s like I’ve been telling you ‘no’ the whole fucking time. That’s the problem, you guys up here don’t listen to us and still can’t figure out why retention is so low.

[There’s an uneasy silence between them. Walters prepares to print several pages from the computer while Epperson is checking his phone. When they’re done, he slides them across the desk with a pen.] Walters: These forms are counseling statements stating you are refusing to renew your contract, and that you understand this offer will not be given again once the processing of your discharge begins. Your term of service ends on 4 May, 2017. Sign and date the dotted lines and you’re done. [Epperson does as he’s directed and then leaves the office. Neither of the men say goodbye to each other.]

Fix You Up Laila Mitchell I’ve found that I spend a lot of time trying to fix people I don’t know what it is about emotionally damaged boys but I am very much drawntothem. Marcus such a mama’s boy Will never learned to keep his hands to himself Miguel never learned to put the bottle down Lawrence manipulative narcissistic. 21

As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that I tried to change these boys… I wanted to be the ONE that got through to them. I wanted to be the ONE they opened up to the ONE they changed for. THE ONE. While I like to let myself believe that I had some type of impact on your life I can only laugh when I realize that you will never change. I put forth so much time and energy trying to change you No I wasted so much time and energy trying to change you. “But you cannot change people” Trust me I know that now.

Red, White, Brown, Grey S. Cole Grzywinski The story I am about to recount happened some years ago in the middle of spring. The day was beautiful, even for someone like me who loves the cold. It was the kind of weather that touched something in you, it reminded you of days when you were little, running through the grass barefoot. Clear blue sky above and a constant breeze wafting by. It was, in short, the kind of day that made you happy to be alive. It was on a day like this that I was walking home from work, earbuds in, enjoying the sun. I usually come home from work grumpy but today I was in a good mood. I let my arm swing casually at my side as I rounded the corner of the neighboring house and proceeded down the driveway. The lock on the gate to the backyard has been finicky for years and it took a couple tugs to get it open. I spun in place and closed it as I passed through. The yard is of decent size, with stone taking up about 1/3 of the space, and most of that is taken up by the old hot tub, which sits unused under a crumbling roof. Trotting up to the back porch, I climbed the stairs and approached the door.

I stopped where I was, idly pausing my music. There was a mouse lying on the mat

in front of the door. Our back door is a burgundy red with a screen top half and glass bottom half, and it sits on a grey stone step. In the winter the stone is ice cold, even with socks. The mouse lay there, it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t moving. I slowly approached, leaning in to examine it.

The mouse was a beautiful light brown color with a furry white belly and two large black eyes which were squeezed shut. It was lying on its side, a small smear of red around its mouth like lipstick, it wasn’t lipstick. This was an all too familiar sight. My mother hates mice, she has the exterminator put poison around the house to get rid of them. It’s a common practice and one that I understand completely, I just wish she didn’t use poison. Do you know what rat poison does to a mouse? When ingested, the poison causes the insides of the animal that consumes it to slowly weaken, and then disintegrate. In layman’s terms, they melt. Soon they begin to suffocate on their own blood as their internal organs begin to turn into a thick liquid. This whole process takes place over the course of a few days. It is a slow, painful, horrible way to die, one I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. My mother hates mice, I do not. I love mice, ever since I was a child I’ve loved them. My favorite books growing up all had mice as the heroes, and to this day I still see them as little heroes themselves. The mouse coughed. I quickly knelt down next to it, hands hovering, uselessly unsure of what to do. I always get like this, every time I find a dying mouse. Sometimes I find them inside the house, sometimes out in the yard, they’re always dying though. The last healthy mouse I saw on our property was years ago, back when we still had a playset in our backyard instead of an empty patch of dirt and grass. I remember my mother screaming when she saw it, flitting about like a butterfly, or a moth, yelling for someone to do something about it as it hopped around. I remember chasing after it, captured by its adorable appearance as it unhurriedly hopped away on its long slender hind paws before disappearing through a fence into the bushes. That was the last time. Since then I have fallen into a kind of ritual whenever I find a dying mouse. Back on the porch, I carefully

step over the small pile of fur and enter the house. I grab two things, my large grey coat and two clean white napkins. The coat is a formality, I don’t precisely remember why I started wearing it whenever I dealt with these kinds of things. I think it was out of respect, like wearing black at a funeral, or maybe I just thought it would make me look cool while doing an unpleasant job. The coat itself is old and stained at the bottom, but it’s warm and heavy. It’s too big for me actually, the coattails reaching to my ankles, it’s the same coat I wear every Halloween when I’m out scaring children and handing out candy. The napkins are far more practical. I return to the back porch, ritual objects acquired. The mouse hasn’t moved, but if I look closely, I can still see its small labored breaths by the rise and fall of its sides. As gently as I can, I use a napkin to pick up the mouse. Holding it in my hands now I can feel its body, its soft and limber, it doesn’t weigh a thing. It’s so light that it’s barely putting enough weight on the napkin to stop it from blowing away in the breeze. In my hands, still laying on it’s side, it looks like it’s laying on a blanket of white silk sheets. The blood still leaking from its mouth standing out strikingly against the white of the napkin. Up close, I can’t help but notice that even dying the mouse is still cute, beautiful even. The combination big eyes and soft fur doing its job, even when marred with blood. I carefully descend the stairs of the porch and walk over to the shell of the old hot tub, which hadn’t been used in years, and set the mouse on the cover. I stand there watching it, it’s labored breaths still coming out slow and methodical. A soft breeze blows through the yard, lightly ruffling the mouse’s fur. Birds are singing in the trees, the cloud dappled sunlight slowly marching across the grass. In a word, it’s peaceful. I feel awkward and out of place in this scene, ruining the nirvana. It’s at this point I begin to wonder how the mouse got to our doorstep. Like I said, it can

take days for a mouse to die after ingesting poison, and it must have eaten it in our house. As I stand there watching the mouse, my mind begins to wander.

After eating the poison, the mouse would have continued its business as usual, at

least at first. Scurrying through the walls and basement, avoiding the scary humans and looking for food. After a day the pain must have set in, the first indication that something was wrong, but even then, the mouse would still go about its mouse business. Around day two it would start to die. This is where panic would set in, ever growing pain, the taste of blood. The mouse would try to escape from what was hurting it, maybe thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why it went outside. Cats are known to patrol the neighborhood and the mouse must have known that, I assume, but it went outside anyway. It must have stumbled through the grass, vision slowly fading. Surrounded by light, sounds, and smells, it must have been hell, all the while the pain was growing. Why did it head back towards the house? It could have curled up under a bush. Maybe the house was its home, maybe it was born there, and in its last moments that was where it instinctively tried to return. But why our door? There are steps, it must have hauled itself up each one, one at a time. I can see it, the mouse, dragging itself across the porch. Coughing blood, half blind, heroically trying to find a place where it could be safe. There, in front of the grey slab standing like a tombstone, it finally collapsed. Seeking refuge at the place that killed it. Only to have its death disturbed by a giant.

I rouse from my daydreaming. The mouse is still on its side on the white napkin. The

rhythmic rise and fall have stopped. I poke it with my finger but there is no reaction. The mouse is dead. I scoop up the corpse with the napkin and walk over to the opposite end to the yard. Using my arm like a catapult I unceremoniously toss the body over the fence. Respect is for the living, none is owed to a corpse. I hope it will be a nice snack for

something. My duty done, I head back inside, hanging my coat back where it belongs. Heading upstairs I turn on the game console, intending to consume my attention. The mouse is still on my mind, I can’t help but feel sad.

Why should I be sad? It’s just a mouse after all, they eat food and spread disease and

contaminate things and gnaw and reproduce and infest. Sure, I read some books when I was an ignorant little kid where they were heroes but that doesn’t change reality. And another thing, where there’s one mouse there is always more. There are probably hundreds around the neighborhood, and more constantly being made. It’s like being upset over a fly dying, or a rock, or a blade of grass, or people. There are millions of them everywhere, the lose of one is completely inconsequential. Try saying that at a funeral. The death of a mouse is an objective net positive for the world. Why on earth should I be sad about a cute little mouse dragging himself along, gasping for air, chocking on his own blood. Overcoming who knows how many trials over the course of his short life. Never giving up, trying to find something that could save him, when nothing possibly could. Feeling his life slowly ebb away, murdered by the hand of an unseen foe, for reasons that he lacked the mental faculty to understand, by people who would not even be aware of his passing. Collapsing, spent of all strength, where no one could possibly overlook him. His corpse serving as a statement that he lived and died. Only to be found by me, a stupid kid that loves mice, who’s only reward is watching him die. The game isn’t helping, I turn it off and go back downstairs. Winter will be ending soon; spring is one its way. That means that all the animals will be coming out of their holes and will be out and about. That means mice too. When spring comes there will be shining sun, singing birds, soft breezes, and more dead mice for

me to find, more white napkins, more grey coats, more red pools. The horrible thing about all of this is that in a twisted way Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m almost looking forward to it. My solemn task of cleaning out the bodies is one of the few things that gets an emotional reaction out of me anymore, my sadness at the sight of the small motionless clumps is almost therapeutic in a way. It confirms I still have a heart. What I fear is the day I stand over one of the corpses of my little heroes and feel no sorrow, no pang of regret. How abominable of me, validating my emotional wellbeing using dead animals. If it was funny it would be a joke. The mouse, who is the root of all my angst, has nothing to say on the matter. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been dead for over three years.

Gay Bones

Andreas Copes

2012

Breathing in. Pause. Breathing out. Pause. Ryan is laying on the bed in his one room

apartment. He is lifting his shirt and touches his body. He is pulling his skin, trying to find the very last piece of fat left in his body. “You are disgusting,” a voice in his head is saying. He breathes in and hold his breath. 10 seconds. 20 seconds. 30 seconds. The bones of the breast spine pierce the bare skin, almost as if they wanted to penetrate it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… breathing out… breathing in… eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Twelve bones, that is the number of bones he counts in his rib cage. Ryan is gliding over his chest while holding his breath and almost finds it amusing how it feels like playing the xylophone in 3rd grade. Every paper, every movie, everyone in the scene tells you, if you want to get laid as a Twink you better be skinny. Ryan, you better be skinny.

My name is Ryan and this is my life. I always had an eye on boys when I was in

elementary school. I even remember that, in second grade I asked my best friend Sasha if I could kiss him. I guess here you have the answer to the so often asked question: “When did you find out that you were gay?” I also remember, and that was way before second grade, a

moment in which I was queuing for the water slide at the pool and I couldn’t get my eyes of the person (a male) standing in line before me. Yes, I think I never turned “gay,” I rather was born gay. The older I got, the more complicated it became, not only for myself, but also for my classmates. People that were my friends, mostly male friends, suddenly turned against me. I guess that must have been when that bitch “puberty” came into all our lives and ruined us. “Faggot,” that is what they used to call me. I was fine with “ginger” all the years before, but there was something about the word “Faggot” that resonated with me badly. I am not a faggot! I can’t be a faggot. Wait! What is a faggot? I guess some classmates saw something in me that I did not want to see. I really wanted to be straight so badly. In my early puberty I realized that shirtless Justin Timberlake and David Beckham turned me more on than Britney Spears or Nicole Scherzinger. And still, even though I exactly knew that my way would be paved with yellow bricks and I was a “friend of Dorothies’,” I tried so hard to escape the pathway to Emerald City. 2010

He pulls off the keys from his keychain, barely looks into his mom’s eyes, opens the

door and turns around. “I had a great childhood, but the past few years were just shitty,” Ryan says and leaves. He gets into the car and puts the key in the ignition, but does not start the car. He pauses again. The back of the truck is filled with moving boxes full of crap he hoarded over the past, almost two decades. He turns the key and the car starts howling up. The car is in reverse gear and rolls off the driveway. Ryan decides not to take the direct route to his new apartment, but instead loops around the hood he grew up in for the past

nineteen years. Just before he gets on the highway, Ryan passes the place he loved and hated at the same time, his high school. 2008

Tami is my best friend and the person I would hang out with almost every day after

school. We would be chatting, watch horror movies, or listen to ska punk music. I will never forget the day I told her. Be advised, if there is one person in the whole wide world that knows you are gay, even before you know what is going on with you, it is your best friend. I was sitting on her bed, my back against the wall and a pillow on my lab. “Tami, I have to tell you something,” I begin with a collapsing voice. “There is something I have to tell you about me, and it is horrible.” Then I paused. Tami made some kind guesses, not to come off as rude before she finally said: “You are gay!” I could feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins. My throat was getting tighter and tighter. Bam! Bam! Bam! I could hear how my heart was pumping gallons of blood through my entire body, like a Volcano that is about to erupt. I opened my mouth and my dry tongue managed to articulate the most submissive sentence I would ever say in my entire life: “Yes, and it is horrible.” Tami knew exactly what to say in this situation and I wish every closeted person had a Tami in their life. “There is nothing wrong about it, Ryan,” she said and then she hugged me and we both started crying. It was a happy crying. I finally felt heard, finally was being heard and I could have not wished for any better outcome. Earlier in 2008

He leaves the house at 7:30 AM on his bike. The Stein High school in Fort Manawick

is about 15 minutes away by bike from his parents’ house and classes would start at 8. Ryan gets to his Schoo’s bikestand where his friends are awaiting him with concerned faces. What is going on? He gets off his bike, locks the front wheel to the bike stand, pulls off his helmet and walks towards them. Jake, a friend of Ryan’s who is a grade above him is holding two sheets of paper. “What’s wrong guys,” Ryan asks. “Look at this,” Jake is saying while he is handing over one of the sheets to Ryan. “WANTED: Dead or Alive. All faggots should have a cork in their ass,” the poster reads. The right corner of the poster shows a picture of Jake and the left corner, a picture of Ryan. “Who did this?” Ryan is asking. “It was the group around John. They did that. I can’t believe it,” Mary says. Mary is a fag hag, a straight woman who likes to be surrounded by gay men and be their best friend. “We went to the principle. They are investigating the case,” Jake says. “Where is John now?” Ryan wants to know and Mary responds, “He is not here yet and they are calling him to not come to classes today.” The school-bell is ringing to announce the first class in the morning and Ryan is walking to his Biology class, the class he would have had with John, but today that seat would remain empty. Later in 2008

The lights are off. Here I am, in my seat. My heart is pumping a stream of blood and

adrenaline through my body. This is the first time something like this happens to me. I can see the light now, it starts. A hand touches me, my lab. Zip, my pants are unzipped and the hand is finding its way into my pants. I can feel the pulse in my carotid, almost as if my throat is exploding. What am I doing here? What shall I do? Well, I guess this is going to be a

“hands on” experience. So my hand is moving towards his private section. I can feel the fabric of his denims. So warm. I find my way to the zipper and zip. I guess this is what a first date looks like. This is 17-year-old me in a movie theater near the town I grew up in. His name is Drake and he is the first man I am dating in person. After my first coming out there had been nothing more important than to find someone to explore my new claimed sexual identity with. Gayromeo was the online gateway for queer millennials in the early 2000s. My cousin would later nickname it “meat market.” Here I am, 16 going on 17, watched several season of Queer as Folk and finally I have to answer questions like “top or bottom,” “positive or negative” or “fetishes.” I cannot remember how I filled out my profile, but it probably read “underweight, bottom virgin is looking for dark haired twink” (a skinny men in his 20s). I never felt great about myself, I never thought I was attractive, so every unanswered message on Gayromeo told me “you’re ugly,” “you’re not what we are looking for.” Eventually, I was lucky and the only one year older Drake would respond to my messages and showed interest. Drake went to the same high school as my cousin and even though they did not know each other it gave me a feeling of security. Drake also did not live in the same town as I did which gave me security, because I did not want to be outed by the guy that would be my first same-sex date. We finally made plans to go to the movies together, you know the end of this story. Yet, the final end of the story was that Drake and I would say goodbye that night and that was the last time I heard of him or saw him. Earlier in 2008

Community Service - that was be his punishment. John put this search warrant for

Ryan online and all he gets is hours of community service. Not only was it a mild

punishment, but the community service would be held at the school’s library, a place that Ryan would visit frequently. Nevertheless, that was not the biggest problem for Ryan, but the good old question of: “How am I gonna tell my parents?” Ryan is on his bike back home. He arrives at his parents’ house and opens the door. “Do they know already?” he is asking himself while he is taking off his shoes. His mum opens the door and the smell of Mac and Cheese is finding its way into Ryan’s nose. They are all sitting at the table having lunch; his mom, his dad and Ryan. “What happened at school today Ryan?”his dad is asking. “Not much. We had a revision for the upcoming PE test next week. Oh, by the way, may I go to Tami’s place today? We have work to do,” Ryan answers while he is trying to eat as fast as possible to leave the table. “Sure, just make sure you will be back before 8 since we…,” his mom starts answering when she is getting interrupted by the telephone. “…oh hello Principle Wagner…yes, he is home, do you want to talk to him?…what?!…yes…oh my god…sure, I will talk to him.” His mom hangs up on the call and comes back into the kitchen. 2009

143 lbps, 6 feet tall; that was me at the age of 15. I had lost some weight in my teens

because I did not feel comfortable in my body, the kids at school would make fun of me and my parents’ neighbor, a doctor, would criticize my borderline obesity as well. 143 lbps was something people could live with. My mom was a bit concerned, but generally okay with it. The only person that was not okay with it was me. Since Drake left me that night I started questioning myself and my outward appearance. I am fucking ugly, I’m fat. Let me loose some more pounds and see where that will go. I reject any extra treats and limit the portions my mom would make for lunch and dinner. The hunt for fewer calories begins and

every day I am under my calorie goal it is a celebration, every day I am over it is a nightmare. My parents annoy me. They give me this face of “What’s wrong with you?”every time I would come out the shower and walk back into my room. Dad one day said “What do you have on your back,” and it was nothing but my shoulder-bone sticking out because it was covered by nothing but skin and my shirt. Superficiality, I think is something I was always being held up to by my parents and our society. Don’t look this way, do not wear this, what will the others say, too skinny, too fat, too pale, to read-headed, too gay, too many tattoos. Believe it or not, but it is difficult to grow up in a catholic small town when you do not have anything in common but the skin color. And that is why I am leaving this place. I am going to the city. I am becoming myself. Late Spring 2008

“Are you gay,” Ryan’s mom is asking. It’s been some weeks now after the incident at

the school and the principal has talked to all the parties involved and everyone agreed that it would be best if they could just move on and get over it. Ryan was scared to go to school, but he was even more scared to talk to his parents about his sexual orientation. “Noooo! Don’t say that mom,” he responded while his heart was bleeding and he wanted nothing more but shouting out “Yes, Yes, Yes. I am Queer.” The conversation was over and would be over for quite some time. Mid 2008

After Ryan met Drake he fell into a deep depression. He would loose more and more

weight and eventually found his second date online. The day he came back from this date

he talked to his mother. “Mom, I wasn’t with friends today. I had a date,” he starts. “Ryan! That is so dangerous. You don’t know who would really show up,” she answers. “Mom, I am dating a man,” Ryan’s voice dies. “Wow. A man? So you ARE gay?” She begins. “Mhh,” Ryan can’t really answer the question as he feels shame, for no reason. “That’s all right. Just be careful when you date and always make sure to use a condom,” she starts. “Moooom,” Ryan says annoyed. “I’m dead serious, sweetie. My co-worker and good friend is HiV positive. I just want you to be careful,” she says.

My second date would turn out to be a dead serious relationship and I would be

happy. Yet, I am trapped in this void of superficiality and the desire to be skinny. I have lost a lot of weight now and it keeps going down. Even though I do not want to loose more weight, I can’t help but to not eat enough. By the time I am 20 my weight is 104 lbps. I look into the mirror and I am disgusted by myself. I can see my ribcage. I am taking pictures of myself shirtless, inhaling to push my bones out as much as possible and I am screaming. It hurts, I am cold, this is ridiculous. And then I get into the hospital and that changes my life forever…

PROLOGUE The events of this piece are based on a true story, my story. I am an author and journalist. I grew up in Germany and moved to America in 2017 where I found the love of my life and my now husband. The names in the story have been changed to secure the privacy of the people, the facts remain facts. I am planning on expanding this piece to empower others with a similar story. It is important for me that people struggling with addiction, psychological disorders or disability know that they are not alone and that it is not a shame to talk about the struggles and seek help.

Sailing Souls Samir Parker Mind at peace, as the boat moves as it please. Trees showing degrees of green. A book that is present, but my attention leaves. Dreams of the murky waters painting a picture of me. But, the weaves of the waves werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cooperating. Nothing impeding this boat from floating away. Could be costly as day to day the sky turns gray, like volcanic ash after the lava clears. The atmosphere is transparent not polluted with my peers. Not a care in the world, not a fear for a soul. No one is in control, just a boat with a mind of its own.

A Turning Point in the Fight against the Coronavirus? John Hickey Tuesday, April 28, it seems to me, will turn out to have been a turning point in the fight against the coronavirus. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean it will turn out to be where the battle was won. I mean it seems to me the point from which we will see a surge in new cases and deaths here in Philadelphia. Kelley and I walk out most days in Fairmount Park here in Philadelphia along the Wissahickon, along Forbidden Drive and elsewhere. For these past few months we have been seeing people walking together in family groups, giving other people space. One day, a week or two ago, we walked past a bunch of college-aged kids who were hanging close with each other with no masks as if there were no need for social distancing, but they stood out as unusual in acting like that, and I could speak to them about it. Tuesday for the first time, walking down near Rittenhouse Town to Forbidden Drive, the unusual suddenly had become common. College-age kids hung close in groups with no

masks and no sense of social distancing. A pick-up drove by on Lincoln Drive with yahoos yelling, sounding to me like “Whoo-ee! We’re all going to die!” Last night the news showed a big crowd of people, many without masks, way too close to each other on the Art Museum steps watching the flyover by the Blue Angels. I’m seeing some of the workers at the Acme and Home Depot wearing their masks around their chins. I think as the weather gets good and Trump and Pence and their idiot followers keep sending the message that we should all ignore the danger, some young people (and some stupid people of all ages) are saying to themselves: “The scientists probably don’t know any more than Trump! Nobody knows anything! We probably won’t die! It’s just the old people who will die!” And it’s true that most of them as individuals won’t ever have devastating symptoms from the virus. But many of them even without symptoms are transmitting the disease when they congregate without masks, and the elderly in nursing homes are the ones who will be dying in increasing numbers. Apparently it is just too difficult a concept to grasp for some folks, no matter how often it is explained, that by breathing or sneezing or coughing close to people, with no mask to protect them from you, you can be transmitting the virus even when you yourself have no symptoms. The New York Times on Sunday published “Most Americans Who Carry the Coronavirus Don’t Know It” (https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/26/opinion/coronavirus-testasymptomatic.html), by Shan Soe-Lin, managing director of Pharos Global Health Advisors

and a lecturer at the Jackson Institute for Global Affairs at Yale University; and Robert Hecht, professor of clinical epidemiology at Yale and the president of Pharos. They say: “A small set of blood tests for antibodies indicated that as many as 2.7 million New Yorkers may have been infected without realizing it, Gov. Andrew Cuomo said on Thursday. That’s in line with other findings. A recent study showed that up to onethird of residents in Chelsea, a hot spot in Massachusetts, may have been infected, and only half of them could recall having a single symptom over the past four weeks. Another small study, of pregnant women in New York City, found that 15 percent tested positive for the virus, and 80 percent of them had no symptoms. Of the 840 cases on the aircraft carrier Theodore Roosevelt, 60 percent were asymptomatic.” It really shouldn’t be hard to grasp. But I have no faith that everyone will follow the obvious precautions we should be taking to at least slow down the transmission rate so that hospitals will be able to take care of everybody as the cases explode. Until testing is more available and more reliable, nursing homes especially are going to be overwhelmed. Testing is the key to being able to screen large numbers of people (like nursing home workers as they come to work every day). But Dr. Deborah Birx, the White House coronavirus response coordinator, says the United States will need a "breakthrough" in testing to screen large numbers of people (https://www.cnn.com/2020/04/27/health/antigen-tests-coronavirusbreakthrough/index.html).

She is saying the technology does not yet exist to do large-scale testing, which is of course in direct contradiction to Trump’s petulant false assurance that “Anybody that wants a test can get a test.” And people understand, I think – despite Trump’s false claims - that a vaccine may be a year to 18 months away. So social distancing and masks and hygiene are pretty much all we’ve got to slow this down for a year so that medicine can develop testing and treatments and vaccines before the death rate decimates the older half of our population. The authority I have found most straightforward on the future of this public health crisis is Dr. Michael Osterholm, Director of the Center for Infectious Disease Research and Policy at the University of Minnesota. He has been giving a consistent message on the national networks that, until a vaccine is available, we should expect the virus to move at some rate (more slowly if we protect ourselves through masks and distancing and hygiene) towards the point where sixty to seventy percent of the population has been infected and we have thus reached the level of “herd immunity,” which would itself slow down the rate of infections as fewer people are vulnerable. We should expect to have to exercise protective measures of rigorous distancing and masks and hygiene for 16-18 months, as the work to develop a vaccine races against the virus’s progress towards the full “herd immunity” level of infection. See https://www.nbcnews.com/meet-the-press/video/full-dr-osterholm-were-missing-the-mark-in-a-big-way-right-now-on-testing-82581573553. Osterholm says existing testing is unreliable, but that more reliable testing can be developed, and is key to protecting vulnerable populations like nursing home residents by screening health care workers. Testing is key because younger populations will, over the

next 16 to 18 months, have to be allowed to return to school and work. Those populations are on the average less likely to develop life-threatening complications when infected, but their return to work and school will mean higher levels of infection in the population, which will present a higher likelihood of life-threatening contagion to older and sicker populations until reliable large-scale testing is employed to screen caregivers. See https://youtu.be/0Zixm-bB7e4?t=59&fbclid=IwAR014crCZwSabLtUb2hdhx8NYSUennZV_o47f8ycNwF-fLSy3kDCNQNo3o. My sense is that the primary factors in handling this pandemic are the development of reliable large-scale testing, the development of treatments, and, longer term, the development of a vaccine, which hopefully will happen before 70% of the population is infected and herd immunity is reached, because if it goes that far we will likely have a very large number of deaths. But there is going to be a significant delay in achieving testing and treatment and vaccines, and until we have those tools, we are going to be dependent on social distancing, masks, and hygiene. The trend I am seeing of people abandoning these practices gives me the sense that in the next few weeks in the Philadelphia area there will be a spike in reported cases as many of the new people getting infected start to show symptoms. Update: I have just seen an announcement by Dr. Anthony Fauci of some good news in the development of a treatment. See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yvBiU3rD6uc. He discussed the positive results for a drug trial on the drug remdesivir, saying the results were "opening the door" to possible coronavirus treatments. He seemed quite positive

about the development. That treatment would probably be too late to prevent the surge of cases I anticipate in the next few weeks, but it is good news for the longer-term future.

Oriki for the Rose of Virginia Courtney Harris I am Courtney, daughter of Crystal, The daughter of Rose. My middle name is her namesake. Marie. These are the flowers I lay at her feet. Praise for the Rose planted in the cold hard ground. For the sweet Rose the grew into cold, bitter air. For the doctorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dream that rose under Jim Croweâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reign. For the dream buried under desperation and chance. For taking that decomposed dream to fertilize mine. High praise to the shunned single mother. Virginian by birth, Philadelphian by providence. Exhalation for the child of the lone North star. Servant to the bright and morning star. Servant to all. Slave to none. She taught me to calm my own storms and walk on its water, 45

She taught me how to grow my crops from just the dew on my feet. She has strung the jewelry I wear about my waist with her wisdom. She taught me to sway my hips to the rhythm of truth. Whoever threatened her daughter risked her riffleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wrath. Whoever threatened her risked her charge. Whoever threatened to put her in irons lost what they had. Let me sing of her bravery and strength. When Holder who held her, locked her and her child out of their home after her conversion, Look at how she overcame! When she could only eat perishable food in the winter by putting them outside in a crate, She proved her resourcefulness! When she was denied a high school education by her mother, She seized a masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree for herself! All hail the Rose of Virginia!

The Grueling Process Brandan Thomas Being a 76ers fan this season has been one of most stressful things I have gone through in my life. For this essay I will detail the problems with the 76ers. 1. Letting Jimmy Butler walk in Free Agency. The 76ers acquired Jimmy Butler in November of the 2018-2019 season after trading away Robert Covington and Dario Saric. In his fifty-five games with the 76ers Jimmy Butler averaged 18.2 points, 5.3 rebounds, 4 assists, and 1.8 steals per game, while shooting 46.1 percent from the field, 33.8 percent from the three point line, and 86.8 percent from the free throw line. Butler gave the 76ers something they never really had, someone who could create their own shot off the dribble, facilitate for his teammates, and defend multiple positions. Butler also as the 76ers closer last season, someone head coach Brett Brown trusted on more than one occasion to take the last shot. Butler ultimately left for the Miami Heat, where he signed a four year deal for 140 million. 2. Signing Al Horford This past offseason the 76ers chose to sign Al Horford to a four year deal for 109 million. In theory this move made sense because the 76ers needed to address the revolving door at the backup center spot to supplement those minutes that Joel Embiid will be off the floor. Instead the 76ers have chosen to start him and it just has not worked out. Horford is pretty 47

much just asked to be a spot-up shooter (stand and shoot threes when open) on offense while Horford is capable because he shoots 33.7 percent from the three point line, that's not his strong suit. Horford would be suited on the post, but Joel is also better suited on the post. The offense is a cluttered mess with the two being on the floor 3. Ben Simmons reluctance to shoot jump shots This is Ben's fourth year in the NBA and he is yet to have a consistent jump shot. His reluctance to shoot is well known around the league as defenders will routinely stand in the paint to guard Ben Simmons when he is on the three point line. Ben has made two three pointers. After he made one in a 34 point performance against the Cleveland Cavaliers in early December his coach Brett Brown emphasized that he wanted Ben to take one three point shot every game, because it would help the teams spacing offense. To this day he has yet to attempt a single three point shot. Ben not shooting makes it harder for his other teammates to score. 4. Giving Tobias Harris 5 years for 180 million This past offseason the 76ers chose to give Tobias Harris the 5 year max extension for 180 million dollars. Tobias is a good player but he disappears way too often in games to be worthy of that contract. At times you forget he is even on the floor. The game against Cleveland last month was a perfect example; Simmons was out with a nerve impingement in his back and Joel Embiid went down after the first quarter with a shoulder sprain. One would expect their 30 million dollar per year player to show up and save the day, instead he only gives you 11 points. I would have preferred to have re-signed him for less money, or target some other players instead

5. Joel Embiidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poor conditioning Joel Embiid this season is averaging 23.4 points, 11.8 rebounds, 3.1 assist, and 1.3 blocks. For starters Joel is averaging four fewer points, two fewer rebounds, and three less minutes compared to last season. Joel only plays in four to six minute spurts, while other stars around the league can and do play eight minute spurts. On a regular basis. If Joel was better conditioned, then the sixers could play him in longer stretches. The longer Joel is on the floor the better it is for our team because he is our best player. Every year Joel boasts about how he wants to gun for the MVP award (given to the best player overall for that season). While Joel is an All-Star, he will never be the MVP of the league if his conditioning and thus production does not improve. 6. Drafting Markelle Fultz On the week of the 2017 NBA draft the 76ers traded their third overall pick and a 2019 first round pick to the Boston Celtics for the first overall pick. The 76ers then took Markelle Fultz with that first overall pick, Fultz was the cosesous top player in the 2017 draft and thought to be a surefire superstar. Things went bad really fast as Markelle forgot how to shoot and had a unique injury (thoracic outlet syndrome). This in turn caused Markelle to miss a large percentage of his rookie season and made him into a shell of his former self. After two seasons of frustration, the sixers traded Markelle Fultz to the Orlando Magic. Futlz now is rendered an average player in the league. What is frustrating about the Markelle Fultz situation is the 76ers could have drafted some many other players who are

having successful careers, among them Jayson Tatum, Donnavan Mitchell, De'Aaron Fox. If the 76ers would have drafted one of these players they would be better off then they are now. 7. 76ERS Lackluster road record The 76ers this season have a terrible road record. This season at home the 76ers are 29-2 while on the road the 76ers are 10-24 on the road. At home the 76ers play like the best team in the world and are practically unbeatable. On the road the 76ers literally look like they forgot how to play basketball. It makes absolutely no sense. At home the 76ers can't miss at times, while on the road they lose to bad teams like the Cavaliers and Warriors. A team with four potential all-stars should not lose this much away from home. Some people blame the coach and others blame the players for the 76ers poor play away from home. I think they are both at fault in this situation. This season has certainly been a disappointment and has not turned out the way 76ers fans wanted. We hoped for Golden State Warriors 73-9 level dominance but instead can't buy wins on the road. This season has largely been a disappointment, and I can't wait for it to be over.

Coronavirus Brandan Thomas You took away our one shining moment left us all clutching are income taxes Wondering when the next check faxes You took away the ice Had us feening for lysol The world rendered a crater A bizarre fascination with toilet paper At first glance the world giggled Then you took away the Dribble Society realized this matter wasn't a fibble While the world's next step conflicts Today we sit at hit home watching tigers on netflix While this situation may lead you to a mental doom 51

Fear not, soon again the economy will boom The world will cast this dark gloom And society will be back in full bloom

Long Shadows

Quinn Grzywinski

I am sometimes gripped by this strange, gut-wrenching anxiety: that what I am currently experiencing is not “real life”. This anxiety can reach me anywhere, and can be prompted by anything. On the train, when a distant building draws my attention. Walking through the city, where some smell or sound makes me recoil quickly from it. It can happen when I’m surrounded by people and it can happen when I am all by myself. It can even happen in my dreams sometimes, even if I can’t remember the source of the panic when I wake up. The symptoms of this anxiety are always the same, though they can sometimes differ in their intensity. My head swims as some dark notion presses its face against it. The ends of my fingers and toes grow colder, and I cross my arms or stuff my hands uselessly into my pockets. The air in the breaths I take becomes tiny and poison, so I instead hold my breath, trying not to make a sound. It’ll only last for a minute, but within that minute, I become completely convinced that somehow, what I see and what I think and what I feel do not exist in the way that they are supposed to. I am hurtling through somewhere dark and cold, and my feet lift clean off the surface of the earth and land somewhere I cannot move 53

from. When this anxiety passes, I take a breath and try to distract myself, but its faint memory will continue to hang over me like an umbrella. I can see it sometimes, a black canopy just a few feet above my head. It doesn’t even stop the rain.

I have tried to chase down “real life” at every chance in every way I could. I can see it

just ahead of me, hauntingly beautiful, but always separated by a distance that never seems to close no matter how much I struggle and scramble. I chased it through my childhood, where I read books and tried not to cry as much as I wanted. I chased it through high school, where I tried to know others, and cried more than I needed to. I chase it now, more desperately as each day goes by. But each time I reach it, it seems nothing more than a juvenile recreation, that somehow isn’t the right shape, the right color, the right intensity. It passes through me like mist, and I am overcome by the same thought of disappointment and anti-climax: that this isn’t life. This is a poorly-made copy, that doesn’t contain within it any hindsight or wisdom or lesson. I’ve seen what real life looks like, and this isn’t it. I’ve seen real life in books and in movies and in the news. I see it every day, even if I can’t get to it, in the faces of people I know and have known. Their lives stretch over vast chasms and across dark hallways. They tower over me, so high I can’t see how many stars they touch. Each time I see one I am overwhelmed, and I retreat in order to get away from the impossibly long shadows they cast. I should be seeking solace in those shadows, for they give an impression of their casters, but I am more intimidated than inspired. When I see those shadows, I take another look at the evaporating mist of the days I have lived, and as I do, I become more and more

certain. No, this isn’t life. What has just happened to me isn’t an “experience”. It’s just a misunderstanding. The days I have lived have no value when put together or when viewed separately. There is no secret meaning that can be discovered by examining them, by counting the indifferent suns and moons, yet I search for meaning all the same. It makes no difference. Their shadows are short and barely visible. These days have simply gone by, and because of them, I haven’t moved one inch from where I stand in the mud, where I have always stood.

This is when the anxiety will come over me. The anxiety that as long as I live this so-

called life, I will never get to take even one step from the starting line. That I will never really “live” in the way that I’m supposed to. All I will ever live is the thousand false ideas of life I have told myself, created from misconceptions I taught myself. But none of them are life; they are simple fading imprints, wrong judgments, and gross oversimplifications. They are the result of a mind that has never faced anything outside of itself, that cannot even if it wanted to, because all it can see is the putrid miasma that its pride creates. Everything will pass, but I will never pass through it. As a morbid game, I look at the clock of my phone sometimes, and I count the seconds. Each time a number increases, I can tell, just behind my back but never visible when I turn, the passing of things that I never lived a second to understand why they were important. When I spin around, all I can see is the short shadow cast behind me, too little to contain anything within it. There is no ticking coming from the faint blue screen, but if I gaze into it long enough I can faintly hear bells. I can see the ever-increasing numbers in

neat digital lettering, and as I do, I feel the decrease of something else, something that I can put a name to but intentionally try to avoid.

This is how my writing started. As therapy. At first, it was simply a thing to do,

because it was a thing that was different from the anxiety. After years of this mindless exercise, I noticed something that should have been obvious from the beginning, that simply the process of writing gave me some inexpressible satisfaction, each word taking off some minuscule but heavy burden. This discovery interested me, and for the first time in the years since the anxiety had started, when I was still too young to even realize what it was, it made my shadow feel longer. I was still stumbling around in the dark, searching for this “real life”, but the satisfaction that came from it was the feeling that for the first time, with every line, I was getting closer to something tangible and important. I wrote about places I had never been, people I have never met, deaths I had never died, all as real as the life I lived up until bringing them to the page. I wrote about real life, despite never having experienced it. I covered each aspect of it in abstraction, whether that abstraction was character or theme or metaphor, but always I sought to get closer to it, to understand it more, to “live it”. With each story I write, with each line, with each word, the sticky black mud that keeps my feet in place begins to loosen its grip just a little bit. When I reach the idea I have been trying to express for so long, the clarity in my head is remarkable. I am drunk for a few seconds, on the ease of which I exist, on the air which no longer seems to burn my throat. The ever-present crown of invisible desperation around my head lifts, as I have no need for it anymore. The anxiety seems silly for these

beautiful moments. I think in my inebriation that real life cannot be so far away, if I can grasp its coat-tails from my eternal starting line. And sometimes, when I am drunk enough and clear-headed enough, I look behind myself, and see for a moment in the mud the footprints of all the steps already left in the chase.

Relationship Propaganda Musa Hill People often think that being in a relationship is so much better than being single. Some also think the opposite. In all reality though, being in a relationship is very similar to being single. Depending on your sensibilities of course. You can share many of the same freedoms in both scenarios. The similarities between the two are eye popping.

Being in a relationship you can be with other partners. You just have to be a little

more discreet than when you are single. Being in a relationship you have an allotment of females who will go out with you. When you’re single you go out with whoever you want to. Much like in a relationship if you are “unfaithful”. Single life makes you a hot commodity on the market. Being in a relationship has the same effect, but maybe greater. Relationship life and single life are alike in your availability.

The common knock on single life is that you get lonely. People claim being in a

relationship you will never be lonely. They say you have a rock. Someone you can always lean on. That is not true. It is not entirely true at least. Being in a relationship you get lonely a lot. When you’re young and you both have schools to go to and jobs to work you won’t have a lot of free time. You will get lonely and irritated. Relationships will not prevent loneliness because of how little you will be together. Being single you have to play the numbers game. You won’t have any one specific person that you know will swing by. So 58

that leads to you contacting all of your options. Sometimes every single option will be busy or unwilling. Then you will be lonely. Being single is self explanatory. You are single. Just one. By yourself. Living life as a singular being, not attached to someone. So naturally being single you get lonely. Maybe more than when you are not but maybe not. There is a common misconception only single people get lonely. Being in a relationship or single you will get lonely regardless.

Being in a long enough relationship you get bored. You just are talking to the same

person day in and day out. Everything gets predictable and monotonous. You might introduce a mistress to spice things up, but that gets boring too. You lose interest in being in a relationship and become saddened by day to day reality. You just start to really long to be out of the relationship and single again. Being single for too long the exact same thing can happen. You learn that you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like everyone you hang around as much as you thought you did. You get into a routine of contacting the same people at the same hours that becomes unbearable. You get so bored that all you do is long to find the one and get into a relationship.

Being in a relationship and being single have the same long term effects. They both

will make you lonely, bored, and adventurous. The only difference is the names. They are so similar because being single is just being in a relationship with being by yourself. So they are both forms of relationships. They are similar for that very reason.

No Saturdays Marcus Fant

It should’ve been just another wintery, long, frigid Saturday at CVS, but my probationary period had just ended and the store manager decided to evaluate my growth as an employee. The heat had been on ever since I started, and now the store manager had begun grilling me as to why wasn’t I performing up to his expectations. I knew they had been unrealistic because we both came from Rite Aid, which we knew was significantly harder. Harder in the sense that Rite Aid kept its workers understaffed and expected them to stay until they completed their task, even though there wasn’t enough people to get it done in a reasonable amount of time. I didn’t know what to say to him because some of the shift supervisors, who were also from Rite Aid, had been giving it 150 percent and he expected the same from me. My attitude since I’d started had been “Work just hard enough,” and that didn’t produce “hard enough” results, at least in the manager’s eyes. The one-sided conversation between us continued to go south, and at some point he asked me something along the lines of, “If you’re performing significantly below my expectations, then tell me what do you think I should do?” Fear as well as desperation set in as “fired” and “cut hours” burned through my brain. Desperation led to telling the store manager, “I will work

harderâ&#x20AC;? as we left the back room, and I followed through despite believing that my efforts as a cashier/stocker was not enough for the job. With the upcoming spring semester at Community College of Philadelphia, I had already decided that I needed to put a monumental effort towards my course, not my job. The job was everything to the store manager, and he was under the assumption that his employees felt the same way, but this was just a stepping stone from one shitty job to another for more pay. My return to school was a much-welcomed reprieve, if only temporary, from this job that I was beginning to hate, and the store manager would be forced to schedule me earlier because I had class at 6 p.m. The only thing that mattered to me was getting good scheduling, as I was under the assumption that because I was paid 11 dollars an hour, my paycheck would always be a high number, even if my hours took a hit. One month later, the great struggle for my free time had began, and my feelings about the current state of my life had been building up. I was finally making enough money to see my loctician to get my locs retwisted once a month, but something got in the way. I wanted to see my friends as much as possible, but something got in the way. I needed to focus on passing this class, but something got in the way! That something had been work, as I was required to close the store, work weekends, and holidays as scheduled. One Saturday early in March, I had finished my task of pulling the old sales tags so the new tags could get put up on Sunday. The next task completely caught me off guard. One of the managers had asked me to single-handedly vacuum the entire store. A walking vacuum had

recently been purchased and left charging in the break room apparently to optimize the task, maybe even encourage it. It was small enough to sit on top of a shopping basket with wheels, but the stretchy vacuum hose required a lot of uncomfortable bending and stooping. The only other option was the normal-sized vacuum, which to my misfortune had been working properly that day. I refused to use the walking vacuum (when I should’ve refused the task altogether), and I had angrily begun the futile task of vacuuming the entire store. Becoming frustrated with my job, I felt that if I could change just one aspect of my scheduling, just for myself, then maybe that could help ease my frustration. I campaigned for Saturdays off armed with the argument that “I could focus on school better” and “I needed one Saturday out of every month to get my locs retwisted”. I’m not sure exactly when, but sometime after the vacuum incident I decided to ask the store manager for Saturdays off. I felt that if I could change just one aspect of my scheduling, just for myself, then maybe that could help ease the frustration caused by missed plans and the need to focus on my classes. One shift, I went to the store manager’s office. Nervousness welled up inside me, as I quickly realized that “I could focus on school better” and “I needed one Saturday a month to get my locs retwisted” weren’t arguments at all in relation to the stores need for me. “We can’t give you every Saturday off.” replied the Operations Manager (OPS). The store manager in Training (SMIT) said “If we gave you Saturdays off, I would have to be in here more.”

The store manager said, “Why do you need every Saturday off to get your hair done? I’ve never met anyone who needed their hair done that much.” This effectively tore apart my argument. That didn’t stop me as I had already made up my mind about my choice for a permanent day off and quite frankly, I was beginning to not care; the only problem was that I didn’t know how to tell the store manager. The following week of March 10, 2019, my hours had been severely cut, leaving me with only five hours for the entire week. Naturally, the store managers decision had pissed me off, and I needed to vent at that time. I wrote in my journal the morning before I worked and after I got off in the afternoon. What spurred on the early-morning journaling was the text message response I got from the store manager upon asking for more hours: “Hours are based upon execution and work performance. Colleagues earn hours based upon those two metrics.” Here’s what I wrote in my journal:

3/13/19 -Either I need to quit cvs and get a nice chilling job or I NEED more hours because this is some bullshit and the store manager knows it and he doesn't give a fuck. I even remember him telling me don't come crying to me if you need more hours that one day but I told him I can't work Saturdays anymore. - honestly I'm in this app again because I'm going through some shit the morning I have to work. - first at the very least I need to make enough to cover rent and provide for myself but at only 5 hours for the next 2 weeks i can barely even afford the life I have now. 63

Near the end of my shift that same day that I wrote in my journal, I decided to confront the store manager about his decision to cut my hours. A month, give or take a few days had passed since he checked in on my progress as a cashier/stocker after my probationary period ended, and I believed that I had improved. His recent decision had proven contrary to my belief in my abilities, so earlier in my shift I began to push myself. I worked harder and faster, knocking out tote after tote, quickly stocking the shelves with a shred of doubt in my belief in my abilities that belied my speed. Five hours added to nothing on my next paycheck, despite that, I pushed myself, with the thought of “Is this job even worth it?” lingering behind me.

Journal Update: it's the afternoon. I just finished my shift and I had another talk with the store manager this time with OPS and SMIT there. So now they're going to be watching me and holding me accountable by my actions. Like I say I work hard. I can prove it just by keeping the same pace i had to day and getting faster. I fucking hate the store manager. it seems like he’s never on my side hes always like I move so slow or I look so confused and I have to be dancing circles around everyone there. Like, fuck, man, I just want a job where I can chill and not worry about my hours and shit. The week after the store manager cut my hours, there were some changes to my situation at work. At the need and discretion of the store manager, I was on call at my home store with him asking if I wanted to come in Wednesday and Thursday. Wednesday was truck day, and the next few days after involved spending a lot of payroll to schedule the most workers, pushing it to get the truck done. Truck day was important because the truck only stayed long enough to get that stores shipment out of the truck and that was the day that many stores could use an extra hand and, to my surprise, the store manager had at least recognized my stocking abilities if

nothing else. It was at this same period that I began picking up hours at a nearby 24-hour CVS, or 8984 as I’ll call it. Store 8984 is what can be described as a perpetual mess of a store in and out of the backroom. I quickly learned to my fortune that the colleagues didn’t stay long and they called out often. I needed hours, and I felt that in order to get more, I had to work hard enough for the managers there to take notice. My store manager had said that I didn’t give good customer service, so I felt that if I worked on that, especially at the register, someone would take notice. One way I gave good customer service was practicing G.O.T. or Greeting customers, Offering help, and then Thanking them. My go-to fake-ass greeting was “Good whatever! Welcome to CVS, did you need help with anything?” Whatever was usually replaced with the relevant time of day and maybe a smile if I felt like it. Another way was helping customers find the majority of the products for which they came in, while answering their questions about the products or the return policy until we reached the register. While helping them check out, I would try to make them feel like we care by asking them things like “How are you?” or by responding to their troubles by saying “I’m sorry x and y thing happened to you.” Near the end you would get a little more personal by saying “If you need help with anything in the future, my name’s Marcus; let me know” and then seal the deal with a prompt “Thanks for shopping with us”. I was unsure as to whether or not my efforts to give good customer service had yielded satisfactory results, so I began asking the managers for feedback at the end of my shifts at 8984. The managers of 8984 didn’t say much except that I give good customer service and I’m a good

stocker. I felt there were other areas I could use improvement on like the speed of my checkouts, which often enough led to mistakes at the register, and somehow I didn’t page for help enough. I regularly picked up hours at 8984 until May, when my semester at CCP ended and my store manager decided to give me more hours at my home store. Right before the month began, my store manager sent me a text asking for my availability for the first week onwards. He said he wanted to be on the same page regarding my availability, and the days he was going to put me down for worked for me, except for Saturdays. There were two comic-book-related events on the 4th and the 18th, and I DID NOT WANT TO MISS THEM. I talked to the store manager and said, “Put a request in on the scheduling app”, or something, which of course, would be subjected to bullshit company rules. Surprisingly, the first request was approved. The second one was where my fight began. On one shift that I shared with the store manager, I brought up the topic of my availability and how it included Saturdays off. I dreaded this conversation. My nerves flared up and the words fell out with little force or logic behind them. I pleaded with him, as he barely paid attention before I settled, suggesting a question that should’ve been a demand. There I stood on my last leg, copping out on my earlier demands with the question “If I can’t have Saturdays off can I come in early every Saturday?” He put down the box of seasonal candy that he was stocking, turned to face me, and began to speak. His hands moved with him to really get his argument across as his words hit me, all at once: “Saturday morning shifts are crucial to the store. I need to know that you can arrive here on time, ready to work. If I put you on then you shouldn’t have to call me to the front every 5 seconds. You should be able to hold down the front area by yourself.” The discussion went from

Saturdays off, to coming in early every Saturday as my nerves were on fire and my stomach began to hurt. I weakly responded with “What if there was a line or what if the situation called for a manager? Then who would I call?” to which he responded “We have an assisted checkout area. If you could properly hold down the front, then lines shouldn’t be a problem. Other than that, situations that require a manager should be the only reason that you call for a manager. Right now, you’re far from capable of working an early morning Saturday shift.” There was silence before he folded his hands and politely but firmly said “Did I answer all of your questions, sir?” Having a suffered a defeat, I lied and said “yes” before getting back to work. The evening after that shift in my dark living room, I felt a combination of anger and sadness, followed by nervousness as I began to write in my journal.

5/11/19 -I've said it once before and I'll say it again: I'M NOT COMING IN ON SATURDAY'S. FUCK THAT SHIT. -as of right now im sick of the store manager and im sick of my store and i'm sick of the bullshit so I've come to the conclusion that if he schedules me for saturday then i'm not coming in. I might just do a no call no show or something but i'm not coming in. I was both sad and angry and my stomach was hurting thinking about this shit like i'm sick of it. Im sick of the store manager, i'm sick of his store, and all the bullshit like FUCK THIS JOB IM READY TO QUIT. -i need to start applying for jobs, mainly jobs like kumon so I can start moving away from this retail shit like im sick of working retail. Im sick of this shit. Im done with the shitty conversations I gotta have with shitty managers and i'm sick of not getting good scheduling like I work too fucking hard to have my ONLY request for a permanent day off denied. Fuck this job man just fuck it.

After I finished journaling I came to the conclusion that no matter what I said to the store ma nager, he wasn’t going to listen to me. Near the end of one shift before the 18th I spoke to OPS a nd asked him something along the lines of: “What if I told the store manager that I can’t work Saturdays anymore?” OPS then replied “You know if you do that you’ll just get taken off of the schedule again right?” “Ok that’s fine by me, you can even tell him yourself.” I replied angrily And I grabbed my stuff and prepared to leave. Later that night I learned that OPS did in fact tell the store manager as I received an inconvenient phone call around 10 p.m. I had an idea as to why the store manager was calling, but I didn’t want to think about it. Nervously, I answered. “I just received word from OPS telling me that you’re not coming in for Saturday anymore. Is this true?” “Yes” I replied nervously. “You do understand that I can’t guarantee you any hours in the future correct?” “Yes that’s fine.” “Just making sure that we understand each other. Have a good night.” The call ended and I was surprised that I wasn’t fired.

One thing that I would like to impart to my readers that, these jobs, do not care about you! I’ve seen one of my friends from Rite Aid, get fired because he asked for time off because he was in

the hospital because his girlfriend recently broke up with him and he overworked himself to exhaustion. If some minor injury that required you to be out of work for a few days happened to you, God forbid it, your job would most likely let you go. In this shitty capitalist hellscape that we currently live in, everyone is replaceable and that’s not ok. I fought for Saturdays off because I didn’t want to overwork myself and I wanted to enjoy my life by going to Free Comic Book Day on the first Saturday of May, and the East Coast Black Age of Comics Convention on the third Saturday. I advise my readers to take some time out for yourself and don’t overwork yourself. The money isn’t going anywhere and neither is the job providing the money so please, take care of yourselves.

Callowhill Review Spring 2020

Articles inside

Quinn Grzywinski

Musa Hill

Brandan Thomas

Herman Epperson

S. Cole Grzywinski

Marcus Fant

Andreas Copes