Totem 2023 - Gannon University

Totem is Gannon University’s annual student-produced literary-art magazine containing poetry, short stories, prose, artwork, and photography submitted by the students, faculty, and staff of Gannon University. Totem strives to highlight the creative talents of those in our university community by sampling a diverse range of artistic media and perspectives.

All work is judged anonymously and on the merit of the individual work, and the work of the Gannon students is given first priority throughout the process. Totem is published in early spring of each year and is distributed free of charge throughout Gannon’s Erie, Pa. and Ruskin, Fla. campuses.

Submissions can be delivered to the English Department or the Totem office, both located in the A.J. Palumbo Academic Center, or emailed to totem@gannon.edu by the end of the fall semester.

No part of this magazine may be reproduced without written permission of the artists and writers whose works appear.

Gannon University

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Erie, Pennsylvania 16541-0001

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www.gannon.edu

Totem 2023

EDITOR’S NOTE

Whether drastic or subtle, change comes to everything as time goes on. The near past seems nearly identical to the present, yet completely alien to the distant. However, viewing a past in much broader strokes, in years, or rather decades, such changes show themselves as a growth, or an evolution. Differences form as time goes on, yet the history of Totem shows that some things never change. Throughout its past, its present, and even its future, the many editions of Totem have remained the product of the Gannon community, featuring their artistic and literary talent and produced by its students. I’m thankful to everyone who has contributed to the 2023 edition of Totem, the previous editions leading up to this point, and those who will continue to continue its legacy for time to come.

Speaking of the future, the Totem staff is undergoing a change in leadership in its students and faculty advisors. On the following pages, we would like to dedicate some space highlighting the ever-changing leadership of Totem, and those involved in creating the legacy we are so proud of.

Josh Taylor Editor

THE EVOLUTION OF TOTEM AND ENGLISH AWARDS NIGHT

Totem’s roots run deep into the last century, but it was not until 1992 that the name was given to Gannon’s literary magazine. Poet, professor and Advisor Berwyn Moore ushered in the Totem era, leading the staff to win national awards from the American Scholastic Press Association. As Gannon’s Experience Designer and University Brand Manager, Andy Lapiska worked with staff, Totem became known in the region as “a work of art.” Under Berwyn’s guidance, Gannon’s annual Writing Awards Night hosted internationally renowned poets and the tradition began of releasing newly-published Totems at the April event. Following Berwyn’s retirement, professor and Totem Advisor Carol Hayes worked with editor Julia Fulton, along with Andy Lapiska, to produce Totem 2019. Then staffers, including current editor Josh Taylor, proceeded along the challenging path of production during pandemic years. In 2022, writer and professor Jennifer Popa became Totem’s Co-Advisor. While editing, she is creatively developing ideas for 2024. Meanwhile, Professor Shreelina Ghosh, Coordinator of Awards Night, has prepared to welcome a poet whose high school poetry was honored by Gannon in the mid-1990’s. A Ukrainian by birth and a member of the deaf community, Ilya Kaminsky has drawn worldwide praise for his latest collection, Deaf Republic.

2 3 4 6

1. Berwyn Moore, Totem & Awards Night Advisor, with poet Ted Kooser, 2008.

2. Berwyn Moore, with poet Patricia Smith, 2015.

3. Julia Fulton, Marketing; Leigh Tischler, Editor; Kelsey Gehring Stiglitz, 2017. (Julia Fulton was Editor 2018 & 2019.)

4. Carol Hayes, Advisor, is having a laugh with Editor Josh Taylor at Awards Night 2022.

5 7

5. Jennifer Popa, Co-Advisor, and staff members Charlize Harding and Jillian Wells, 2023

6. Shreelina Ghosh, Coordinator of Awards Night, prepares for the arrival of writers Ilya Kaminsky and his wife Katie Farris for Awards Night 2023.

7. Totem staff member Jada Abrams, 2023.

Photos courtesy of: Berwyn Moore, Kavstav Mukherjee and John D. O’Banion

Totem 2023 CREDITS

EDITOR

Joshua D. Taylor

ASSISTANT EDITORS

Jada Abrams

Emily Cummings

Charlize Harding

Jillian Wells

ADVISORS

Carol A. Hayes

Associate Teaching Professor, English

Jennifer L. Popa

Assistant Professor, English

BOOK DESIGN

Andrew Lapiska

Experience Designer and University Brand Manager, Marketing and Communications

COVER ARTWORK

Lacey Mamros

POETRY/PROSE JUDGES

Nicole J. Borro

Tutor Coordinator, Nash Library

Carol A. Hayes

Associate Teaching Professor, English

Jennifer L. Popa

Assistant Professor, English

Julie M. Ropelewski

Instructional Designer, Center for Excellence in Teaching and Learning

ART REVIEWERS

Jada Abrams

Ann Bomberger

Melissa Borgia-Askey

Luke B. Bratton

Matthew Darling

Kathryn Dickey

Derek DiMatteo

Lia Eberlein

Wanda Favors

Robyn Gaier

Lauren Garskie

Monica Jeeter

Douglas King

Annah Maphis

Sophia Messenger

Sabine Preuss-Miller

Dominic Prioti III

Ava Stripp

Paibhu Drew Thapa

John Vohlidka

Madyson Wakeley

THE JUDGING PROCESS

Great care was taken to select the written and artistic works that are published in Totem. All work was judged anonymously on its literary and artistic merit. The judging panel for the written work consisted of an undergraduate student, a graduate M.A. in English, and faculty members, who were not permitted to submit their work to Totem. The authors’ names were removed and each piece was assigned a log number. After reading and re-reading the submissions, the judges met and discussed each submission one by one to choose those that best represent the university. For the art, a mix of students and faculty members scored their choices of work, which also had the names of the artists removed.

Totem is grateful to every artist and writer who submitted their work this year. The submission pool is open to students in all majors, to faculty across the disciplines, and to alumni.

Totem 2023

CONTENTS

POETRY

2 THE SECOND O OF SORROW Sean Thomas Dougherty

3 ORPHEUS OF SILENCE Ilya V. Kaminsky

4 ADORATION Charlize Harding

5 BIRTHDAY CANDLES Hannah Shabala

6 SWEET NOTHINGS Lia Eberlein

8 THREE LITTLE WORDS Shaima Hassan

9 RITUALS Jordan Seroka

10 ONE MORE RUN, DOWN EDELWEISS Hannah Shabala

ART

22 SATIN IN SEPIA Emma Steele

23 ICE CREAMBURG Julia Johnson

12 THE COUPLE. Sunil Mahoto

13 TRAUMA GUT Kathryn Dickey

14 TATTOO Morgan Gilbert

15 HOPE, A MESSY HAIKU Kathryn Dickey

16 RED VELVET Hannah Shabala

17 A NECKLACE OF THORNS Jillian Wells

18 TREES Kathryn Dickey

19 SUSPICIOUS MONSOON Mohammad A. Islam

32 HOPE AND THE HOLY Kathryn Dickey

33 SPRING SOLACE Lacey Mamros

34 SUNSET’S BREWING STORM Jillian Wells

35 GOLDEN Alea Malloy

36 AGILE Emma Steele

37 THE DRAGONFLY Schuyler Forsha

38 DEEP Lacey Mamros

39 GROWTH IN BLOOM Ali Smith

40 FUN IN THE SUN Hannah Cedzo

41 SUNSET SKIES. LIFE IS GOOD Kady Brink PROSE 44

57 THE SENATOR’S DAUGHTER, PROLOGUE Emily Cummings

62 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

POETRY

Sean Thomas Dougherty

THE SECOND O OF SORROW

Somehow, I am still here, long after transistor radios, the eight-tracks my father blared

driving from town to town across Ohio selling things, the music where we danced

just to keep alive. I now understand I was not supposed to leave so soon, half a century

Sean Thomas Dougherty comes from a diverse family with an African American stepfather and a mother of mixed Ashkenazi Jewish descent. He is the author or editor of several awardwinning books including All You Ask for is Longing and Sasha Sings the Laundry on the Line. His book The Second O of Sorrow (2018) received both the Paterson Poetry Prize and the Housatonic Book Award from Western Connecticut State University. His book Not All Saints won the 2020 Bitter Oleander Library of Poetry Prize. His book The Dead are Everywhere Telling Us Things received the 2021 Jacar Press prize selected by Nickole Brown and Jessica Jacobs. The anthology Alongside We Travel: Contemporary Poems on Autism edited by Dougherty and published by NYQ Books was the first literary anthology to engage the complicated disability of Autism.

Dougherty appeared at Gannon in 2022 as a distinguished poet at the 39th Annual Writing Awards Program.

a kind of boulder that I’ve pushed up the hill & now for a moment, like Sisyphus

I watch it roll. I walk through the snow.

I breathe the dirty East Side wind pushing past the Russian church, the scent of fish & freighters & the refinery filling the hole in my chest—how many years have piled since I last stumbled out onto the ice & sat down to die.

Only to look up at the geometry of sky—& stood

to face whoever might need me—

From The Second O of Sorrow. Copyright © 2018 by Sean Thomas Dougherty. Reprinted by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.

ORPHEUS OF SILENCE

“It is hard to be a genius when you’re deaf and it is hard to be deaf when you’re a genius.”

-Beethoven

Ilya Kaminsky was born in Odessa, former Soviet Union in 1977, and arrived in the United States in 1993. He is the author of Deaf Republic (Graywolf Press) and Dancing In Odessa (Tupelo Press). His work won several awards including The Los Angeles Times Book Award, The AnisfieldWolf Book Award, The National Jewish Book Award, the Guggenheim Fellowship, and was also shortlisted for the National Book Award, National Book Critics Circle Award, Neustadt International Literature Prize, and T.S. Eliot Prize (UK). Deaf Republic was The New York Times’ Notable Book for 2019, and was also named Best Book of 2019 by several other publications. In 2019, Kaminsky was selected by BBC as “one of the 12 artists that changed the world.”

Kaminsky received honors from Gannon’s High School Poetry Contest in 1995 with an honorable mention for his poem “Seeing the Sea,” and again in 1996 with first place for his poem, “Orpheus of Silence.”

If you are a genius or you are deaf (I hope God will not make you both) you might hear through your feelings or see life through office window glass. Both absorb meanings by observing the wave that melts smooth under the knife of the ship’s prow or perceiving the plunge of a waterfall as it darts like an Olympic diver.

If you are a genius or you are deaf you would easily comprehend that in all our life there is only the face of a TV singer. You would hear no silence but things, the language of a fish’s bubbles. The perception of surf isn’t music but rhythm and the tremble of music is in the tremble of a hand. The smell of freezing water and the spherical shape of night, the scent of an apple, within its succulence the seeds like stars.

If you are a genius or you are deaf you can hear different voices than human voices and you can hear other music, a symphony of the unseen within the music of life.

His appearance at 2023’s Awards Night is a welcome reminder of the enduring and inspirational nature of Gannon’s celebration of writing. First Place, 1996, Gannon’s High School Poetry Contest

Ilya V. Kaminsky

Charlize Harding ADORATION

all consuming breathtaking

a never ending sparkler that’s been lit butterflies swarm the stomach

uncontrollable smiling and laughter a surrounding sense of safety

it’s new it’s scary yet so comfortable

comfort and safety the feeling of being in your arms

comfort and safety being held

comfort and safety

it’s warm it’s all encompassing

comfort and safety

it’s you.

the three words you told me lit the sparklers

the three words you told me ignited it all

i adore you

Hannah Shabala

BIRTHDAY CANDLES

When I was born, I was placed gently into the arms of an open flame. The heat reddened my skin and rosed my cheeks. Before there was me, there were decades of you. And if I were a taper candle, then you lit my flame. Thank you for tending to my light, as dearly as you did Before I maintained myself. Like the perfect match we were, You constantly relit my wick and never burnt out as you cradled My gentle flare. The softest of blows on a special day could not dimmer us. Wax dripped down my sides in beautiful spindles of color, and I was proud of each runoff. As my flame fluttered and spun, my stature sunk into itself. How I would one day be a pastel puddle… What I did not realize, was that twenty-one years for me was also twenty-one years for you. And you are a candle too.

Lia Eberlein

SWEET NOTHINGS

I pay in cash at the coffee shop with some bunched-up ones I was given as a petty tip from a table I served this weekend. Yet I served them with a smile, and perhaps that is all I know how to do anymore. The change from my total is put in the tip jar–minus the quarters I need for my apartment’s coin-operated washer and dryers. I stand, I wait, and I people-watch, as I do in most places with my dwindling time. The same time I use to twiddle my thumbs and peruse the Weather app because I have no messages to reply to, none that need an urgent response, anyway.

Overpriced drink in hand, I walk to my bright red car, a hatchback named after my favorite fictional superhero. She is one that has endured far too much trauma in her so-called life, similar to my own so-called life. Just yesterday I was ten years old, and yesterday at 10:24 a.m., I was just thirteen sobbing into my pillow unable to face my parents to tell them that someone picked on me again for the forty-first? Second? day in a row.

But today, at 3:57 p.m., as I sip, I remember I can drive wherever I need, I want. I can chase the sunsets that my grandmother told me were painted by God and his angels who mixed His color palette for Him. If yesterday at 10:24 a.m. I was told that I can do this alone, I would have been in doubt. In the right lane, I can pass a sedan full of young teenagers whose group I would have never been a part of at their age. I can listen to the same song about being alone your whole life for the 201st time that year in acceptance.

I can reminisce about three days ago when I chased after my dog in the yard on my bike, laughing as she barked behind the barriers of her invisible fence. I fell and, innately, assumed the worst. In my mind, I picked out the blue cast I would have put on my broken arm, Asking Jesus to tell the kids at school to sign it. Then maybe they would try to be my friend. Luckily, for me, there were just some plum-colored bruises.

Over these days, I accumulated more scars, many of which left bruises from falling on playgrounds and later drunkenly tripping over my own two feet. I don’t pray that they will fade, not just because I do not pray at all. I rejoice in them, and because of them, I think I should treat myself to a cone of raspberry Dole Whip, the kind my mother would treat me to at the small ice cream stand a short drive away from the house I spent most of my life in.

In fact, this is the sunset I chase for reasons I do not wish to recall deeply, the one I chase before my mother became a ghost in the graveyard of troubled souls who each minute attempt to bury me alive with them. If I had a band behind me, perhaps I would jump when they did, but that is, fortunately, not the case. If I were to jump in blind without reaching the epiphany of loneliness, I would have never discovered my sweet nothings.

Shaima Hassan

THREE LITTLE WORDS

Today is not like yesterday

And tomorrow won’t be the same

Because you said three little words

Before you said my name

Who could have ever guessed I’d be taken aback this way

Because you said three little words That stole my heart today

Even a grey sky seems blue

And roses smell more sweet

Because you said three little words That swept me off my feet

Jordan Seroka RITUALS

My mother peeled oranges every morning for me as a child.

As if I, at 10, then 15, then 18, was too young to know how to peel them myself, as if I would starve if they weren’t waiting for me. I wake early in the winter cold, without an alarm, as she did, To turn the heat in the frozen little apartment on and start the drip of coffee, the soft red glow of the toaster

Watch my hands, thin, a little skeletal, rhythmically remove the peels Like they belong to someone else.

They’re worried I’m losing weight. I can’t tell, and you don’t notice. Orange against the blue mosaic plate. The same plate every morning. We bought them new together. About the only thing we bought new.

You’re still asleep, not driven by the sun that kisses your face a peace settled over you that never comes to in waking I want to tell you how beautiful you are to me, Your long lashes and simple symmetry, the kindest face I’ve ever known, Knowing you will put your head in your hands.

Please. I don’t love you anymore. You’re only making this harder. Instead I turn from the doorway, collect my things, ready myself for work, And leave, silently, the orange slices at your place at the table.

First place prize in the 2022 Gannon University Poetry Contest.

Hannah Shabala

ONE MORE RUN, DOWN EDELWEISS

First sights on a ski trip, a proposal on a mountain top, and a honeymoon in a blizzard.

First steps and then first ski boots, for children follow suit

Sunday mornings, each and early, under dawn’s light. A packed car and winding roads

Lured by fresh air and powdery landscape

Flat inclines called bunny hills holding on and letting go

Soon we seek trails marked with inky gems

Jumping and streaming and racing

The wind is our only competitor.

On passionate feet

we descend freely and controlled. like the sweep of a fountain pen, white on white we stripe the slope with our signatures, but for only a minute.

At the end of the day, When there are roses on our cheeks we retreat to the lodge.

O Tannenbaum

Deep, dark, heavy leathery, sweet and smokey

My mind has memorized

The spiraling inlays

On the thick oak table

And it is there where I now sit. The news half holds my attention And in the background the plague I hear singing, Happy Birthday to you

I pull on my heavy wool socks. They were born in the United States and my boots’ beginnings in Austria and my mittens manufactured in China

I’ve seen the makings, but not the maker

Outside the tongue of snow licks

ski wax and epoxy backs

Spring is just warming Her throat. It would be a nice day for a wedding, Wouldn’t it?

The television reminds me… We see them rise With incandescent hearts And motivations so humble

But He has stained his mind with the idea …of falling and so have the skiers and so have I, falling out of my old loves

Today is a birth and a wedding and a funeral Which would you attend? I have the world we made together, but I cannot see you in it.

We wrote this anthem a century ago But it was inept on our Father’s lips Does it ring anymore true today?

Should I ski today, when the world is ending?

Sunil Mahoto

THE COUPLE.

Of course, one single word cannot define their love, I saw in their eyes, the definition of love Unconditioned faith with each other, their relation is a new chapter in togetherness,

Under the blue sky over the mountain peak, a tiny bird started singing, Five romantic lyrics, one for their kindness, one for their respect for each other, one for their endless love, one for their care for each other, One for their smiles...

Can’t define their bond in a normal way, thousands and thousands amalgamations of beautiful words, may be perfect to write a sentence, Oh, even this is not enough for defining them, just call it endless space filled with shining stars,

you have enjoyed the autumn, let yourself fall in love with someone like them, Just one simple word, faith in their relation, the sweet and unbreakable love...

Kathryn Dickey TRAUMA GUT

Tonight, I held a rabbit against my chest

And felt her little heart beating on my breast

Felt her trust rub up against my unsteady palms

Felt her weight in my arms and

I remembered a time when I too was so willing to be held

Not yet so afraid of my suspension

Between sanity and madness

Before the hospitals took my words

Before I closed my eyes just to see children being held on the ground

Before I knew what it felt like to throw up a feeding tube

Bile coated hands reaching out for a mother, and finding a locked door instead

Before I would learn to find comfort in crisis

Spirit, forgive me

For trimming down my whiskers

So I wouldn’t have to feel the walls of my burrow closing in

On me

On us

Spirit, give me the words

To describe being somewhere between illness and rebel. I didn’t want a drug to be my redemption

But I first saw my soul under the ketamine drip And sometimes

The path to healing is less what we expected And more than we hoped

Tonight, I held a rabbit against my chest Felt her paws scramble for earth And then relax into my embrace Perhaps

The spirit

Is holding me too.

Morgan Gilbert

TATTOO

I still find you drifting in my head from time to time. No matter what I do you’ll always be there. Like a tattoo that I can’t get rid of. You are permanently a part of me. And like a tattoo you’ll fade. You’ll fade as the years go on. you won’t be as noticeable. But you’ll never truly be gone. You’ll always be a part of me. A permanent resident of my heart. Reminding me of what used to be.

Kathryn Dickey

HOPE, A MESSY HAIKU

Darker days visit Erie

Sidewalks burst open with deep lines

Somehow, beauty still grows

Hannah Shabala

RED VELVET

On my fourth birthday my mom bought me a coat Red with a velvet collar I loved it completely

But I never wore it I wanted it to stay pristine So, it hung in my closet and collected dust instead of memories

Until one day, the shoulders felt tight and the sleeves were too short

I got a new one, but it was not the same And each year, I did not just grow out of clothes, I grew out of myself.

Something about the smell of your second-grade classroom, your teachers’ names and the best friend you made just because you had the same favorite color.

Something about the familiar turns on the way home at night asleep in the back seat. Something about staying up past bedtime and being scared of the dark. Something about the first snow and the magic of Christmas. Something about splitting ice cream and fighting over the bigger piece.

Something about family dinner And your mom’s cooking Love sits at a kitchen table No words, just togetherness. What a lovely way it was, To say “I love you”

You cannot put your old self on Like a jacket Because it won’t fit And no needle can alter the seams

I do not know how to talk to her because now I forget her, the little girl in the red jacket and I promised I would not forget.

This year I did not look for the first snow and now I wait for it again. because there is something about now, that one day I will wish to put back on.

Jillian Wells

A NECKLACE OF THORNS

A breath was taken, not of air but of water.

The foundation of life denied its subject.

The water choked, Air’s flow deterred. Doubt and guilt a burden laid upon them.

Lessons taught.

Sermons heard.

Told;

water changed to wine, thousands were fed blindness into sight,

lazarus from the dead, stone rolled away, three days risen. Their words which missed their mark, a mission failed.

Grown under a cross, blooming from knees, and bowed heads.

To believe in Him their message spread, yet lost are the victims in the waters He tread.

Kathryn Dickey TREES

1. A woman wearing scrubs that don’t fit runs for the door. It clicks shut before she arrives. I want to tell her there are ten doors between her and her humanity.

2. A tree grows in Oakland, Pennsylvania. It is surrounded by fence and yet it reaches for the sky. I wonder how many people have climbed it with their minds. Peering from plexiglass-coated windows, held by a system that keeps them alive but always just shy of living.

3. In the trial of my revolution, I plea insanity. I use the term because I know it will get me covered by my insurance after their allies leave me bruised and untamed. The war on identity is always fought with other’s language.

4. He tells me I am sick. They tell me I am “Mad,” but neither makes me any less nauseous when I smell sanitizer.

5. A tree grows in front of my new apartment. The branches are low, and the roots almost completely unearthed.

6. I will live to see her reach the sky.

Second place prize in the 2022 Gannon University Poetry Contest.

Mohammad A. Islam

SUSPICIOUS MONSOON

Clouds in the neighborhood forgot politeness

And started shouting for rain...

On the other hand, the boy who lost his umbrella in the last monsoon, Still suffering from fever...

The weather forecast said, It will rain heavily in the elite areas of city only! Most of the girls will go out with umbrella!

And at midnight the alleys will become temporary canals!

Storm in my place Knock! Knock! On the door, I opened it and saw someone in heavy rain with drenched body, Since then all the clouds in the neighborhood

Are looking at me with suspicion...

Third place prize in the 2022 Gannon University Poetry Contest.

SATIN IN SEPIA

Emma

ICE CREAMBURG

Julia Johnson

LOOKING GLASS

Lacey Mamros

FREE FLOWING

Natalia Mallozi

Schuyler Forsha INTROSPECTION

Kady

Brink CALL OF THE WILD

A LONG JOURNEY

Julia Johnson

LOOKING TO THE SKYLINE

Jillian Wells

Schuyler Forsha MANIA

THE FOLDED FAMILY

Julia Johnson

HOPE AND THE HOLY

Kathryn Dickey

SPRING SOLACE

Lacey Mamros

SUNSET’S BREWING STORM

Jillian Wells

Alea Malloy GOLDEN

Schuyler Forsha THE DRAGONFLY

DEEP

Lacey Mamros

GROWTH IN BLOOM

Ali Smith

Hannah

Cedzo FUN IN THE SUN

Kady Brink

SUNSET SKIES. LIFE IS GOOD.

VIOLIN IN MY LIFE

As soon as I held that three-fourths-sized violin in my hands, I knew I was going to become a concertmaster. It didn’t matter if I was only in fourth grade; I was determined.

When I was only ten years old, Danchenko, my general music teacher, mentioned the different instruments we could play for the next school year. The tuba, cello, trumpet, bass, clarinet, saxophone, viola, percussion, and so many more, but the only instrument that stood out to me was the violin. The beautiful, wooden string instrument that my mother had played in the 1970s during her time in school. She was the first to mention playing the violin and is part of the reason why I have such a strong appreciation for the instrument. Danchenko, as well as the rest of the teachers within the music department, had a school-wide event where any student, mainly the upcoming fourth graders, could test out playing the different instruments. String instruments in the orchestra room, wind instruments in the band room. Naturally, I gravitated towards the orchestra room, determined to get my hands on a violin. Any kind would do, it didn’t matter, so long as I was able to touch the thin strings running up from the slender bridge to the neatly carved scroll at the top of the instrument. After I plucked on the third string, the “A” string, I knew that was the instrument I was going to play, from 4th grade to graduation, and even beyond that.

Once I got to middle school, I realized I wanted to make my talents known within the classroom. I was specifically asking Danchenko for the second violin piece, the harmony, of each song since no one else wanted to play them. This also gave me a chance to have a sense of the spotlight while playing and added to my constant striving to get better and achieve sixty out of sixty on our individual instrument skill “tests.” The first solo I got was for my 8th-grade spring orchestra concert. The piece was called “Donegal Fiddles,” a contribution to the traditional ways of fiddling in Ireland. I will never forget the sweat that built up in my palms in the few seconds before the solo started. When the time came, I don’t think there was a single breath taken until the end of the song. It wasn’t much, only a few measures of music, but as we lowered our instruments from the upbeat piece coming to a close, I let out a huge, built-up sigh of relief. I had finally played my first, long-anticipated solo. All I could do was hope that there would be more solos to come throughout high school.

I joined many music-related extracurricular activities in high school, but the musical pit and chamber strings were the most important activities to me. Chamber strings is an outside-of-school club that consists of a few string players outside of the normal orchestra; only those dedicated to playing join. When in chamber strings, I was able to play in so many different atmospheres: one of the six buildings within downtown Pittsburgh’s PPG Place, a church, an elementary school gym, a retirement home, and many more. Nothing could ever be more satisfying than being able to play in front of different groups of people during the holiday season. Watching the smiles of people both young and old grow is one of the reasons I enjoyed playing in these extracurricular groups. When playing in the retirement home for the holiday season, we were able to bring so much joy to all those who watched. Some people would sit and talk to all of us after, bringing up memories from when they played an instrument. Another holiday event we did was playing for a local elementary school. Though we were all crammed in a small elementary school gym, we were able to see the happiness on the children’s faces grow, along with their interest in possibly playing an instrument. These events sparked an idea in my head: music isn’t only about being the best, but about making others happy.

In October 2020, I was invited to play at a wedding for my friend’s mother and soon-to-be stepdad. As our trio sat on the stage, it hit me how important each of our pieces was for the bride and groom. Playing truly wasn’t about standing out anymore, though it is a very nice perk. It was now about the happiness of those listening. The focus was on the stunning bride and the lovely groom; we were just there to make the moment memorable for them on their special day.

That kind of mindset stuck with me throughout the rest of my high school years and even to this day. Towards the middle of my junior year of high school, while we were all eating pizza during our chamber strings practice, Danchenko told us that he was retiring at the end of the school year. I remember feeling my heart drop. The man who had taught me everything I know was leaving only a year before I graduated. Later in the year, he pulled me aside and told me that I was going to be the concertmaster and that I must help the new teacher replacing him. I was

honored, not only because I was going to be concertmaster, but because Danchenko trusted my judgment enough to assign me the job of helping the new teacher. The following front concert was filled with emotions, and it’s safe to say that not a single person left that auditorium with dry eyes.

Jefferey Kesser became the new orchestra teacher. He was also now the middle school and high school band teacher. I had to help pick out music and decide what was within our capabilities, not only because I was voted Secretary of Orchestra, but because Danchenko had told him that he trusted me. My main priority was playing songs that were our annual traditions and songs that everyone would enjoy.

My senior year was more than I could have hoped for. I finally got to walk out on the stage, spotlight on me, and a whole crowd of people mostly parents watching me. Watching us, the full orchestra. Watching these fellow students who had worked so hard to put on a perfect concert, and the underclassmen whom I was able to help and build a bond with. I have never been prouder to play with the students who performed in the 2022 West Mifflin Area High School Spring Concert. I froze when I was announced as the National School Orchestra Award winner; all my hard work led up to that point. Never did I think I would win the award, but all the underclassmen assured me that the award was a way to thank me for all my efforts in helping them throughout the year. This was surprising to me because I was simply helping those who may have been struggling. After all, that’s how I wanted to be treated when I was in their shoes.

Playing the violin was no longer about being on top, but about simply enjoying the music being made. Music that the students would enjoy playing, and that the parents would enjoy watching. Being able to watch all the underclassmen’s excited expressions over the annual traditions they had missed out on due to the two years of COVID interrupting their education. This is what making music was all about. I will forever cherish the beautiful memories I was able to create due to playing the violin, and all the beautiful people I was able to meet and call my friends. True friends that I will continue to have even after my nine years of playing. Though I entered my violinist years wanting to be the best, I ended them focused on making sure everyone else in the orchestra was happy

with what we were playing. I was given the opportunity to play over five solos, but that wasn’t what I was worried about anymore. Making sure the performances went well, along with everyone enjoying themselves on and off the stage was my top priority. The violin taught me a very important lesson: being the best will mean nothing if you, and those around you, are unhappy.

Luke B. Bratton

CLIFFHANGER

The evening sun shone down on us like a refreshing shower after a long day. We had finally finished our work and began to head home, but the sun entranced us and convinced us to hold still for a while as we watched it set. When the whiskey-colored sky retreated into the dark starry abyss, we decided to return to our lives at last. But when the moon came out accompanied by those stars, we could not help but stick around for a little while longer. There we sat, my father, my uncle, my sister, and me, talking and reminiscing about our lives, atop my mother’s mountain.

My father, a man built for his position in this world—strong inside and out. He came from the dusty fields of Kansas, a farm boy, cold and distant from the realities of life beyond the plough: he held the family together externally—he did the best he could. My uncle, my father’s brother, was a wise owl, a sage of wisdom. He was the first in my family to attend a university where he studied English literature. My uncle spoke of college and the wisdom he garnered there, not in classes or seminars but in the private readings he did on his own and in his friend groups. He did not graduate college; he felt by his third year he knew all he needed and was ready to return to those blonde, dusty fields. And my sister, my lovely Evangeline. She was my mother’s love, our family jewel. She was the wittiest, the wisest, and the most handsome of us all. We all sat atop this mountain which overlooked the land my father purchased for my mother just three months ago discussing the future and our family while watching the sky move and listen in on our conversation.

After some time, we decided to depart from our informal observatory, but I could not. Something in me refused to leave this spot, atop this mountain, overlooking what felt to be the entire universe. Though I was alone in this spot once they left, I never in my life felt more comforted and protected, not by any physical force but by my own observable view.

While watching this show that the universe put on for me, I ate my lunch as I was unable to eat it during the exhausting day of work that preceded. I had packed myself a thermos of coffee, a half loaf of bread, a threequarter pound piece of salt pork, and a handful of raisins. My coffee was still hot, which protected me from the bitter cold I encountered on this mountain. The problem I faced then was the drysaltiness of the pork, which could only be quenched by the refreshing bite of snow, and the

freezing effect of the snow could only be fended off by the heat of the black coffee. This cycle continued, with breaks in between bites of course, throughout the night.

I entered into a dialogue with the sky that night. We discussed topics that had never been of concern to me until then. I was not sure whether my death, which I came to know as inevitable due to the recent and sudden death of my mother, would lead me to become part of this universe. In some way or other, I will become part of it. Whether my wise sister is right, and we do just die and that is it, becoming part of the earth; or whether the rest of my family is right, and we live eternally with each other in heaven. Either way, we buried her, so whether she is in heaven or not is of no concern, because I know for certain that she is buried right next to where I sit, atop this mountain.

Between bites of raisins, bread, snow, pork, and gulps of coffee, I breathed in the universe. It smelled fresh and clean; it felt as though I had just breathed in billions of years of existence and breathed out the future of my life, a new man. One day. It took one day to climb to the top of this mountain, dig the hole, and fill it in. There was no time to be metaphorical or think of long eloquent phrases to describe the patch of soil in which our collective rock now lies, where my mother now lies. There is a time in every person’s life they face their own mortality. Now is my time and I was comforted that I have a friend to face it with. I sat there next to my mother, speaking to the sky about my life, and my existence. Fear set in, and my stomach turned, calmed by another gulp of coffee.

My mother always loved this mountain, the green trees that changed colors in the fall, the spring water that babbled all year long, the northeast cliff that brought her memories of home in Dover, as if she brought a cliff for herself—this mountain was my father’s gift to the love of his life. He met my mother in Spain; my father was in a lucky position to travel abroad with my grandfather due to a need for American wheat in certain European cities. A Spanish farmer contacted the representative in my father’s congressional district, which happened to be the largest wheat producing district in Kansas. The representative met with my grandfather to tell him the news and put him into contact with the Spanish farmer.

The trip was set. My father and his father went on the family’s first trip back to Europe since their original departure one hundred and thirty years ago.

My father, a suddenly adventurous man, would walk the streets at night and soak in the strangeness of the new, old land. That is when he ran into her, my mother. He described her as the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. My mother’s name was Josephine, a woman of middle-class reputation, traveling on holiday through Europe—she would never go back home. For the next week they spent every day together, getting to know one another’s innermost character and beings. My father neglected business and spent an ill-advised amount of money on a gold ring, which he promptly proposed to my mother with. She left with him a day later, only communicating with her family for the rest of her life through letters and photographs.

Their marriage was not always so romantic, often plagued by hard times and depression. My mother would often weep at night while looking at her family album. They were seventeen when they got married. Through the toughest of times my father held true. When his father died and he inherited the farm, he sold it immediately and took us to our present location—this mountain. My mother loved her mountain, it was to be another constant in her life as was that gold ring my father bought her. That gold ring which I now hold in my hand, warm from my body’s heat— extracted from the no longer warm, soft hand of my mother. Nothing could comfort me like her touch, and it was imperative that I keep a piece of that touch.

My mother’s last wish was to be buried atop this mountain, so she could always look over her new home. When she fell ill, she would often ask us to bring her maps of the top of the mountain. She never made it up here, so I did my best to sketch the terrain, being sure to avoid the sudden cliff. The cliff was easily visible from under the mountain, but once on top it dropped off like a slice had just been taken by some unimaginably gigantic being. With this sketch, she drew a red circle where she wanted her forever home to be. I am in that circle now, with her. I sit with her, a warm welcome to her eternal home. Along with the sky, I chat with her, I

thank her for being everything to me. My guiding light, my caregiver, my mountain, everything that she could have been, she was. Now she rests.

As the night carried on and my food and drink supply waned, I noticed the sky getting lighter. The sun started to rise once again, as it did on the morning before she died, and as it did now, the morning after. It was just a few hours ago we tracked up the mountain, pushing further up the north side to the spot she set aside. I welcomed the morning with open arms and said farewell to the night. The stars faded one by one, as I drifted off to sleep. I dreamt of a stone sitting perfectly on a frozen lake. That stone sat so still and tranquil, not aiming to harm a single other entity. As the dream progressed, I wondered how the stone got there and why the stone remained so perfectly still. Then it was summer, and the stone dropped aggressively into the lake. It made a large splash and wasted no time sinking to the bottom, lost forever.

I awoke when it began to snow, the urgency of the situation left me unable to decode the meaning of my dream. I knew that by this point in the morning I had better get going before the weather prevented me from returning home. I packed my things and started down the mountain, being sure to follow the north side, avoiding the sudden cliff. As I traveled, I saw the trees; they looked dead and cold, and I felt as though I looked like them as well. No matter the cold or pain I experienced, I trekked on. My mind wandered as my journey progressed. I felt an eerie sense of freedom. I felt as though I could do anything because, in the end, I could. Just as easily as I could go home, I could never be seen again. Just as easily as I could go back to work, I could never work another day. And just as easily as I could grieve my mother’s death, I could just as easily not, right?

As I journeyed on, reality set in. We are not completely free. I cannot just be happy, I cannot just get over it, and I cannot just be. It is all conditional, no one is ever truly free so long as they are human. My mind raced with these thoughts. Ideas sparked and died, thoughts sprinted, jogged, and walked, and I was questioning everything. I was beginning to truly see what everything was, what it all was for, what it all looks and feels like. Then suddenly life stopped as I looked over the northeastern cliff.

I was confronted by a much more real danger. Thoughts and ideas fall by the wayside when you face the real reality. When you face the imminent danger of death. This is when I truly became who I am today. When I stared at the ground below the cliff and saw my father, my uncle, and my sister, all lifeless and cold, beginning to be covered by the snow. I saw their tracks to my left and realized I had made the same mistakes they had; I was just lucky enough to be a traveler of the day. It then became clear to me that the night was not a friend to everyone. Looking down at my family I saw myself and felt myself sinking like the rock in my dream; except I will not hit the bottom and be forgotten, I will live for those that cannot. I will live like the next step is a step off a sudden cliff.

Luke B. Bratton

NOTRE MÈRE

She births us warm and waking. With valleys, mountains and seas, deserts and jungles, lives and deaths. Thoreau wished to speak a word for Nature as he sauntered and as Emerson wrote poems on and for her—we too know her well enough to share their love. She was and always will be there for us—she has nowhere else to be. Whether we acknowledge her presence or not, she remains firmly planted, for us. But is she there for us? A question one must surely ask. She is certainly here, but for us? Who is to say? We exist together in a cycle of taking and giving, though we do very little giving.

We are here by each other, with each other, for each other—but do we hold up our end of the implicit bargain? So often we find ourselves walking all over her, never stopping to reflect on the soil which our protected heels scuff. The guarding topsoil and the recently fallen leaves, which belonged to a tree that has survived more winters than three generations of your family. This tree is your family. A member of your community. Do you treat it with respect? A member of your family whom you love because they are family, not because reflection has shown you love. Or do you disrespect our more than ancient home—our home that precedes time, transcends existence, and persists through our unacceptable treatment.

She births us warm and waking, and we turn cold and sleepy. We laugh at her grace and disrupt her processes. We gender her to make a literary symbol, and yet we do not grasp that our feeble attempt to label or classify that vastness of Nature is, in the words of our friend Qoheleth, a chasing after the wind. It is truly meaningless to do anything but love her entirely, wholly, unrelentingly, unforgivingly, and externally. For she loves us eternally, because she exists eternally.

So, I too must speak a word for Nature. I too must devote myself to Nature.

I too must love Nature—

For nothing can tell me to do otherwise.

AN EXCERPT FROM WE WILL NOT GO

Atsila came out of a nightmare feeling groggy and unsettled, the contents of her stomach turning traitorously inside her as she propped herself up on her elbows. The first light of dawn filtered through their makeshift roof of woven branches and she was grateful that morning had finally come. It was the third day in a row that she’d awakened feeling like this but this time, the nausea was too persistent to truly shake off. She stayed still for a few moments until she felt like she could move without vomiting. Waya snored quietly a few feet away, and she took a moment to kiss his forehead before crawling out gingerly, heading toward the stream hemming them in.

The water was refreshingly cold as she splashed her ruddy cheeks. She reached up with damp hands to take out the braid that had partially come undone during the night from all of her thrashing around. The braid was only halfway plaited when her stomach flipped again and she collapsed down to her hands and knees, willing herself not to get sick as she stared down at the mud forming between her splayed fingers. When she felt like she could move again, she dipped her hands into the stream and soaked her face for the second time that morning.

A terrifying thought clawed at the back of her mind, threatening to take shape but she pushed it down. The water dripped from her nose and plinked back into the river, creating barely perceptible ripples. Her heart thundered in her chest, from the nausea or her fear, she wasn’t sure. Not now, not after all this time. Now without Atohi.

She breathed in through her nose in slow, deliberate drags, trying to settle the churning of her stomach. Waya would be waking up soon and she didn’t want him to worry about where she’d gone off to. After a few minutes, she felt calmer and pushed herself up to her full height. It was only then that the contents of her stomach spewed out of her, polluting the water, strands of bile catching on the rocks on the bottom of the riverbed.

No, no, no, was all she could think as she stumbled further upstream to wash her face off again with trembling hands. I cannot have a baby at a time like this. This is not how it was supposed to be.

Emily Cummings

This is a chapter from Emily Cummings’ new book, currently titled We Will Not Go The Prologue to Emily’s first book, The Senator’s Daughter, can be found as the last piece of prose in this section.

Tears began to slide unbidden down her cheeks and she could feel panic snaking its way up her throat. Waya would surely have awakened by now, the streaks of orange and pink growing more distinct as the sun rose to the left of their makeshift camp.

She had been stoic up to this point, putting on the bravest face she could for her son. But this realization seemed to shatter all the walls she had carefully constructed since she’d watched her husband crumple to the forest floor, his strong body riddled with lead. The sobs came fast and hard now, and she barely recognized the sounds emanating from her throat. She knew she shouldn’t be so loud, not only because of Waya; she couldn’t risk bringing any more danger upon them than they were already in. Yet, she couldn’t seem to dam up the tears once they began flowing. It was a primal reaction, realizing that you were alone in raising and protecting not one but two children.

Through her tears, she could see Waya running along the bank toward her, his eyes wide with fear. His presence was the balm that she’d needed, and she was able to quiet her sobs as he crouched down in front of her.

“Mama, what’s the matter? Your voice sounded like it was coming from all over.”

“It was nothing. Don’t worry yourself over it. I needed a moment but I’m well now.”

She tried to pull him into her arms, but he struggled out of them, anger unexpectedly replacing his worried expression. His brows knit together, and it aged him so much that she momentarily caught a glimpse of what he would look like at the cusp of adulthood. Determined, single-minded, and bristling with indignation.

“Why do you always lie to me? Someone could have heard you. You were crying so hard but now you’re fine? I want to know what’s happening. We’re together in everything now, etsi?”

If Atsila hadn’t already been spent, she would have begun whimpering again. She wasn’t naïve enough to turn a blind eye to the fact that Waya had heard more of his fair share of lurid stories while he was out hunting with the other men and boys, that his innocence had already begun eroding away. The Army, this nation itself, had torn so much from them, including the obliteration of whatever was left of her son’s innocence.

“You’re right, Waya. I’m sorry that I’ve made you worry. I’ve just learned something that’s scaring me even more than I already was. I . . . I don’t know if I can tell you exactly why I’m so frightened right now. But I will try to get there soon.”

“But. . .” he still looked put out but he seemed to be turning her explanation over in his head, deconstructing it from every angle. Then his eyes grew wide and his face went pale as he looked over her shoulder. She heard the crash of underbrush before she turned and saw something that brought her heart to a standstill. There was a black bear charging toward them.

Emily Cummings

THE SENATOR’S DAUGHTER

Prologue

July, 1825

“Grace, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m afraid many of the other ladies won’t be joining us,” Mrs. Whittle exclaimed, rushing over to where Julia Webster stood with her mother, Grace, in the wide arched doorway leading into the matron’s small ballroom. Julia had been distracted by the archway’s ornate carvings of roses interspersed with plump, beaming cherubs and turned her attention to Mrs. Whittle who was rather spry in her old age. The tiny spectacles that sat on the bridge of her nose magnified the older woman’s perceptive green eyes and her graying hair was neatly pulled back into a no-nonsense bun. “It seems that they, or rather their damned husbands, don’t care about equal rights for all minorities. How can they offer so much support to Negro abolition and neglect the other groups who are marginalized?”

Lingering respectfully behind her mother, Julia felt mild curiosity toward the cause her mother and Mrs. Whittle were championing this season. Mrs. Whittle was the head of one of Boston’s most influential charity networks and had taken a liking to Grace’s giving nature immediately. The older woman had been a frequent visitor in the Webster home over the years. She always seemed intent on enlisting her mother’s help in organizing the salons she put on to foster awareness about the plight of underrepresented groups to the wives of Boston’s sea captains, politicians, and wealthy businessmen.

Julia had been too young to really appreciate what the two women had to discuss. Even now, she was more intrigued by Mrs. Whittle’s towering home that overlooked the harbor than she was in what the impassioned woman had to say. However, she was twelve now, and her mother had determined that Julia was ready to be initiated into the fold, dragging her along on this sweltering day when she would have much rather gone down to wade in the Charles River with her younger brother, Edward. He always seemed to find the eels sunning themselves between the rocks and they would watch, simultaneously fascinated and poised to run if one of the slippery creatures decided it was time to slink back into the river.

Great news for readers who have, over the past three years, been captivated by the characters and situations in chapters of Emily Cummings’ historical novel, now titled The Senator’s Daughter : Emily has signed on with the publishing company Next Chapters, an Erie Technology Incubator affiliate, which will publish her book in mid-2023. Totem has published individual chapters in 2020, 2021, 2022, and here features the novel’s Prologue. Previously titled A Forgotten Cause, the book is centered on Julia Webster, daughter of larger-than-life Daniel Webster, the lawyer and U.S. congressman who was Secretary of State under three presidents in the early 1800s.

“Not that abolition for all Negros should be minimized,” Mrs. Whittle went on hurriedly, bringing Julia back into the present. “That cause will always be our top priority. It’s just that we simply can’t ignore the other groups who have no voice!”

“You’re right of course, Lydia,” Julia’s mother responded in her small, though clear, voice, nodding in agreement. “You have to understand, though, that the native tribes don’t affect the other women and their husbands directly. They are far removed from Boston’s interests.” Julia’s mother visibly softened when Mrs. Whittle hung her proud head a little.

“But I’m sure some of the others will come. Perhaps they’re running late. We saw a carriage accident behind us on the way and everything is sure to be backed up for some time. I’ve brought Julia with me, too.”

“Oh, Julia dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there,” Mrs. Whittle blanched, adjusting her spectacles as if this would help her to better see the people she was too distracted to notice. “I’m glad you came today.”

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Whittle,” Julia answered politely, coming forward to stand next to her mother. She was slightly annoyed that Mrs. Whittle had overlooked her but such was the life of a daughter with a dainty, raven-haired mother.

The conversation her mother was now having with Mrs. Whittle faded into the background as Julia made her way further into the sunlit ballroom. At least twenty upholstered dining chairs were arranged in a semi-circle in the middle of the cold marble floor, the swirls in the stone dancing off of one another. Julia looked up into the high ceiling and found a mesmerizing painted likeness of a ship at sea in a storm, waves of steely gray and iridescent green threatening to pummel the great merchant vessel’s hull. A crack of lighting shot out of one of the ominous black clouds and Julia could almost feel the sizzle of electricity in the air.

Looking around, she found that her mother and Mrs. Whittle had moved to the chairs and were now sitting with a tall, lanky man dressed in a muted gray waist coat and breeches, the leather of his boot tapping a nervous rhythm on the floor. Julia caught her mother’s eye and tilted her head toward the open doors that led toward the outdoor terrace. Her

mother nodded her permission and Julia scurried outside, the humid air hitting her instantly. When her eyes again adjusted to the white light of the sun, she looked out toward the ocean’s mighty expanse in the distance, the tiny islands just outside the harbor dark blips in a sea of aquamarine. She could just make out the masts of countless ships piercing the hazy air, some of their sails billowing in the stifling breeze.

“It is a lovely sight, isn’t it?” a deep voice said behind her. Julia wheeled around. The man who stood just off to her right was like none she’d ever met before. He had an air of elegance about him, his straight inky black hair with tiny flecks of gray was parted smartly down the center of his scalp and falling down to his shoulders. Two bright red, silky feathers were interwoven into his hair at the crown of his head and the sunlight glinted off a number of small metal hoops that curved down the rim of his exposed ear. His complexion was at least three shades darker than hers and an exquisitely crafted blanket of sky blue and leafy green geometric shapes was draped over his left shoulder, providing a stark contrast to his white cotton shirt.

Julia could feel her mouth gaping a little and snapped it shut quickly, at a loss for words. She had heard what native people looked like from her mother but had never been this close to one before. All she could do was nod mutely, her cheeks growing warm from embarrassment. Luckily, her mother came out on the terrace with the tall man, who was introduced as Mr. Williams, a missionary who was accompanying the distinguished Indian in front of her.

“Julia, I see you’ve already met Wohali. He’s from the Cherokee nation down in North Carolina and is going to be speaking to us today,” her mother explained, her eyes darting between her daughter and Wohali.

Finally seeming to realize Julia’s words had escaped her, her mother turned to Wohali and introduced herself. “I’m Mrs. Grace Webster. This is my daughter, Julia. We’re looking forward to learning about your way of life and message for us, sir.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Webster. I’m very happy that I will have such a captive audience,” Wohali returned. He gave a kind wink to Julia before

the four of them re-entered Mrs. Whittle’s ballroom, Julia trailing behind the others sheepishly. Two other women had come in that short time and when they were all settled, Wohali began to tell all of them of his life in the south, switching seamlessly between English and Cherokee.

What he said didn’t really matter to Julia; it was the way he spoke that enthralled her. The warmth of his voice and gentleness in his eyes made her feel as if she had known him forever. Julia didn’t want the afternoon to end but in no time at all, she was striding toward the family’s carriage beside her mother, the pressure of Wohali’s handshake still shooting tingles up her palm and through to the tips of her fingers. I will always remember you, Wohali, she thought as she settled next to her mother inside the carriage and pulled away from Mrs. Whittle’s estate.

CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

LUKE BRATTON

Sophomore

English Literature and Philosophy

“Notre Mère” & “Cliffhanger”

When writing or thinking, I like to be in Nature. Thus, Nature has a profound effect on my writing and thought. My main inspirations are the writings of Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and the poetry of Mary Oliver. I try to write wherever I can, whether I am walking or just enjoying being in Nature.

KADY BRINK

Sophomore

Applied Exercise Science

“Sunset Skies. Life is good.”

The same God who paints every sunset also thought the world needed us too. Amazing, right? Sunsets remind me that wherever I look, I find another miracle.

“Call of the Wild”

The surrounding beauty of nature reminds me of the goodness of God and the blessings we should never take for granted. Nothing is more calming and peaceful than connecting with God through nature.

HANNAH CEDZO

Alumnus

Interdisciplinary Studies with Education concentration

“Fun in the Sun”

“Fun in the Sun” was inspired by all the fun times I spent at the beach!

EMILY CUMMINGS

Alumnus

Student Services & Communications Specialist

Prologue, The Senator’s Daughter

I’m happy to share that the novel that this prologue comes from is going to be published later this year by local Erie publisher, Next Chapters! An early iteration of this book began in my senior History seminar back in the fall of 2009 and I’m thrilled that this project is finally complete. I hope it resonates with the readers who decide to follow Julia Webster on her journey throughout the novel!

Excerpt from We Will Not Go

This excerpt comes from a project that I’m currently working on which I hope will become a companion novel to The Senator’s Daughter. It follows the indigenous character in my first project, Atsila, as the world that she knows crumbles around her. I feel that it’s crucial for us as a nation to learn more about the atrocities of the past to understand how the actions of our ancestors are still affecting marginalized groups even today.

KATHRYN DICKEY

Alumnus

Social Work

“Hope, A Messy Haiku,” “Trauma Gut,” “Trees” & “Hope and the Holy”

When life overwhelms us, beautiful daily details can be just enough to keep us going a mourning dove song, a funny crack in the sidewalk, a dog with a goofy bark. All of it is art and art is often enough purpose to fuel us bittersweet folks forward.

LIA EBERLEIN

Junior English Major

“Sweet Nothings”

The inspiration for this piece stems from ‘Sweet Nothing’ by Taylor Swift, but rather than discussing romantic love, I focused on the struggle of finding love for oneself, highlighted by ‘the little things’ in life.

SCHUYLER FORSHA

Alumnus Chemistry

“Introspection,” “Mania” & “The Dragonfly”

I took these photos when I was first getting into photography back in high school and took them for a photography class. My inspiration at the time was inspired by styles we studied in the class during that week, notably long exposure and Anton Corbijn inspired photography.

MORGAN GILBERT

Senior Applied Exercise Science

“Tattoo”

I drew my inspiration for the poem “Tattoo” from the thoughts that remain with you after someone who had an impact on your life leaves. No matter how long they have been gone, they will always be with you through the impact they had on you.

CHARLIZE HARDING

Junior

English Major Writing Minor

“Adoration”

The new feelings of love, the new feelings towards another person inspired this poem, not knowing what is going to happen, and just feeling safe with another person.

MOHAMMAD A. ISLAM

Graduate Student

MBA-Business Analytics

“Suspicious Monsoon”

The city where I was brought up inspired the poem.

JULIA JOHNSON

Freshman

Pre-Optometry

“Ice Creamberg”

Nature is beautiful, you never know what surprises it may bring.

“The Folded Family”

I was inspired to create this piece as a gift for my godparents.

“A Long Journey”

After biking the Great Allegheny Passage, I was inspired to draw this picture of my bike at the end of the trail.

SUNIL MAHOTO

Science in Mechanical Engineering

“The Couple”

I saw one couple and met with them, observed their love and relationship in between. I felt beautiful feeling in my heart and wrote the poem describing their love in words under poem titled “The Couple.”

ALEA MALLOY

Freshman

Early Childhood Education

“Golden”

“ Golden” is a charcoal piece that’s over 3 feet tall, and I was truly drawn to this image of Wilbur Soot that came across, so I decided to recreate it. I always loved realism, so it felt like the perfect idea. It is truly my favorite piece I have ever created.

“Violin in My Life”

My experiences and love for the violin were my inspiration for the piece.

NATALIA MALLOZZI

Junior

Applied Exercise Science

“Free Flowing”

The movement of the water inspired me to capture the vivid energy of the waterfall. The trees framed the waterfall so beautifully. The balance of land and water captivated my attention, inspiring the composition of this photo.

LACEY MAMROS

Sophomore

Biology and Healthcare Management Major, Chemistry Minor

“Looking Glass”

I was very inspired by water and reflections as well as lighting for this photo. I think the combination of those elements in this photo makes it a simple and elegant yet interesting piece.

“Deep”

The slow movements of sea creatures and the calmness of being underwater inspired this photo. I’ve always found it relaxing to watch jellyfish and other creatures in their tanks at the aquarium.

“Spring Solace”

This photo was inspired by the comfort that comes with the changing of the seasons and moving into warmer months. The first flowers blooming in spring always gives me hope for sunny summer days.

HANNAH SHABALA

Senior Communication Sciences and Disorders Major

“Birthday Candles”

Inspired my my parents and the wonderful life they have given me.

“Red Velvet”

A lesson I have learned about living in the moment.

“One More Run, Down Edelweiss”

Inspired by Sunday mornings at Buffalo Ski Club, and my mother’s favorite run, Edelweiss (named after the national flower of Austria).

ALI SMITH

Senior Secondary Education and English

“growth in bloom”

I was rollerblading with my friend at Presque Isle this summer, as we often did to get away for a little while, and I saw this beautiful wildflower in bloom. It made me really happy and was my lock screen on my phone for awhile.

EMMA STEELE

Senior Marketing and Finance

“Satin in Sepia” & “Agile”

“Satin in Sepia” and “Agile” are photos that came out of a creative project I worked on with my sister. The vision behind this photoshoot was to bring out the elegance in pointe ballet. Choosing simplistic attire and editing in a limited color context allowed for the focus to be mainly on the sophistication that comes with mastering pointe ballet.

JILLIAN WELLS

Junior English

“Looking to the Skyline” & “Sunset’s Brewing Storm”

“Looking to the Skyline” came from a spontaneous trip to Pittsburgh with my family, and “Sunset’s Brewing Storm” was a lookout found hiking in a new spot. Capturing moments like these allows me to reminisce on past adventures while looking forward to the next.

“A Necklace of Thorns”

“A Necklace of Thorns” is a piece surrounding the topic of struggling with one’s faith in an uncertain and dangerous world.

Totem 2023

COLOPHON

Totem 2023 was designed by Joshua Taylor, Totem Editor, and Andrew Lapiska, Experience Designer and University Brand Manager in Gannon University’s Marketing and Communications department.

The cover art, “Deep,” is a digital photograph by Lacey Mamros.

This year’s Totem artwork is comprised of acrylic painting, cut paper, digital photography, pencil drawing, and watercolor. Artwork was reproduced in CMYK builds.

Headline text is set in Madawaska and body text throughout is set in Kopius.

The cover was printed on 100# Accent Opaque Coated Cover and internal pages were printed on 70# Accent Opaque Smooth Text.

The layout for Totem was created with Adobe InDesign CC 2023; photographs and artwork were prepared for publication with Adobe Photoshop CC 2023.

This journal was printed and bound by the Gannon University Press with the assistance of the Totem staff. The cover was die-cut by McCarty Printing, Inc. in Erie, Pennsylvania. Funding is provided by Gannon University. Totem is distributed free of charge.