TAPESTRIES OF TAPESTRIES OF DUST & GOLD DUST & GOLD BY DR. REUT COHEN SCHORR BY DR. REUT COHEN SCHORR P 8 P. 8
“A MEETING WITH GOD” “A MEETING WITH GOD” BY MEGHEDI MIRBEKIAN BY MEGHEDI MIRBEKIAN P. 7 P. 7
“THE CAKE HOUSE” “THE CAKE HOUSE” BY SASHA VILLARREAL BY SASHA VILLARREAL P. 22 P. 22
““THE THE EEARRINGS” ARRINGS”
A SHORT STORY BY A SHORT STORY BY PROFESSOR TONY BIEHL PROFESSOR TONY BIEHL P. 19 P. 19
“PRETTY UGLY” “PRETTY UGLY” BY ANNETTE CLUFF BY ANNETTE CLUFF
P. 9 P 9
““HEAVENLY” HEAVENLY” BY LILITH TOVMASIAN BY LILITH TOVMASIAN
P. 16 P 16
Volume I
elvaq com
What's Inside? What's Inside?
“BARBIE & AGEISM”
“THIRTEEN
Nare Garibyan’s meditation on humanity and connection through the food we share, p 5
“ARSENIC
Professor Michelle Stonis tackles intersectional feminism in the Barbie movie, p. 10
WARM MEALS”
AND OLD LACE”
Martin Erlich’s vase, created in a GCC ceramics class, p 6
Photo by Amy Oliver
CONTRIBUTORS
PUBLISHER
Reut Cohen Schorr rcohen@glendale edu (818) 240-1000 ext. 5214
DESIGNERS & EDITORS
Carissa Coane
Reut Cohen Schorr
STUDENT WRITERS
Madelyn Chan
Annette Cluff
Carissa Coane
Vanush Davtyan
J S Fraley
Meghedi Mirbekian
Darius Mitchell
Denise Owens
Sophia Rostomyan
Billi Sarafina
Lilith Tovmasian
Sasha Villarreal
STUDENT PHOTOGRAPHERS
Vanush Davtyan
Cory Knauf
Angelica Lopez
Elwira Mizeal
Theo Morgan-Arnold
Valerie Schultz
FACULTY WRITERS
Tony Biehl
Mike Eberts
Nare Garibyan
Laura Gotz
Margaret Lopez
Sonali Perera
Nick Sahakyan
Reut Cohen Schorr
Anna Stone
Michelle Stonis
FACULTY PHOTOGRAPHERS
Amy Oliver
Reut Cohen Schorr
Foreword
From its conception to its publication, Verse Vault has been a tremendous endeavor, and I am thrilled to share the final product with the Glendale College community
I initially proposed the creation of a campus literary magazine to showcase the creative work of my peers, having noticed a dearth of other opportunities to do so. The generosity of the Glendale College Foundation and steadfast support of Dr Reut Cohen Schorr enabled me to not only transform my vision into reality, but to expand the scope of the project, featuring art and writing from students and faculty alike
I have been inspired by the creativity and passion evident in every submission The unique, intimate, and thoughtprovoking content has added another dimension to my understanding of even some of my dearest friends and instructors
My objective always to be as inclusive as possible, and I am proud that we have included at one least piece from everyone who submitted their work
From academic discourse to ceramic vases and everything in between, each uniquely compelling piece is more than deserving of its place in this magazine
Verse Vault is a reflection of the diversity and synergy that characterize our campus. Featuring written work in three languages, our contributors span the Computer Science, Foreign Language, and Photography departments and beyond. The journalism department has facilitated an unprecedented level of collaboration The exchange of ideas and perspectives contained within these pages is electrifying
I am incredibly grateful for the financial backing of the Glendale College Foundation, without which this magazine would not have been possible I wish to express my deepest gratitude for Paola Santana, the Foundation’s executive director, for her encouragement throughout the process. The opportunity to execute a project of this magnitude is truly an honor, and I feel so lucky to be able to explore my interests beyond the classroom during my time here
I also want to thank my amazing professor and publisher Dr Reut Cohen Schorr for her unwavering faith in my vision and support every step of the way Although I encountered innumerable challenges, her guidance enabled us to create a magazine that turned out better than I could have ever imagined
Finally, thank you to all of the fantastic artists and writers who shared their work with us Your contributions have made this magazine, the first of its kind at Glendale College, something extraordinary I hope the boundless creativity and passion exhibited here continues to be celebrated on campus far beyond this special issue
With love,
Carissa Coane Designer & Editor
El Vaquero is a proud member of
CONTENTS
A Journalism Department Special Project
TheMissionaryMarauder,JS Fraley, p 5
Lowriders: A Photo Essay, Elwira Mizeal,p 6
Hanging with Mr. Mathis, Mike Eberts,p.7
Tapestries of Dust and Gold & October’s Shadows, Reut Cohen Schorr, p.8
When I Said for a Long Time I Really MeantForever,MargaretLopez,p.9
PrettyUgly,AnnetteCluff,p 9
ThreePoems,MadelynChan,p 10
A Meeting With God, Meghedi Mirbekian,p 10
Thirteen Warm Meals, Nare Garibyan, p.11
A Hypothesis Explaining the Legend of theFlood,VanushDavtyan,p 12
Barbie is Everything but Middle-Aged, MichelleStonis,p 13
A missionary of misery, for myths and malevolent men
Masquerading as a mortal man,
Meandering around the masses, Massacring a myriad of men and monsters
The missionary's mission: to mar the murderous mage of madness
The eyes of the Marauder and the magnificent mage met, High up in the mounds, where the mage maintains his minaret,
amidst the inner margin is a mess with a myriad of mutated mangled monsters bits,
Mended together making a mortal monstrosity.
The Marauder marches ever closer to the mage’s minaret, the mage manding malignant mob of mercenaries, the Marauder is marked for murder
A myriad of mercenaries mobilized, They melee the Marauder in masses. the Marauder raises his martyr mace, in a single swing, maiming, marring, mangling , and mutilating a multitude of mercenaries masking everything in muddled blood, muscles, and meat
In mere moments the mercenaries were massacred, reduced to the meaty mush of former men who mourned, married, and experienced malice and merry
Now as their meaty mush melts in the mound’s mead
A measly mercenary is molten in place, Mystified as a man mercilessly massacred a myriad of militaristic mercenaries in mere moments
The Marauder meets eyes with the measly mercenary, The mercenary tries to maneuver,
The Marauder already mounts his mace in the misty air menacingly,
Before maliciously murdering the man,
The mace mutilates everything as it migrates from the mind to the mouth,
As the mouthpiece wavers with the mistral winds
The Mage’s meticulous eye, molds the muck and marl around the Marauder,
In a maze-like morass with murderous machinations, Where a model mortal-man has no chance at survival
The Marauder mains his mace and maims the maze’s walls leaving a massive gaping mouth,
The marauder marches through, meeting the mage’s monstrosity.
The monster was a meat amalgamation with a mania of mutated monsters marred and mended back together, Multiple hands melted into one single meat machine, The Monster’s mass measured about a massive mast
The monster mauled towards the Marauder, missing him, as the it’s mutated fist mares the mount getting it mired
The Marauder using his mace,
Mutilating the Monster’s wrist making it mere meat
The monster lets out a monstrous mutated miserable moan, its moan’s mimic all the monsters, as if all the moans merge into a monstrous one
In its moment of misery, the Marauder maims the Monster’s ankle, as the malformed ankle gives-way, the monster meets its master in the minaret, milling everything underneath the monster the Mage malingers like a mirage, murmurs a few words to the Monster as its wounds mend
the Marauder swings his mace at the Mage, as the Mage's merry mug mutilates, the bloody brainy muck merges with the mace. the mortified Monster mustering the materialistic body of its master, moving her into the middle of the mort minaret manumit for its mitigated master, the monster monopolized on it’s madness, unleashing a mania of mauling, towards the Marauder the madness of maltreated muscles matting the Marauder in place
Standing is the mist is him,
The Marauder merely maneuver out of the monster's madness, without a mark on him like a mirage in a mortal model
The Marauder mounts the monster's mane, Morning his mace,
He maims the majority monster's mass
Right before the Marauder murders the monster, the Marauder is mawed as the monster makes a meal out of him
the Marauder matching the strength of the monster's mandible, maintaining himself from not becoming a meal the Marauder swings his mace mutilating the monster's maxilla, making an exit along with a memento and monument the Marauder mounds its mace for the mortal blow, marring the monster's marrow the mission is completed: murdering the mercenary militia, mutated monster, and mage the mettled missionary marauder, maintained mankind’s amity for another million years
Attributed to GCC student J. S. Fraley for anonymity.
Lowriders: A Photo Essay
Elwira Mizeal
A celebration of Los Angeles’s Chicano community by GCC student Elwira Mizeal.
Elwira Mizeal
Hanging With Mr. Mathis
A retrospective
By Mike Eberts
I occasionally discuss childhood with my students and I’m left feeling that we’re not just from different generations, but different planets.
Their youth is an impressive layering of sports leagues, practices, camps and hovering parents My 1960s Los Angeles childhood was a haphazard set of experiences, kid-initiated adventures and less-ismore parenting.
My generation was far less scheduled, supervised and fussed over To use a current phrase, we ran the neighborhood There were no cellphones, so parents weren’t quite sure where we were And that was OK. We’d be home by dinner.
This started young As a kindergartener my Mom walked me six city blocks to school When I started the first grade, she said “follow Henry” a big kid, a 4th-grader who lived up the street
Walking with a bigger kid wasn’t a bad idea A year or two later, I walked home alone and got in a fight I lost Can’t remember what the fight was about, but I remember I got beat up by a girl Around my age, she was wearing a stewardess outfit and had a set of chrome wings pinned to her collar
Summers and after-school hours were spent on the playground maybe Like many LA elementary schools, Los Feliz Elementary had a tunnel under a busy street Hollywood Boulevard in this case The tunnel smelled like urine, but it was cool down there on hot days and gave immediate and safe access to Barnsdall Park
Running around that hilltop park provided me and my friends with endless little-kid experiences I remember climbing the olivestained steps and passing some older gentlemen who seemed to be there every day
“Those men are bums,” my Mom said “If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you And if one of them does, let me know and we’ll figure out what to do about it ”
No one bothered me. Well, that’s not right exactly. One day while tearing around the big lawn near the Hollyhock House (if you know Barnsdall, you know the lawn I’m talking about), my friend Greg pushed me down into dog poop And laughed about it maniacally for the rest of the day
In the summer between second and third grade, Greg and me and our friend Peter decided to spend one playground day (10 am to 4 pm) going on a kid trek to the Griffith Observatory This was quite a trip especially at a time when the air was bad enough that on some summer days you couldn’t see the Observatory from the playground near Hollywood and Vermont
Our adventure went well We watched the big pendulum knock down little pegs, checked our weight on Mars, and other things A driver honked at us three little kids walking through the sidewalkless tunnel downhill from the Observatory (it would later become the tunnel to Toontown in “Who Framed Roger Rabbit.”). I arrived home more tired and grimy than usual, but happy
But not for long Guilt-ridden Peter confessed his illicit Observatory trip and implicated me and Greg Three sets of parents hit the roof Peter was not our friend so much after that.
This was quite a trip—especially at a time when the air was bad enough that on some summer days you couldn’t see the Observatory from the playground near Hollywood and Vermont.
A few years later I was around 11 my range had expanded. Greg was still my friend and I was his sensible sidekick Us and our friend Steve (Peter had moved away, probably to someplace very orderly and safe) decided on a Hollywood Day We stopped at Wallach's Music City at Sunset and Vine
A kid could have a fun time there without spending a penny Wallach’s had glass booths with record players You could take a record in there, play it, and figure out if you wanted to buy it I was a sucker for novelty records I remember playing “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ho Ho, Hee Hee” in one of those booths The Bside of the record was the same song backwards Great fun!
Exiting the store, we saw a sharply-dressed man (sportcoat, slacks, collared shirt, tie) politely introducing himself to passers by This was odd, because every kid knew that famous musicians had bad attitudes and wore torn jeans Before too long we figured out who he was Johnny Mathis. Even at 11 years old, I thought it was weird that a man who had been on the Ed Sullivan Show would just be standing there alone in front of Wallach’s Music City
So Greg and me and Steve hung out on the corner and kept Mister Mathis (that’s how we addressed him) company. He asked us our names, what grade we were in, what our favorite subject was, stuff like that It was like talking to one of our teachers When an adult came down the sidewalk, us kids would stand back and Mister Mathis would introduce himself This went on for a while Then we moved on.
There are probably a thousand reasons why children should be constantly watched and scheduled with appropriate activities But as logical and well-meaning as this is, it has an opportunity cost
Among other experiences, today’s kids will never get to hang out on a Hollywood streetcorner with Mister Mathis
Dr. Mike Eberts is a professor of Mass Communications at GCC, who has previously overseen El Vaquero News as a faculty adviser He is retiring as a full-time faculty member as of December.
Tapestries of Dust and Gold
By Reut Schorr
We dwelled in lands where rivers meet, Where Tigris murmurs, and Nile beats But the sands ran red with cries and blood, From Baghdad’s streets in a Farhud flood My father’s family fled with empty hands, Clinging to their faith in their ancient homeland
And from Damascus, shadows fell, My grandmother’s tale, a hard farewell Of gold exchanged, a silent ride, Through desert dark, a world denied She crossed by trust, by hope, by fear, Her past erased, yet held so near.
My grandfather walked by foot and flame, From Ethiopia, he came, Through Egypt’s edge to Zion’s door, Where dignity endured, though spirits wore.
A journey carved by grit and grace, With little left but roots to trace
A million souls, forgotten cries, In lands they left where memory dies. We are the scattered and displaced, Our pride, our pain, our roots effaced But still, we build, we sing, we pray, In tongues the world has cast away
To my daughter, I pass down this thread, Of sages, seekers, lives once shed Our history weaves through loss and gain, A story rich with strength from pain Though grief runs deep, so does our song A tapestry where we finally belong
Reut Cohen Schorr is an Associate Professor of Language Arts at GCC She teaches journalism and mass communications She is the daughter of Jews who were exiled in the wider Middle East and Africa, and who made their home as refugees in Israel She is also the faculty publisher of this magazine, a project inspired and initiated by student Carissa Coane, and generously funded by the GCC College Foundation
October 7 came with the ground turned red, Where children, elders, families bled A tapestry of lives undone, Threads cut short, one by one
They were young, with futures bright, Old souls with much to live for, lost to night Hands of every hue and age, Now names on a grieving page
The wounds remain, a raw, deep ache, With hostages gone, hearts cannot wake Days stretch on – over a year, Held captive still, in pain and fear
And still, the sirens fill the air, An ancient nation braced for what’s not fair Hoping for peace, though worn and torn, In a world that meets their concerns with scorn
Yet still they yearn, though hearts may break, For days when love, not fear, will take
Courtesy Photo (The Cohen Family)
The author’s father (second from left), with two of his brothers and the author’s grandfather sit outside a ma’abara, a transit camp, in a nascent modern Israel in the late 1950s.
When I Said For a Long Time I Really Meant Forever
By Margaret Lopez
why is the front of my brain buzzing is this anxiety keeping me awake it’s not love
I forgot the thing I told myself to write down so that I wouldn’t forget something gone but lingering like a phantom mask in the lost year
there are eight chairs in my apartment and one body
what can I do except go on leaning into each morning
on cold days I miss the cold the days I do not speak show me where the cracks are
my hand in my hand fingers clasped and other neat tricks
I close my eyes and send a leaf boat down a stream of soapy gutter water
I open my eyes to the color you see when you stare towards the sun with your eyes closed
He made me feel pretty even when he was ugly I stand at my kitchen window and remember long ago walking down my block each morning on my way to high school The mornings were cold and the skies a burnt orange raging with those squawking black crows I would stop midway for the warmth of the beautiful daisies in Mrs Baine's yard So pretty. My favorite. I would see him so tall and handsome walking my way He would stop to pick a daisy or two for me before Mrs Baines would come running out of her house raging about her daisies screaming at both of us while huffing and puffing, “Those are my prize-winning daisies. Don’t touch.” We walk away smiling at each other, the conspirators of daisies
It is a warm spring day I’m sitting on our couch in the living room A couch that was almost as old as time with deposits of leftover food mixed with flop sweat, deferred dreams, sexual desires, and tears I’m daydreaming again while biting my nails to the nub, yearning for those sweet days of yesteryear when all of a sudden “bam” he slaps the shit out of me for no particular reason and yells “Shut up Don’t say a word or I will kill you.” There I would sit feeling lost and alone I hear our dog barking outside but at what?
I don’t know but it is a welcome distraction
I get up in the early morning to find that he has left our weathered, beaten, and cold house to hang out with his old cronies at the liquor store down the street
I am standing in front of our ancient stove with its one working burner to cook him a scrambled egg and toast when he comes barging into the kitchen with a few measly daisies he’s stolen from someone's garden Probably, elderly Mrs Baines She hates it when someone steals her daisies.
He says half drunk, “Here’s to the prettiest gal I know ” I'm not so pretty anymore with a tooth missing and wearing purple and black bruises like it was today's fashion craze My face wears it well with beaming pride.
He was the figment of my heart’s imagination He made me feel pretty, even when he was ugly
Annette Cluff is a creative writing student at GCC.
Nothing But Air
Every morning when I wake up in bed,
I turn to my right and see “him”
Slowly opening his big brown eyes
And looking at me with a sleepy smile on his face
I smile back
Although I see nothing but air
Extending my arm out, I gently stroke his silky hair
Yet I feel nothing but air
I hear him giggle as I lightly brush my fingers through his hair
Slightly tickling his scalp
His laugh like a romantic song
Making my heart scream
Yet I hear nothing but air
With a beating heart, I lean forward and kiss his soft, tender lips
He kisses me back
Filling my heart with glee and making it race around the track of our affection for one another
Although our relationship is nonexistent
As my lips touch nothing but air
Yet I still sense “him” by my side
Just who is he?
Poetry By Madelyn Chan
Him
12:00 A M
I toss and turn in bed until my eyes grow heavy
Hours later I wake up to hear “him” calling my name
I look up to see a faded figure in front of me
His face blurry and his body hidden in the shadows
His voice unknown
His soft, but masculine, hands taketaking mine,
Walking me towards a place I have never been
Roses, lilies, tulips, and topiaries seen on every corner
Scents of cherry blossoms, honeysuckle, and lavender filling the air
Light sunlight shining through the trees and making the lake sparkle like glimmering stars
On a romantic summer night
A smile spreads on my face
As he twirls me and picks me up in his arms
Feeling my heart beating
As his face comes closer to mine I close my eyes and lean my head forward until I hear beeping
The bright sunlight coming through my window temporarily blinding me
I look to my left and sadly sigh
9:30 A M
A Meeting With God
A delightful melody flows through my veins
With a rhythm so eternal. Coming down the sky
And It constantly rains.
Without air, I can’t breathe!
Yet it keeps me alive even when I forget to live!
Fictional
Like a fire that I enjoy the burns.
A story that never ends
A child that never sleeps and craves the irresistible love it receives
It is my dad, my mom, my lover, my child
I have lost them all to my heart so dear
Won’t take my eyes off the sky
A meeting is coming
I can feel that it’s near
Two Hands
In loving memory of my Auntie Yuriko (1940-2024), who always believed I had the potential to be a skillful and creative artist
Two hands meet for the last time
One whose skin is soft, warm, and full of life
Yet it trembles in sorrowful distress
Like an autumn leaf about to fall from its tree
The other whose skin is loose, cold, and frail
Bones as hard as stone are shown and felt underneath
Still and nearly lifeless
While the other hand’s thumb gently strokes it
Like a silky feather on a dove’s wing
Although they are different, Both hands are delicate
As they hold on to each other
With love for one another
Surrounded by nothing but peaceful silence
And a warm summer breeze
Slightly soothing the tension beneath the skin
Of the two hands
Minutes to hours these two hands hold
Until one’s final breath.
By Meghedi Mirbekian
Photo Courtesy of Poet
VII
Thirteen Warm Meals
By Nare Garibyan
I. Come on in, beckons my grandma, her door always open to visitors, a warm meal.
II.
No admittance, declares a sign on a diner window, a door only whites enter, for a warm meal.
III
Chase the vision of your life through the open door, explore, grasp the meaning, fueled by a warm meal
IV
In the late evening, the front door remained open, four days had passed, a warm meal, now cold, left untouched
V.
Heavy clouds leaden with arrowheads, translucent raindrops, barricade door, window Nature’s bounty calls for a warm meal.
VI.
The gong chimes, Silence, in the twilight a barren room, alit by the full moon, the monk content with a sparse, warm meal, and prayer
An elevator, reflective refined steel slides shut, climbs towards Floor 28. She nervously adjusts her stark suit, behind double doors, she sits at the powerful round table, another hand feeds a warm meal to her child
VIII.
Tree canopies interlace, the forest mesh retains the cacophonous melody beneath the branches, a craftsman chiseling a door, secures the human abode and a warm meal
IX.
Darling, stand straight, let’s mark your height, a birthday morning tradition after the fire, no one was charred, except the edges of the door jam, erected anew, awaiting unmarked height notches tallied off before a warm meal
X
Lukewarm meal Lukewarm meal under the glaring lights, another day confined in sin, my time will end soon, away from these bars, free to enter and exit
Life
XI
The door of diplomacy hangs on its last hinge, hate no longer hidden, hinders the food supply chain, how long can they hold on?
XII.
A line of refugees standing at the foot of an unfamiliar threshold overnight, seeking a warm meal away from home
XIII.
Knocking on the wrong door calling your siblings to dinner instead of a fork and knife at the table, an elderly man shoots with ire, “sorry, I got the wrong address,” hardly sufficient to avoid pain, the boy did eat his dinner, he survived
Nare Garibyan is an Academic Counselor at GCC. She published her first poetry collection, “When Ruins Speak: A Journey of Poems” in 2016. Verse Vault
A Hypothesis Explaining the Legend of the Flood.
I believe that the Legend of the Flood tells us that before the Flood our sun shone much brighter
This caused the evaporation of water in the seas and oceans, and the Earth's atmosphere was much thicker, which is why when the temperature of the sun suddenly dropped sharply, it rained for 40 days and nights
Judging by how the remains of ancient cities are found in many places at a depth of 20100 meters, we can say that all this water was in the atmosphere The Earth was under a huge cap of water vapor, which caused a powerful greenhouse effect and tropical forests grew all over the Earth, the remains of which are today found under permafrost
The properties of water were also different, frequent thunderstorms ionized the water, so the water contained hydrogen and oxygen dissolved in it, this contributed to the fact that giant trees 100-150 meters high grew all over the earth This also contributed to longevity, since such activated water has a powerful antioxidant effect; it cleanses the body and does not allow toxins to accumulate in it
This hypothesis is confirmed by studies of the Black Sea The most mysterious sea is the Black Sea.
This hypothesis perfectly complements the data presented in the monograph
By Vanush Davtyan
by W J Sidis (The Tribes and the States) Especially interesting is the map of Europe presented in the monograph, where the Mediterranean and Black Seas are separate bodies of water not connected neither among themselves, nor with the ocean
In this regard, the image of Antarctica on the Piri Reis map is of great interest If we take as a basis the version that the map shows the ice-free coast of Antarctica, then it could only be mapped in the preglacial period, since the glacier protrudes far beyond the land and noticeably changes the outline of the continent
It is interesting what computer modeling will show if you remove 20-100 m of water from the surface of the seas and oceans, and what shape the land will take This will help identify possible locations of ancient cities before the Flood It will also be interesting to calculate what temperature should be in the sun for 100 m of water to evaporate from the surface of the seas and oceans
Works Referenced
Ryan, William, and Walter Pitman Noah's Flood: The New Scientific Discoveries About the Event That Changed History New York: Simon and Schuster, 2000
bit ly/VanushDavtyan
www sidis net/TSChap1 htm
Barbie is Everything but Middle-Aged
Opinion: The Oscars snubbed Margot Robbie and Greta Gerwig. But did the Barbie film snub middle-aged women?
By Michelle Stonis
“I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single woman tie herself into knots so people will like us,” America Ferrera laments in “Barbie” during a two-minute monologue about the difficulties of being a woman. These words seem fitting after the 2024 Oscars snub of co-producer and star Margot Robbie and Director Greta Gerwig, two women who spearheaded bringing the blockbuster film to the big screen “Barbie” has earned an astonishing $1 4 billion globally and was the highest-grossing film of 2023 Moviegoers resonated with the themes of overcoming insecurity and having self-esteem, but how do they apply to middle-aged women when Barbie has never been old?
In 1959, when Ruth Handler was 43, the world was introduced to her creation: a plastic adult-figured teenage doll named Barbara Millicent Roberts that allowed little girls to play with her to see themselves in Barbie’s reflection Handler saw Barbie as a plastic embodiment of girls’ aspirations and potential, so the co-founder of Mattel wanted girls to “dream dreams of the future ”
Since 2015, Mattel has been working on reimagining stereotypical Barbie to diversify its Barbies and Kens so that there are now “35 skin tones, 97 hairstyles, 9 body types, and counting,” but none of them have signs of aging Over the last 64 years, girls have channeled their aspirations for the future through the over 200 jobs that Barbie had in historically male-dominated careers From an astronaut and ambassador to a president and paleontologist, it seems that Barbie can be everything but older The perfection of Barbieland in the film is destroyed when signs of maturing appear in the form of cellulite and undereye bags on the once-perfect Barbie played by Robbie What does that do to the self-perceptions of those of us who grew up having dreamed of the future through Barbie and now can’t imagine ourselves as in our prime when we’re aging?
Middle age, commonly defined as 40-60, is when women struggle to find themselves represented in pop culture affirms men’s dad bods while telling women who have had children that they need a mommy makeover Patrick Dempsey was PEOPLE’s 2023 “Hottest Man Alive” at 57, but Hollywood studio executives tell actresses like Naomi Watts that she “became unfuckable” at 40
In 1959, when Ruth Handler was 43, the world was introduced to her creation: a plastic adult-figured teenage doll named Barbara Millicent Roberts that allowed little girls to play with her to see themselves in Barbie’s reflection. Handler saw Barbie as a plastic embodiment of girls’ aspirations and potential, so the cofounder of Mattel wanted girls to “dream dreams of the future.”
What hope does the average middle-aged woman have to overcome insecurities and have self-esteem when older women have been diminished in popular culture?
The answer lies in the scene that Gerwig publicly stated she had to fight to keep in the film, between “Stereotypical Barbie” and an elderly woman played by 91-year-old accomplished Hollywood costume designer Ann Roth. This tender moment, which Gerwig called the “heart of the movie,” is Barbie’s first interaction with an elderly person in Barbieland and the natural world Based on Barbie’s track record, one might expect her to offer a beauty makeover or weight loss advice while holding the 91-year-old woman to an impossible standard. Yet Barbie looks at her 91-yearold counterpart, saying, “You’re beautiful,” and the woman confidently replies, “I know it!” According to Gerwig, this is not a moment of judgment and criticism but of radical acceptance and “a transaction of grace ” The director said that she viewed Roth’s character as a matriarchal personification of the divine saying, “The idea of a loving God who’s a mother, a grandmother who looks at you and says, ‘Honey, you’re doing ok’ is something I feel like I need and I wanted to give to other people ” And she gave it to us Not to watch but to feel and internalize
Perhaps the Barbies of the past couldn’t teach us that growing older was a gift and that our human bodies are destined to change. Yet Handler’s vision of Barbie guiding us to dream about the future lives on in Robbie and Gerwig’s theatrical iteration We aren’t going to thank the Academy We thank these two women for reminding us that the antidote to ageism is being reminded that we’re beautiful, just as we are, and worthy of being seen, wrinkles and all
Michelle Stonis is an Assistant Professor of History and Co-Director of the Pulitzer Center Campus Consortium at Glendale Community College. She recently completed a post-baccalaureate minor in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Oregon State University.
Healing Beyond the Self
By Dr Anna Stone Trauma, Psychic Development, and the Power of Ritual
Introduction
Throughout life, certain experiences can leave lasting impressions on the psyche. For some individuals, these events, whether acutely traumatic or chronically stressful, create psychological scars that may influence and even dictate aspects of their lives, consciously or unconsciously However, with the right tools and support, these memories can be woven into a cohesive life narrative transforming trauma into a source of strength rather than a source of suffering
A particularly effective approach to this transformation combines the methodologies of initiation and transpersonal psychology
Fragmentation and Its Roots in Childhood
Trauma
“Trauma is any encounter, acute or prolonged, that overwhelms the capacity of the psyche to process the experience. In these times, what confronts us is too intense to hold, integrate, or comprehend The emotional charge that arises saturates our capacity to make sense of the experience, and we become overwhelmed and alone ” (Weller, 2021)
Trauma, whether a single traumatic event or years of maltreatment, often disrupts one’s sense of self
The journey back to psychological wholeness after such experiences is transformative, involving deep self-exploration, acceptance, and integration of previously fragmented aspects of the self
Trauma can splinter the
psyche, creating a phenomenon known as fragmentation
This fragmentation occurs when parts of the psyche detach and function independently, leading to internal conflicts that disrupt a person’s sense of safety, security, and identity
In early childhood, trauma can be especially impactful. Children’s developing psyches are particularly vulnerable, and overwhelming experiences often lead to psychological division as a protective mechanism. Fragmented parts may include repressed memories, denied emotions, or hidden aspects of the self that remain inaccessible in adulthood, appearing only sporadically in conscious awareness These fragmented parts, like isolated “islands of unconscious material,” may exert subtle but powerful influences on behavior and selfperception
While traditional Western psychology views fragmentation as a response to severe stress, shamanic traditions see it as an opportunity for transformation. Shamanic practices welcome fragmentation, seeing it as a chance for “dismemberment,” or the symbolic dismantling of the ego, which allows practitioners to confront and reintegrate aspects of themselves in a ritualistic and intentional manner. According to Metzner, just as an orchestra must harmonize different instruments to create music, humans must integrate their varied inner experiences to find psychological peace (Metzner, 1998, p 97)
The integration of fragmented parts is both a psychological and spiritual awakening. Confronting and accepting painful experiences enables true personal growth, as individuals reclaim lost parts of themselves, gain
insights into their life’s purpose, and rebuild a more cohesive and empowered identity
The Wounded Healer Archetype
The archetype of the "wounded healer," rooted in shamanic traditions and Jungian psychology, reflects a paradox in which those who have faced and transcended psychological or spiritual crises possess unique healing powers This archetype suggests that personal suffering, and the resilience developed in its wake, imbues healers with insights and empathy that make them uniquely equipped to guide others through similar challenges (Jung, 2014)
In shamanic cultures, healers often undergo personal trials of illness, loss, or severe adversity as part of their spiritual training Rather than being seen as misfortune, these ordeals are perceived as initiations that endow the healer with wisdom and the ability to navigate between the physical and spiritual realms Their scars become tools for empathy and understanding, bridging the gap between healer and patient
The Structure and Significance of Ritual Initiations
Ritual initiations, deeply embedded in many cultural traditions, serve as rites of passage marking a shift in life stages or identity These structured processes, grounded in social and spiritual traditions, aim to induce profound transformation within the initiate, leading them through a sequence of symbolic death and rebirth Through seclusion, fasting, meditation, chanting, or other physically and mentally challenging ordeals, initiates undergo controlled encounters that reshape their worldview This carefully guided journey ensures that the experience is both transformative and culturally integrated (Mijares, 2016)
In contrast, many modern individuals experience what Weller (2021) refers to as “rough initiations ” In societies lacking structured community rituals, traumatic experiences such as illness, loss, or existential crises may function as de facto initiations However, without ritual guidance, these experiences can be disorienting and isolating, leading to a range of negative outcomes, including prolonged confusion, unresolved trauma, and alienation. Even without formal structure, these rough initiations can lead to significant psychological and spiritual transformation, compelling individuals to confront and integrate unknown aspects of themselves
Neuroplasticity and The Link Between Trauma and Psychic Development
Recent studies in neuroplasticity suggest that traumatic experiences may alter brain pathways, potentially enhancing one’s ability to process extrasensory information These neural adaptations could explain how trauma survivors develop unique cognitive and perceptual abilities, reframing psychic sensitivity as a form of heightened awareness rather than an extraordinary phenomenon The relationship between trauma and psychic development is gaining interest within psychology and parapsychology Research by Amaya (2018) and Scimeca et al (2015) reveals that individuals who endure
significant trauma, particularly in childhood, may develop heightened psychic abilities, including precognitive dreams, clairvoyance, and empathy
This phenomenon raises questions about the latent capacities of human consciousness and the psychological implications of trauma
The theory suggests that trauma might disrupt normal psychological defenses, allowing individuals to access parts of the unconscious mind typically hidden This can manifest as heightened psychic sensitivity, as trauma compels individuals to confront deeper levels of consciousness For instance, heightened intuition about people or events may arise not from conscious knowledge but from a heightened state of alertness, a form of psychic sensitivity.
Moreover, trauma often forces individuals to confront hidden aspects of their psyche, which can lead to expanded consciousness and enhanced empathy. Some researchers propose that what we label as “psychic” may instead be an intense form of human intuition and empathy These faculties, essential for social bonding and survival, may be amplified in response to extreme psychological stress (Stone, 2023).
Reframing Trauma through Transpersonal Psychology and Ritual Practices
Transpersonal psychology and ritual practices offer powerful frameworks for reframing trauma
By viewing trauma not just as an isolated event but as part of a broader narrative, individuals can transform their suffering into a catalyst for spiritual growth
Transpersonal psychology considers trauma’s impact on both the psyche and the spirit, encouraging individuals to see traumatic experiences as integral to their development (Taylor, 2021) This perspective shifts focus from victimhood to empowerment, framing trauma as an impetus for personal transformation
Incorporating ritual practices into trauma healing further facilitates this transformation Rituals provide structured frameworks that help individuals process traumatic memories in a safe environment, externalizing inner pain and reclaiming a sense of control. Rituals can validate resilience and reaffirm self-worth, often fostering a profound sense of community and belonging, which is critical for healing
Conclusion
By merging insights from transpersonal psychology, shamanic practices, and modern trauma theory, we gain a deeper understanding of trauma as a force for potential transformation rather than purely psychological injury When reframed through these lenses, trauma becomes a powerful agent of growth, leading to psychic and spiritual awakening and fostering resilience. As research on trauma’s impact on the brain and psyche continues, society may move closer to integrating these ancient practices and insights, creating new pathways for healing, self-discovery, and collective evolution
Referenced Work bit ly/AnnaStoneReferences
Dr Anna Stone, MIS, MA, MSCPP, is an adjunct professor of Basic Adult Skills at GCC’s Garfield Campus
The Healthy Tribe Diet
by Billi Sarafina
Maintaining a healthy diet with your tribe is vital! Stress and depression are at an all-time high, so building with people who understand the power of a positive and supportive friendship is important We require human connection to enhance our overall life. Despite what may be portrayed on screen, there are people who truly value true friendship College can be challenging at times, but it can also be a time where you make lifelong friendships Consider these elements when building your tribe
Dependable: Being someone and having someone who genuinely cares, shows up, and speaks up is necessary Having friends who hold you accountable and vice-versa, without there being any bad blood In simple terms “There for each other”. Being able to ask each other for a favor or just to vent, can lift a ton of weight off your shoulders in this heavy world Don’t forget it is important to have boundaries, learn to say “no” and not be a people pleaser
Intentional: Being intentional allows you to be open and honest with one another You will be able to openly express your feelings without fear of criticism for expressing anxieties, insecurities, issues, or just showing emotions We also want people with good intentions in our circle. Yes, therapy is fantastic (highly recommend it), but many find it reassuring to find out they are not alone in battles or experiences Not trauma bonding, trauma healing “Friend, I got you, I see you, I hear you!”
Evolving: We want friendships that grow! It is true that some friendships expire, but feeling confident in a friendship and having and being a supportive friend is top tier In my circle, the goal is to become family Travel together, create traditions, encourage each other, motivate each other, all that good stuff! And do not forget to feed each other literally and figuratively, soul food and food for the soul!
Trust: We all know what trust is and how important it is The only thing we have in common is time. So, spending time with people you love and trust can make your time on earth more enjoyable I love to know my close friends' main love languages so they can trust me to support them in the way they need it the most Trust is hard for many people, especially those who come from a history of betrayal. Trust is the easiest thing in the world to lose, and the hardest thing in the world to get back
I challenge you to be vulnerable enough with an evolving friend to let them know these elements of a healthy friendship diet and build from there!
What we want to keep out of our diet is inconsistency, inconsideration, and immaturity All three of these words start with “I ”
With that being said, do not forget about the most important friendship of all, our friendship with ourselves It's critical to value and respect oneself
Always remember: it reduces stress to live in gratitude!
Vanush Davtyan
Heavenly
By Lilith Tovmasian
you have changed my being into yours i am soft and malleable to your hands and your commands my heart obeys yours now mind, soul, body devoted to your cause of loving me
i’m teetering off the edge of an embrace you’ll catch me in your love is euphoria in its content an empyrean glory shines in my world when i am with you
i love love love you you and your deific presence
Lilith is a 20-year-old girl from Burbank, California. A graduate from GCC, she is currently attending UCLA. She has been working on her new poetry book, “Black Caps.” since she was 16. In her free time, Lilith can be found attending ballet class, reading, or spending time with her family.
This poem originally appeared in Lilith’s poetry collection “Black Caps,” available for purchase on Amazon.
Broken Promises
By Billi Sarafina
Editor’s Note: This work deals with sensitive themes of child sexual abuse. Please avoid it if this can be triggering If you suspect a child is in danger, call the National Child Abuse Hotline at 1-800-422-4453.
There was something different about her. We were that close; I could tell. We were 10 years old at the time. She was living with her grandma, but she didn’t live with her parents. I never asked why, but I did ask her what was wrong. She was hesitant to tell me, she said she was scared. I told her she could trust me and that I would never tell anyone, I stuck out my pinky finger and I said “pinky swear I won’t dare break a promise or repeat.” I broke the promise. I was not expecting what she told me. She said a family member of hers touched her inappropriately. I knew it was wrong because my parents told me to never let anyone touch me inappropriately and if they did scream and tell them. But remember Ashley didn’t have parents so maybe that’s why she didn’t know it was not okay. I told my parents next thing I know she was taken away from her grandma and went to live with her aunt in San Francisco. She said she’s safe now and happy, I talked to her yesterday! I’m so happy she’s safe and not mad at me for breaking the promise. Never be afraid to tell somebody.
Beauty
By Sophia Rostomyan
There’s so much beauty in this world that others struggle to find Even flowers wonder why they aren’t beautiful
As they stare at the prismatic sky they wonder, why can’t I be like that Why can’t I hold the beauty of the sky, which carries the weight of the stars, the moon and the sun?
They wish to be like the sky. While the sky, open and free, looks down on the flowers and wonders, how can such a small thing be so delicate, so gorgeous? Such intricate petals … such breathtaking leaves …
Both the sky and the flowers, each hold their own beauty Yet they can’t see that in themselves
It takes one to notice how stunning the other is
Sophia Rostomyan is a student at GCC, and an aspiring journalist and editor. She has been writing and editing for the El Vaquero newspaper since 2023, and plans to transfer to study Literary Journalism.
Neem Tree
By Sonali Perera
Not so long ago.
I knelt beside a fallen tree
Raise my arms to help it up. Is this the tree I knew, are these the branches that spoke to me?
Gently I lay beside the tree the aroma of earthy green leaves engulfed me. reminding me of time passed Branches that sheltered me when I needed it most
Not so long ago
We talked of simple things listened to a song or two.
Embraced the wind that blew by day.
Waiting for the sun to set
Even now as you sleep.
I sing and dance around you
Smile as I recall those memories
Looking at you dreaming
Wanting for the sun to rise
Not so long ago
You and I entangled souls were destined to connect
Nothing can part us; you and me
Friends always be
Strong like the roots of a Neem tree
Stand together weather all storms
Resilience despite all Our roots intertwined with branches to support. Be the beacon to each on a stormy night.
Poltroon’s Tale Anxiety
By Darius Mitchell
In fear the trembling coward grovels here, Whose fight internal changes owned actual
To stone and man to boy and face to tear, Deserving of only death’s consensual; Unproved in war uncounted brothers cold, From fear’s hand wanton makes inaction true, The lone excess a poltroon’s tale is told, A grave of men a boy aloof doth rue. The flesh of men hath die soldiers remain, Through reminiscence keeps alive a ghost, A warrior’s honor mass pertain, Adhered legacy generations boast, However speaks the last a lie
The rest may be weak and he too strong to die.
By Darius Mitchell
My anxiety shakes everything
My stomach clenches, holding me still while My hands they tremble while my ears they ring My face contorts, awkwardly I smile
When others watch me unwelcomely I, Do freeze in place in space in thought in time When others do anything than pass me by I, cope with grandeur, I mimic, I mime, I repress, obsess, and wish to divest The diseases directing my conscious. Aware, reflect, perform my very best
But truth says nary mood, but only stress
And, frozen, I recall this stanza and sigh
As I, my voice, unknowing, shakes and cry
Sonali Perera is a professor in the Business Division at GCC.
The Earrings
By Tony Biehl
“They’re beautiful!” gasped Janice Zoby as she gazed into the just-opened box This was what she had been waiting for! It more than made up for the interruption of her party preparations Her servants could carry on as she admired her new piece of jewelry
“Glad you like them,” said Greg, old-time friend and gift-bearing interruptee He didn’t look as pleased as his tone of voice indicated He pursed his lips and hesitantly added, “There is one thing I should tell you.”
“Oh?” she grunted, still entranced with the earrings
“You will be the first owner for over 50 years!” He said it as if the mansion walls would cave in
“So?” she said, shrugging “Many pieces of jewelry are put on display for years before becoming private again if ever!”
“That’s not the reason,” he replied as he took a deep breath as if gaining courage
“You see, it has a curse!”
“Oh come on! Half the precious things in the world have some sort of curse! You’re not superstitious are you?”
From his jittery countenance, he didn’t seem ready to walk under ladders “Well, these particular baubles seem to have a good track record Very few of their owners lived long after obtaining them It - erseems they all died from being slashed to pieces!”
“What!?” Her tone was more amused than frightened “You heard me! They were all carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey during the night No one knows why and, frankly, wants to know why!” He was agitated and looking regretful in delivering the cursed goodies
She stared at Greg who had been so serious and nervous Then she started howling in laughter, “That’s why you came so early tonight? You wanted to drop off these hideous things before they jump out at you!”
“Now look!” he sputtered, getting red-faced from embarrassment “I’m a sensible man but - those things give me the creeps!”
“I’m sorry Greg!” gasped Janice composing herself “It’s not often I get a good laugh! Did you put my special item on them?”
“Yes I did,” mumbled Greg, feeling most put down.
“Cheer up now!” she said, patting his arm “Why don’t you make yourself at home?
The party will start within a couple of hours ”
With that she left with her treasure - two pure gold earrings each in the form of a shapely she-demon dressed in a long oriental dress showing the length of one leg through a side slit The demon had large catlike eyes made out of bright yellow Topaz and had saber-like fangs and long claw-like fingernails made out of diamonds The earrings were beautiful and fearsome at the same time.
“I love them,” she whispered while walking up the stairs as if not wanting to wake up the creatures … She wasn’t worried about these things coming alivewas she?
***
She took pictures of them, filled out insurance forms, and found a place for them in her vast collection of jewelry She had always boasted of having more gold and precious stones than King Tut! One could agree with her after looking over the large rooms with glass covered cases containing every possible form of human decoration Jewelry was definitely her life’s
After doing some last minute details, she went to her room to get ready She put on her black evening gown, a gold necklace with emeralds, and then the earrings They looked perfect dangling from her lobes Her outfit would definitely bedazzle everyone
But still she felt uncomfortable as she looked at her reflection with the She-demon’s twitching in the light ... The thought of them coming alive and ripping off her ears came unbidden!
“Ridiculous!” she hissed to herself “That fool Greg has got me jumpy! These are simply metal and mineral though gorgeous metal and mineral,” she added turning her head one way and then another
She gave a playful yank at one of them and then pretended to get a finger bitten “Naughty, naughty,” she wagged one finger at the accused earring “Just for that, mommy won’t let you ravage the countryside tonight!”
With a hearty chuckle, she got up, feeling her unreasonable fears fading Tonight would be a perfect night, she told herself as she went toward the door With one foot in the hallway, she turned out the lights, reached over and behind her for the doorknob, and then froze in fear In the darken room’s vanity mirror were two glowing cat eyes looking out at her!
The figure with those eyes had replaced her own image It was slim, feminine, and wearing a blood-red silk dress The bare arms were gold colored and muscular It was the shedemon carved on the earrings!
She almost seemed to be smiling as a clawed hand came out of the glass The demon was nonchalantly
PLEASEREADBIEHL”S FULLSTORYBY
SCANNINGTHEQR
CODEORGOINGTO: bitly/TonyBiehl
coming out of the mirror! Janice’s little “darling” was definitely anxious to meet “mommy”.
Janice snapped out of her terror-induced paralysis, slammed the door, and ran down the hallway to escape! But she shrieked as she slid trying to stop herself! The demon had moved to the dark corner of the hall into a different mirror. She beckoned to Janice with those clawed hands and a large sinister smile
Janice turned on her heels and ran A hideous yowl resounded behind her.
She galloped down the back stairs into the kitchen When she touched the floor, she grabbed a nearby knife, spun, and looked back up waving her weapon and expecting the gruesome thing to pounce on her at any moment. She saw nothing
Where did it go?
Then, feeling embarrassed at the stares of the help wondering what she was going to do with the butcher knife, she composed herself and calmly asked, “Everything going smoothly?” ***
The party was over long ago and Janice was trying to fall asleep in her large bed covered with satin sheets
She couldn’t bring herself to tell Greg what had happened, especially since she wasn’t sure if she had been hallucinating or not He would have probably believed her after his own misgivings but ... was it wise to involve others?
She now knew what happened to the previous owners Those nails and fangs looked like they could go through steel! She shuddered at the thought of those poor people - and how she almost became another statistic All the fun she had made of them didn’t seem so funny now! She would have to do something about those earrings Jewelry was her life - not her death!
True, she inherited her first million from her parents but she took it much further than that: the string of jewelry stores, the new diamond mines, everything in her empire Her mother did not raise a lazy dummy! Now she was threatened by something inhuman
What to do ... Couldn’t even bribe the stupid thing!
After tossing and turning and trying to keep images of the She-demon out of her thoughts, she got up to go to the bathroom. Maybe take a sleeping pill after emptying her jittery bowels? One pill might not do it Maybe two? Three? Damn! How about the whole bottle! she bitterly thought That creature wouldn’t get the pleasure of killing her overdosed bod!
The light from the moon let her see her way. She so hated to ruin her night vision by turning on the lamps And she wasn’t going to change her habits just because of Miss Fang! But when she was only a foot away from her vanity, she looked into the mirror and the glowing eyes stared right back at her! It was now a bit late for forming more lifeextending habits
The She-demon was studying her hungrily and seemed to know that there was no escape this time - and no rush
Janice remembered that in her distress, she had not taken off the earrings She was still wearing them.
She cursed her stupidity, her love of jewelry for getting her into this jam, and just about anything else she could think of. There was no way to escape and both of them knew it! The Shedemon’s muscular body compared to Janice’s slightly plump one did not bode well for Janice’s chance of making the door! Her head would simply be separated from her running torso before she finished her first leap. Nothing to do except - except the special item!
Her hands jerked up to her ear lobes, and the earrings immediately fell into her palms A claw stopped an inch from her face! The demon, with one arm out of the mirror, hissed angrily at being stopped as she glowered at Janice. Then simply vanished
Janice dropped the earrings onto the vanity as she leaned on it in relief “Yessiree! Quick release snaps! Guaranteed to work and foil she-demons or double your money back!” she said, still shaking “I’m glad they worked Couldn’t even afford a funeral wreath with the refund ”
The morning came and Janice recorded the fact that for the demon to come out, one has to be wearing the earrings in dim light and look into a mirror She felt most fortunate to be alive! And she owed it all to quick release snaps - the “special” item! Those earrings were were only good for the suicidal! They were going into retirement somewhere in Outer Mongolia.
“Madame” interrupted her butler looking even more stiff than usual “Your cousin, a Miss Margaret Ratzki, here to see you!”
“No, no!” exclaimed Janice looking around for an escape route “Ah, just tell her I’m not around Say I’m out of the country! Yes, that’s it! I’m out of the country!”
“Janice dear!” came a loud irritating voice from behind the butler A tall woman dressed in a pink dress with a mink stole and smoking a putrid cigar stomped in “Are you trying to avoid me or did you declare your independence from the U S of A ?”
“That is all Mathews,” she sourly dismissed her butler Margaret was to Janice as pimples was to teenagers, unwelcome and hard to get rid of.
“Now Janice!” she continued in her loud voice (didn’t she ever whisper?) “Aren’t you glad to see your favorite cousin!”
“But of course And I always will say so, when she arrives!”
“Witty aren’t we?”
“What do you want?”
“You hurt me to the quick,” she gruffly replied as she stomped out her smelly cigar Janice made a mental note to stock up on room deodorant “But anyway, I’d going out on a hot date tonight and need to borrow some of your ornaments Preferably those worth more than $1 99 ”
“Well there goes the collection dedicated to you!” Janice growled feeling hostile and enjoying it
“Now Janice, you know you owe me,” said Margaret in a soothing tone, like one used to mug someone “I mean, my testimony in your behalf saved you millions in that lawsuit Perjury was nobly done in the interest of family ”
“And a tidy living allowance!” snapped Janice
“It was the least you could do for poor little me!” she sighed like a martyr “But I’m only asking for a loan for the night You can take it out of my allowance if I lose it!”
“I don’t think I would be so lucky,” griped Janice
If only she could be rid of this parasite, she thought
Then her eyes brighten. Did she dare? The answer came back very quickly as yes! She got out the demon earrings and proudly held them out “This is my newest and most precious set!”
Margaret looked at them suspiciously, “Are those real gold and diamonds?”
“Oh yes!” Janice said with awe in her voice “Notice the superb craftsmanship and the fine lines,” she oozed adding a few fine lines herself “The appraised value could reach well into the thousands.”
“Hmmm!” hummed Margaret appraising the lethal baubles “Rather spooky looking but they are gorgeous Okay, Janice, I’ll try them out By the way, do you have any suggestions on a good restaurant? My date is not too swift on such matters ”
“Let me see,” Janice said pretending to be in thought Then she suggested the restaurant she had in mind all along It would be the perfect place to depose of dear Margaret “The Mirror Palace! Beautiful with the candlelight!”
“How romantic! I’ll be sure to give you the details.”
The following day, Janice snickered to herself as she read the morning paper giving details of Margaret’s tragic death It seemed that some maniac with a knife stabbed and slashed Miss Ratzki and her date too bad about him but causalities of war and all that! Janice, of course, got back the earrings since they were of great value and obviously on loan “The butcher must have been after those,” she said close to tears, even if they were of the crocodile variety, in her statement to the police “But dear noble Margaret must have bravely fought the assailant and that got her killed ”
She had no more worries as she put the earrings into one of her large cases Right next to a large bay window that let in a lot of sunlight and next to an emergency light with not a mirror in sight! Couldn’t be too careful!
They might prove useful in the future to a shrewd business woman like herself
***
The month passed as she busied herself with her financial empire She felt so free not having “Dear Margaret” in the way A lot of her relatives were just as greedy as Margaret, just not as brazen and cunning However, she did have some relatives that she enjoyed One of which was her niece, Dorine, who came to visit on a Friday afternoon She was wearing designer jeans and looked like a most beautiful country girl
“Ah, how is my college girl doing?” Janice cheerfully greeted her favorite niece
“Just fine, Aunt Janice,” Dorine said with a smile that would have stopped the heart of any young man “I’m still maintaining a 3 5 GPA I’ll do you proud Your money for my tuition won’t be wasted!”
“I’m not worried about that,” laughed Janice taking her niece’s hands “I spend more on lunch! Now what can I do for you?”
“I am going on a hot date this afternoon to the carnival and I was wondering if ”
“You can borrow some of my jewels?”
“Uh - yes!”
[ ] TonyBiehlisa professorofcomputer scienceatGCC
Outline of a Later Life
By Laura Gotz
1 The dog died and Dad left He moved from Los Angeles to Boston the summer after I graduated college and my sister settled into graduate school The most joyful dependent living in the family house had exited her wiggly, earthly body and the relationship between two people who remained dissolved soon after
Dad left my mom with a check each month, a house to pack and sell, and the responsibility of purging collections of our life together as a family I left, too I used the money I had saved to drink absinthe and smoke hash under the cover of Western European cities, running past art I had read about and grieving a love recently lost Dad and I were not so different in our escapes Although not happy, theirs was a long marriage Both he and I would prefer to disappear than confront what was right in front of us.
2 When Dad found me in the arrivals terminal of the airport after months between visits, he could not hold back his shock at how gray my hair had become.
He looked sad when he saw it, although I do not think the sadness was a reflection on me, his 23 year old daughter with a head full of premature gray I think our own mortality shows up in those we love. I asked him if he felt 51 and he looked at me like I was crazy He could not believe what he saw when he looked in the mirror
3
Boston did not last long. Dad was unhappy at the research firm where he worked, although New England suited him He was offered a position at a think tank outside of D C and moved into a historic row house in Alexandria, Virginia When I called his first cell phone to chat, he asked if admiral’s office at the Pentagon. Ignoring my insistence that he call me back later, he excused himself from his meeting On September 11, 2001 his Pentagon bound shuttle, running late for a 10 a m meeting, was redirected
4 I brought Dad a hat and shirt from the record store in San Francisco where I worked, after leaving my development job at the AIDS nonprofit soon after the events of 9/11 Death felt like a wool blanket in summer, and I was a scrap of fire under the smothering heat The record store was mindless and dreamy, meeting musical heroes and getting into shows backstage.
When out in the D C streets, Dad would wear the hat and shirt together, a sweetness and embarrassment for me He could not have been prouder, but I felt guilty He had paid for four years of life in Santa Cruz, where I thought that my double major was marketable He suggested I study English but I would never listen I apologized to him for my degrees laying dormant while I languished in vinyl Plenty of family friends had kids my age who were starting off as lawyers, or deep into medical school. But Dad was happy I was working where I was surrounded by music; he was certain I would figure out what I really wanted to do with my life while ringing up Tom Waits albums and pricing CDs
5.
Dad’s colleague and friend Victor called from an Alexandria hospital, letting me know that Dad had an episode at their weekly poker game Two things were significant about this phone call, one being that I was unaware that Dad played poker. The second was that Victor used my dad’s first and last names when speaking to me, an indication that he was shaken up enough to think that I would need this clarification when he said “your dad ”
I imagined that the poker game among government economists and military strategists was either extremely dull or an explosion of riches Gambling had made a mess out of two of my four uncles’ lives at one point or another, an open secret that my dad never acknowledged However, aside from the blackjack that we would play when as a child I couldn’t sleep, I had never known him to place a wager of any sort When the doctors allowed me to speak to him over the phone, I was frantic He told me to calm down, that a defibrillator was now implanted in his chest, and that he kept a strict $100 limit
6.
My first year of teaching, I would call Dad on my morning commute from Echo Park to South LA Managing a roomful of second graders, finishing a masters degree, and working at the LA location of the record store on weekends was complicated. The calls to Dad were daily and regular, a gentle interaction before the reality of the day Dad would note that I was running late and I assured him that it was traffic and not that I was finding it more and more difficult to face the day ahead Nights were awake with dread and when the sun began to rise, it was equal parts relief and burden. I began a round of Wellbutrin and Paxil, and soon after, my dad told me that he had started a round of his own He did not say it, but he was scared
7.
My sister and Dad went to Santo Domingo to visit my aunt and uncle and cousins I wanted to go, but I had jury duty and also, my first day teaching at a new school The trial was not memorable, but allowed me to wander through the MOCA during my lunch break, emotional from the beauty of Rauschenberg I called Dad when he returned and he sounded so tired. In photos he is smiling, but sweat soaks through his shirt while my sister glows He told me he missed his dog, a Hurricane Katrina rescue he adopted, and asked if I would be his date at a wedding in Los Angeles the next month I tell him I miss him Of course
8
Even sick, even dying, he asks the EMTs to take his dog home and gives them his house keys He is on the floor of a friend’s store on a busy street, still holding the leash, the implanted defibrillator sending shocks to a heart that was different since birth, four surgeries opening up his body from 9 years old to 59 The EMTs take the dog to his quiet house and my sister and I arrive a day later, to organize a life and a death
By Sasha Villarreal
“Ok,” Jack said, a mischievous smile forming on his face, “the house is right there You’re gonna go up to the house, knock, and run before she answers it!” Sean nodded, but he could feel the knots in his stomach forming already, “Can I change it to ‘Truth’ instead?”
“No You chose ‘Dare’ so you gotta do this Now, go!”
Jack shoved Sean from behind the fence and into the front yard, closing the gate From a distance, it was a simple, bright pink-colored house with a flat, white roof and porch with its chimney having been placed in the center It was almost reminiscent of a cake Yet, as Sean stood there in the front yard, he was met with a terrible sight He could see and hear the splintering shutters as they smacked against the window, the peeling paint revealing the crevices in the wall that hoarded spiders, and the creaking of the porch steps as he walked up them gingerly
He felt his heart pounding in his chest as he reached the top step He turned to see if Jack was still there watching, but he wasn’t in sight For a moment, this gave Sean some hope and he considered leaving and lying, but the possibility of Jack still being behind the fence made him reconsider
“He’ll call me a chicken,” he muttered under his breath. Sean was really regretting his decision to give in and play “Truth or Dare” with Jack as he only did it to make him stop pestering him Although he was new to the area, he wondered if this was why Jack had no other friends to play with
Once on the porch, Sean repeated the words Jack had said to him, “Just knock and run Just knock and run ”
Slowly, he lifted his hand up, curling his fingers into a fist
Knock and run
He could hear the pumping of his heart in his ears now as he extended his arm towards the door
Knock
“Uhh-Yes? Can I help you dear-y?”
Surprised, he looked back to Jack for help, but remembered Jack was hiding.
“I-I-I-,” Sean stammered
The old lady stared at him for a moment before saying, “Do you want to hear a story?”
Sean was surprised by this question, but finding no easier way to leave, he answered with, “Uh-Sure!” And entered her house
The inside of the house was a large contrast from the outside. The wallpaper was white and pink polka dots and the furniture was also a bright shade of pink with red throw pillows Across the room was a fireplace with an already lit fire. Next to it was a staircase with red carpeting that led up to the second floor and to the right of the room was a kitchen.
On the mantle of the fireplace, Sean could see family portraits As he looked at them, he thought he could see someone familiar Right as he was about to cross the room to get a closer look, the old woman gestured for him to sit on the couch next to the door, “You sit and I’ll be right back. I just finished brewing tea ”
She shuffled over to the kitchen before coming back with a saucer and a full teacup She placed it on the table in front of him and looked at him, expectantly Sean didn’t really like tea, but she wouldn’t stop looking, so he picked it up and took a small sip
Her gaze was unwavering so he took a bigger sip this time. It was sour. “This is some good tea,” he lied
She smiled at this, “Thank you,” then walked over to an armchair next to the fireplace and sat down
“Now, I’m gonna tell you something about me and this house that maybe nobody has told you, but I will. You’re new to this area, right? Are you visiting?” “Yes ”
“Hmm,” she hummed. “Well, to make a long story brief, my mother murdered my friends ”
Sean sat up straight at this, “Huh?!”
The old woman continued, “Back when I was in middle school, there was a Bake Sale that was going to take place at my school and I wanted to participate So, I went to my mother and asked her for help She agreed and said that I need to first bring 3 of my friends over to the house this ‘house’ to be more specific. After I brought my friends over, I was
told to go and fetch some icing from the grocery store and off I went When I came back, the kitchen was a mess to say the least and each of my friends had been baked into a cake. ‘Vanilla, Red Velvet, or Chocolate?’ my mother asked me I immediately called the police and because of the chaos of the situation, I was sent to an asylum under the assumption that my hysterics at losing my mother and friends caused me to go mad ”
The old woman, smirking now, leaned back into her chair, “The end ” Sean sat there, dumbfounded and confused. He also started to feel nauseous Why is she telling me this? This is crazy! I gotta leave
“Well,” Sean said slowly, “I’m sorry that happened to you ma’am I really am, but I think I should start going home ”
He rose to his feet, but just as quickly, fell back into his seat again The room started to feel like it was beginning to spin
“Let me ask you something before you leave,” she said slowly.
She stood and walked over to Sean, who was now struggling to stand and stay upright She looked at him and he looked at her, his eyes widening She smiled sweetly before she asked, “What kind of cake would you like to be?”
Before Sean could say anything, he collapsed onto the floor in a heap There was a moment of silence before thudding could be heard from upstairs Jack then appeared at the top of the stairs, wielding an axe As he descended the stairs, he passed by the framed newspaper articles that read, “Child Helps Mother Murder Her Friends!” and “Insane Child Escapes Mental Institution ” He crossed the room and handed her the axe “Good idea poisoning the tea,” she said “You’re a good grandson. We’re having cake tonight!”
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By Denise Owens
Denise Owens is an aspiring psychologist and plans to transfer to UC or Stanford University in the fall She is a lover of nature, respects all forms of life, and works to build a sustainable lifestyle for her and future generations.
To Post or Not to Post?
By Carissa Coane
A deep dive into “sharenting” and its dark side.
When I was 14, I tried a tampon for the first time I found the entire experience uncomfortable and awkward, so, like most things that I felt too embarrassed to say anywhere else, I tweeted about it
Within the hour, I received a direct message containing a screenshot of the infamous leaked phone call between thenPrince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles, in which he expressed desire to be reincarnated as a tampon so he could live inside her, and an accompanying text, stating “us ”
The sender’s profile picture was of a middle-aged man, and a scroll through his page featured selfies, angry replies to
Digital skepticism has eroded, and it is parents, not children, who are prone to oversharing on social media, particularly about their kids
they posed. This emphasis on privacy has left a lasting impact on my Internet habits. Most of my accounts are set to private, I am sure to never post my location, and even while venting online, I have always been careful to limit the amount of personal information I divulge
politicians, and occasional posts about divorce In contrast, my own account, which had less than a hundred followers, was almost entirely anonymous – the only personal information I revealed through my tweets was my age
My formative years coincided with the rise of photo and video-sharing platforms like Instagram, Snapchat, and YouTube Both at home and in school, I was constantly warned not to share too much about myself on apps that the adults in my life did not fully understand how to use, yet could still recognize the inherent dangers
Today, though, everyone is familiar with major social media apps The pandemic increased reliance on the Internet as a means of communication, and boosted the popularity of newer platforms like TikTok Digital skepticism has eroded, and it is parents, not children, who are prone to oversharing on social media, particularly about their kids This practice, known as “sharenting,” a combination of the terms “share” and “parenting,” is often borne out of a benign desire to proudly document children’s milestones or accomplishments
However, the universal reach of social
makes sharenting a dangerous activity that poses major risks to underage children, compromising their greater mental health and safety, both immediately and in the long term
In a 2021 security org survey of American parents, 77% of respondents reported posting images or videos of their children online, but not all of them are guilty of sharenting. Vanessa Ferandell, the mother of a threeyear-old daughter, uses Instagram in moderation “I do post my daughter, but in general, I post rarely – every one to two months I want to experience life with her instead of being on a phone documenting everything.”
It is this excessive documentation that can affect the self-esteem of children whose parents do engage in sharenting Psychologist Dr Susan Albers explained in an article for the Cleveland Clinic that “parents unknowingly create pressure on their kids by crafting an idealized image online of who their child is ” Social media as a whole often acts as a highlight reel, and parents feel especially compelled to share their children's proudest moments Children and adolescents who are still developing their individual self-identities can feel as though they have to conform to the more polished representations of themselves that their parents post. This can lead to strained parent-child relationships, as well as insecurity that can deepen into depression, Alders states
My formative years coincided with the rise of photo and video-sharing platforms like Instagram, Snapchat, and YouTube. Both at home and in school, I was constantly warned not to share too much about myself on apps that the adults in my life did not fully understand how to use, yet could still recognize the inherent dangers they posed This emphasis on privacy has left a lasting impact on my Internet habits. Most of my accounts are set to private, I am sure to never post my location, and even while venting online, I have always been careful to limit the amount of personal information I divulge
Ferandell is comfortable posting images of her daughter, in large part because she only does so on a private account “If she was on a public account, I would be more worried. However, because I have a private account setting, I am not concerned ” Her decision is informed by countless horror stories reflecting a broader fact: the dangers of sharenting are most apparent when accounts are set to public
On a public account, parents never truly know who is viewing their posts V Freg, a mother who refrains from posting her children altogether, recounted an incident in
which a friend “posted everything her teenage daughter did or went She posted photos from their vacation. Her daughter’s ex-boyfriend, who did not follow her account, broke into their house and stole things ”
Posting any form of content to a public account opens it up to screencapping or download, meaning it can never truly be deleted Entering children’s likenesses into the digital ether potentially exposes them to the Internet’s darkest corners A study from Australia’s Children’s eSafety Commissioner found that up to half the material found on pedophile image-sharing sites was originally posted by parents on social media or blogs.
Most parents who do post their children have no further motivation than simply sharing their pride and happiness with an online circle of friends, and may be unaware of how far their posts can travel However, a growing number of parents seek to monetize their posts A Turkish study of parental Instagram profiles revealed that 23 4% of parents who posted content of their children also shared paid advertisements and promotions
Instagram and other major social media platforms have age limits, typically prohibiting anyone under the age of 13 from making an account. Parents can circumvent this rule by acting as managers for their children’s profiles, filming and posting content, and arranging brand deals They also pocket the full profits from partnerships, page views, and any gifts from dedicated followers
As their children’s following grows, so does the potential for exploitation A New York Times report featuring an analysis of 2 1 million Instagram posts by parent-run accounts of underage girls found that suggestive images are more likely to receive engagement in the form of likes and comments Accounts also draw a higher proportion of male followers as they grow The study further determined posts that elicited sexual or inappropriate comments were seldom taken down Accounts that did not carefully moderate their comment sections often also offered paid content through Instagram’s subscription feature, including one-on-one video calls with subscribers. These calls are not moderated by Instagram
On the other end of the extreme, many parents are opting out of posting their children entirely Freg’s oldest child is 24, and her youngest is in elementary school
She observes, ”I definitely impose more restrictions with my younger children the digital landscape has changed so much over time
Privacy no longer exists ” Dr Reut Cohen’s semi-public role and job at a college gave her pause about social media’s invasion of privacy before even having her daughter Since then, she has become keenly aware of our digital “culture of oversharing,” and has imposed a strict mandate that applies, even to extended family members: “You won’t find my daughter’s likeness on social media ”
I have seen on my own how anything that identifies a child as such online is enough to attract predators. Even on faceless accounts, children and adolescents can encounter crude messages This exploitation, and its consequences, are only magnified when children’s faces and names are attached Parents who willingly expose their children to these dangers, or even encourage them, are acting against the best interests of their kids Profiting off a child’s likeness before they are old enough to consent to do so is deeply immoral, and doing so by glamorizing them to the point of provocation should be severely reprimanded
Governmental and legal action is already being taken to protect children's rights to their digital images and mitigate extreme consequences of sharenting. The Children’s Image Rights Law in France incorporates “private life” into the French Civil Code’s definition of parental authority, and offers strict penalties for parents whose social media documentation of children under the age of 13 is deemed to compromise the child’s dignity or integrity. A proposed bill in the Rhode Island state legislature entitles compensation to children who are featured in monetized social media posts
Closer to home, there are smaller steps parents can take to help to disconnect their entire families and avoid the phenomenon and its many pitfalls altogether Ferandell noted that she does not allow her daughter to use any electronic devices on her own, nor does she watch television Cohen concurs: “I prefer to take Polaroid pictures of my daughter and develop pictures from our camera. We scrapbook to create catalogs of memories It’s infinitely more precious I also don’t let my daughter watch television Screen time is almost non-existent ”
Everyone–parent, child, or otherwise–should adhere to the basic tenets of Internet safety: never share your instantaneous location, be wary of strangers, and do not post anything you would feel uncomfortable with a future employer seeing. Now that I am older, I am more grateful than ever that the majority of my embarrassing posts from my youth cannot be traced back to me, and that they were created in spite of, not because of, my parents’ wishes I implore parents today to err on the side of caution with their children, and, if giving them the freedom to post, to allow them to make mistakes for themselves
Carissa Coane is a journalism student, editor-in-chief of El Vaquero News, and the co-publisher of this inaugural literary magazine project of the Journalism Department.
The Magical Chest
By Nick Sahakyan
Settling into the magical chest, I closed the lid. It was covered with holes, and made the stars appear so close, that they looked as if they might drop right into it The holes were made by my middle brother He was the one who found the hand drill in the toolbox. I had only watched him puncture the chairs, the legs of the table, the floor, and the mulberry tree in our yard Mother punished us both, and never stopped mentioning the damaged things one by one Only the chest was not mentioned because it was long forgotten under a bent fence, out of sight
Only I knew that the chest was magical I had realized that during those evenings I was huddled next to the stove, listening to my Grandma's fairy tales While she created a magical world full of knights, princesses and dragons, my eyes were fixated on the mysterious patterns of the chest.
One day we brought a television home, and the fairy tales ended Not long after when we got new furniture with mirrors, my Grandma was gone. Since we couldn’t find a spot for the chest, my brother and I dragged it out to the garden
Then my Grandpa suddenly stopped talking He was lying on the couch in the hall all day and didn't even swat away the flies from his face Neighbors said he was out of his mind
Once married, my older brother removed the vines and started to construct a greenhouse for his floral business, as our neighbor Zako had done But he left the work unfinished, and the garden, as Mother would say, turned into a ruin. My brother became a different person He was rude to his wife and sometimes he yelled for no reason, even louder than drunken Zako Noisy arguments became common in our home.
That day, bored with everyone, I left the house and got into the chest I loved hiding in there, and gazing at the stars through the holes. The chest was magical, as I said, which meant that any miracle could happen inside it I was sure about that even though no miracle had ever happened before Perhaps I had never desired anything with all my heart Now I did
I remembered the day I rolled up my pants and helped my Grandpa water the garden That evening, I was holding a ball of yarn in my arms and listening to another fairy tale my Granny was muttering as she knitted woolen socks. Grandpa wasn’t listening since he was lying on the couch and snoring softly I wished I could go back in time and relive that day I yearned for it because suddenly for the first time I realized those days were over and would never come back
I closed my eyes, opened them, and the miracle happened--the stars faded and the walls of the chest disappeared I got out of the chest and looked around There was nothing: neither sky, nor earth, nor light, nor darkness Only emptiness
I wandered for a long time in the void, surprised and a little scared Only after I was completely exhausted, I realized that yes, I had indeed turned back in time Surely I was in the past, but there was nothing but me, because everything else had remained in the present I could bring whatever I wanted from the present, but I had no wish to do so
Suddenly, I noticed a small moving dot in the distance It began to grow and grow as it approached me Eventually the dot got bigger and clearer Grandpa appeared in front of me Can you imagine my excitement? He didn’t seem surprised to see me, smiled and ruffled my hair, and put his hand on my shoulder as we walked together through the void
I can't tell if we walked too much or too little Suddenly, there was light around us, and I saw in the distance a green garden and a small house The sun was shining in the clear blue sky
Granny was waiting for me at the door. She was smiling and couldn’t hide her excitement Surprisingly, she looked like my mother, young and beautiful
I walked through the grape bushes which were decorated with clusters of red pearls Then I saw a reddish roof and realized that it was our house I ran inside impatiently, opened the doors of all the rooms and saw that everything I had longed for was as before The chest was also in its usual place - clean and intact
Grandma set the table under the mulberry tree and brought a jug of wine I sipped from Grandpa’s glass and everything started to sway around me and shine, as if in a dream It's hard to say how many days I stayed there because the sun never set
Besides, why should I count the days when I felt so happy? Grandpa taught me many, many things; how to plant trees, grow flowers, and most importantly, how to take care of grape vines so that the harvest would be abundant When he was tired, he would lay on the couch and snore softly. I would sit next to Grandma and listen to her fairy tales True, I had heard them all before, but it was still fun to be part of heroic adventures in magical worlds again.
It seemed to me that life would go on like that forever Indeed, what is happiness if it is not eternal? But I woke up one day and there was no house, no garden, no sky, and no sun Only the chest was swaying slowly in the void. I wandered alone for a long time I wanted to shout but my voice faded in the void I became very anxious There was nothing else to do but return
I entered the chest, closed my eyes, opened them and saw the twinkling stars through the holes I got out There were people gathered outside the house Weeping could be heard from inside. Grandpa had passed away at night On the day of the funeral, I was standing with my head down, staring at the cracked lips of the grave pit People around me were talking about Grandpa. "Lately, he was apathetic towards everything,” said a man “Death was a merciful release for the poor soul,” sighed another man, “He had lost his mind.”
But only I knew the truth. He was not talking to anyone because his mind was in the world of his memories I also knew that I had a great goal I had to clean up the garden and dig a canal Next, I had to plant vines again and grow flowers along the fence to make it as beautiful as it had been before So after many, many days, when the time comes for me to return to the past, I too will be able to find in the void my garden and my little house, under a blue sky and a shining sun
Nick Sahakyan is an Associate Professor of Armenian. This work was originally written in Armenian and has been translated to English by the writer’s daughter, Victoria Sahakyan. translated by my daughter Victoria Sahakyan It was recognized as “The Best Short Story of 2023” by the Pan-Armenian Writers Union in Yerevan
Theo Morgan-Arnold
Cory Knauf
Vanush Davtyan
Angelica Lopez
Valerie Schultz
Cory Knauf
Photo Submissions
Theo Morgan-Arnold
Valerie Schultz
Valerie Schultz
Theo Morgan-Arnold
Artifacts: A Photo Series
By Amy Oliver
Created with a scanner and a black box, these images document objects from my life before they are lost and forgotten as most things eventually are.
The scanner converts these physical objects into a digital file that can be studied, preserved, and wondered at All these things so fragile and beautiful They are "specials" gathered with my son at the beach, found in my garden, home, and on walks in my neighborhood.
Let these images give you pause to see the world around us in all its diversity and complexity. To see, appreciate, and hopefully protect for generations to come
Amy Oliver is an Associate Professor of Photography at GCC
AThis inaugural edition of Glendale College’s Journalism Department’s literary magazine is a testament to the creativity, dedication, and collaborative spirit that defines our community
From the fir final printed been an extr made possib contributors of the Glendale College Foundation
I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to the Foundation, and especially to its Executive Director, Paola Santana The Foundation’s encouragement and the financial support they provided were instrumental in bringing this project to life When journalism student Carissa Coane approached me with her inspired vision for a magazine that could showcase the artistic and literary talents of our community, I knew immediately that it was an idea worth pursuing. I applied to the Foundation for a grant award, and their belief in the potential of this project allowed us to begin planning this magazine
What followed was a whirlwind of creativity and collaboration Contributions poured in from students, staff, and faculty across both the Verdugo and Garfield campuses, each submission reflecting the unique voice and perspective of its creator Together, these works of poetry, prose, and photography form a rich mosaic that captures the spirit of Glendale College.
One of the most rewarding aspects of this project has been its inclusivity
While it is a voluntary effort spearheaded by the journalism program, our contributors represent a broad array of majors and disciplines from Business to English to Media Arts. This diversity underscores our goal of crafting a magazine that embodies the entire campus community, weaving together the insights and talents of students, staff, and faculty alike. Of course, we aimed to include as many voices and perspectives as possible within these pages, all while working under a tight deadline Despite the time constraints, we are incredibly proud of what we’ve accomplished a publication that reflects the creativity and dedication of our contributors and stands as a testament to the power of collaboration, even within a short timeframe
This magazine is not just a collection of works; it is a celebration of storytelling in all its forms Each poem, short story, and photograph invites us to pause, reflect, and see the world through another’s eyes In a time when we are often pulled in countless directions, this collection offers a reminder of the power of creativity to connect us
To everyone who contributed, collaborated, or supported this endeavor, thank you Your efforts have not only made this magazine possible but have also laid the foundation for what we hope will become a lasting tradition at Glendale College
Here’s to the stories we tell and the voices we uplift, today and in the years to come
With gratitude,
Dr. Reut Cohen Schorr Associate Professor & Publisher
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