Graffiti Literary Magazine 2020 by Graffiti Literary Magazine

GRAFFITI

Masthead Editor-in-Chief Helena Rampersaud

Associate Editor Noah Garcia

Digital Editor Jessica Jordaens

Content Editors Ezra Fogel Drew Marines Cristina Masi

Message from the Editor Dear Readers,

We turn to the arts in times of turmoil. There is no denying how much COVID-19 has wreaked havoc in our lives. I am proud of everyone who has submitted this year for using their voices to make us feel connected to one another. I hope that wherever you are, these select pieces of work from some of Manhattanville's finest students will leave you feeling inspired.Â I would like to thank Professor Van Hartman for his enthusiasm and constant encouragement, and Professor Mark Nowak for his fresh ideas and motivation. Thank you also to the English department for all their support. My greatest gratitude goes out to my editors, who have stuck by me through this challenging time, and have worked so diligently from home as we practice social distancing. This year's edition of Graffiti covers a wide array of topics from love, to body positivity, friendship, heartbreak, and new beginnings. This will always be one of the most memorable years for Graffiti.Â Thank you for being a part of it, and please stay safe. Warmly, Helena Rampersaud '20

"Art invites us to know beauty and to solicit it, summon it, from even the most tragic of circumstances." - Toni Morrison

Table of Contents 7

A Walk Through a Wondrous Way by: Noelle Clark

Let it Unfold by: Janae Fells

Funfetti Cupcakes by: Justin Gonzalez

Perspective by: Jessica Jordaens

13 Untitled by: Thea Nitis

23 Iridescent by: Natalia Veras

Waiting Game by: Nora Albinus

The Pressure to Fulfill the American Dream by: Daneil Chambers

Home by: Cristina Masi

Ego by: Janae Fells

16 Balance Beam by: Julianna Rush

17 Degenerates of the Dark by: Michael Kolesar

18 Ignite by: Jessica Jordaens

19 Actually Thriving by: Jeanine Castanga

28 One Dead and 3 Critically Hurt by: Kristina Casubolo

29 I'm Coming Home by: Natalia Veras

30 Responsibility by: Scott31Galgano Untitled by: Indigo Moore

32 Nothing to Fear...But the Invisible Man Himself

by: Elizabeth diGiorgio

Table of Contents 34 Bloom By: Jessica Jordaens

47 Preserved Memories by: Kristina Casubolo

Tribulation by: Antonio DiLorenzo

A Sentimental Feeling by: Janae Fells

50 Skeletons

Daffodil by: Cristina Masi

by: Jessica Jordaens

Vivacious By: Helena Rampersaud

The Glass Vase by: Scott Galgano

anhedonia by: Scott Galgano

Strawberry Ice Cream among the Forsythia by: Noelle Clark

Body by: Christina Masi

Red by: Nora Albinus

The Influencer by: Daneil Chambers

This Place Hasn't Changed but Maybe I Have by: Michael Kolesar

Act Like a Lady Miss American Dream by: Anastasia Romnakowski

All the Daughters, all the Mothers By: Ezra Friedlander

I Miss You, But I Get It by: Ezra Friedlander

Instructions to an Artist by: Cristina Masi

Table of Contents 61

Look at Me by: Natalia Veras

Deep Cleaning By: Helena Rampersaud

Bourbon by: Antonio DiLorenzo

Complete Sentences by: Noelle Clark

LetÂ Go by: Janae Fells

The Chipmunk and the Fox by: Justin Gonzalez

Perfect Stranger by: Jessica Jordaens

The Postmodern Superhero By: Katherine Imperato

Black Boys By: Natalia Veras

Edinburgh Castle by: Nora Albinus

Love to Hate Everything by: Justin Gonzalez

Untitled by: Jessica Jordaens

Secrets By: Jessica Jordaens

Casubolo and I by: Kristina Casubolo

70 My Friend Texts Me for the Millionth Time by: Kristina Casubolo

71 Can You See Me? by: Jessica Jordaens

83 Snack Wraps by: Noah Garcia 85 Marxism Meets Colonialism: Systems of Subjugation by: Noah Garcia

A Walk Through a Wondrous Way By: Noelle Clark This week I found That I pressed through space Leading with my head And my gaze For the most part Was aimed at the ground Greeting the frozen grasses And brittle leaves In a pitch so low That only moles and mushrooms could hear This morning I found As I walked briskly Fueled by the sharpness of a burgeoning kidney stone That I was compelled to think only of what was wonderful in the world

As I strode Placing well worn, fraying Converse atop A breakable, fraying winter ground I no longer pressed through space I was propelled through it Feeling substantial and vast Disrupting the very matter of all things that surrounded me And it felt wonderful. To be aware of my power and of my energy Of my pain and my sweetness Clinging and syrupy Like grenadine Was wonderful The bark of two nearby elms Shed their false faces to reveal an elderly couple Side by side

All knobs and bone With arid moistureless skin stretched and manipulated To cover one another How marvelous they looked And one day, I’ll join them Stretching my skin Made of parchment Out to cover my aged love Or to unmask myself to a passerby And transform just for them To make them happy Because nothing is quite how it seems And it was wonderful. I stopped before them The pale anemic light of winter shrouded their silhouettes Dark against the empty sky And a November gust leant down Throbbing and barren To rattle our bones We three swayed together The remaining leaves like hundreds of tiny flags Planted by tiny unseen nations Quivering and jerking Lacking the will to leave their host As I turned from them I proclaimed loudly Over my shoulder That wonderful was my favorite word But offered no explanation as to why that was I couldn’t Because the word never came to me in the same form Sometimes it strolled through the shadows in my mind Smooth as porcelain and tasting overwhelmingly of raspberries And other times it sat On my head And let its essence drip down my face And stain the whites of my eyes the color of raw honey While it laughed at my delight What was so wonderful about Watching the sunrise in the early morning

In Ireland all of those years ago? What was so splendid about watching cloud filtered sunlight Cast shadows upon verdant landscapes Like the most organic kaleidoscope? Or kicking dusky rocks down an Irish road Flanked by peat moss and sheep Far older than anything I could imagine A road that would exist long after I disappeared Why does wonderful make me complete? I will never know the answer No matter how far I walk But there is wonder in absolutely everything In mistakes In triumph In spirited conversation In opening one's eyes And being above the fragile winter earth Instead of beneath it I seldom have time to acknowledge wonder None of us do But on a walk Through a park In worn out Converse And in a bit of pain I could I am I will be Wonderful

Funfetti Cupcakes By: Justin Gonzalez Baking funfetti cupcakes with mom is what I look forward to every single weekend. Mom owns a popular bakery in New York City that is famous for their yummy funfetti cupcakes. Every Sunday as long as I do all of my chores and homework mom bakes her funfetti cupcakes with me. Funfetti cupcakes are just me and my mom’s thing. Mom always says if we were cupcakes, we would both be funfetti. When we are baking them it’s like we are the only two people in the whole world. Mom had a signature song that she always loved to bake to, “Take on Me” by A-ha. While baking we would sing and dance in the kitchen while throwing the flour into the air. When the cake mix is ready, she always dips her finger into it and puts it onto the tip of my nose. We have been doing this for as long as I could remember, and I never want it to end. Lately mom hasn’t been feeling very well so she hasn’t been as excited to bake with me. No matter what she always manages to make time for me on Sundays to bake the funfetti cupcakes with me. Fifteen years later After mom died fifteen years ago to brain cancer, life got really hard for me and dad. Dad had to sell her bakery because he couldn’t afford it anymore. Since her death I haven’t baked or even eaten a funfetti cupcake. Funfetti cupcakes just remind me of the radiant light my mother was. Mom’s death really hit dad hard, he began drinking hard and never stopped. It was a big problem for a while, but life goes on and he was eventually able to recover. Now he is three years sober and we are closer than ever. Dad still lives upstate but now I’m living in the city with my best friend, Ridley. We live only a couple of blocks from where my mom’s bakery used to be. I’ve heard a new bakery opened up there, but I haven’t ever had enough courage to actually go into it. I’ve only heard positive things about it, but I know nothing will ever compare to the bakery my mom owned. Me and Ridley were thinking about stopping by later just to see what it’s like in there. It may be hard, but I think enough time has passed by and I am finally ready to see this new bakery. “Are you ready to go to the bakery?” Ridley asked. “No, but I think it’s about time” I replied. We headed over to a location that used to be one of my favorite places in the world and is now an unfamiliar destination. The bakery is really nice from the outside. I expected it to be over the top and flashy, but it is simple and lowkey just like my mom had it. As I walk in, I’m overwhelmed with emotions. Even though this place is very different from my mom's bakery it still reminds me of her. I know she would've liked it here. "Are you okay?" asked the girl behind the counter. I probably looked insane taking this place in. I was so distracted by looking around the bakery that I forgot that I was on the line to order something.

“Sorry I was really distracted. My mom used to own this place a long time ago, so I was just taking it all in.” I said to her. “That’s amazing, I want to open up my own bakery one day. I’m Violet by the way,” she responded. “Nice to meet you Violet, I’m Harry.” I said. Violet was absolutely beautiful. Her blue eyes sparkled behind the counter. I was honestly so distracted looking around that I have no idea what I wanted to order. "Do you have any recommendations?” I asked. Violet smiled, and said “Hmm, I don’t really know what you like but my absolute favorite thing here is our funfetti cupcake.” Six months later Violet and I have been dating for a few months now. I have never cared about someone in the way I care about her. We have fun doing absolutely everything and anything together. I swear when I’m with her it’s like we are the only two people in the world. It’s weird that we never met before I went to the bakery because we go out to all of the same spots and she only lives a block away from me. I’m on my way to her apartment now to pick up one of my sweatshirts. As I’m outside of her apartment I hear a familiar song playing inside, “Take on Me” by A-ha. I haven’t heard this song in forever, it brings back so many great memories. I just stood outside of her apartment for a minute listening to her belting the lyrics out. Violet doesn’t even know about how this was me and my mom’s song. I open her apartment door, but she doesn’t even notice because she’s to busy jumping around singing and dancing. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in. I’m just baking some cupcakes.” She says. “I was letting you have your jam session. What kind of cupcakes?” I ask. "Funfetti.” she replies. I laugh to myself because she doesn’t even know the significance of the song and she just happens to coincidently be making funfetti cupcakes. I roll up my sleeves and say, “Can I help?” Eight years later “Ariel, Oscar come downstairs it’s almost time!” I say. Ariel and Oscar come running down the stairs. “Can I put the song on dad?” Oscar asks. “Go ahead.” I reply. “Ariel can you preheat the oven?” Violet asks. “Sure mommy!” Ariel enthusiastically replies. “Take on Me” by A-ha starts to play which means it’s time to bake. I step back for a minute to take in the moment. My wife and kids are dancing to the same song my mom and I used to and baking the same cupcakes. I wish my mom could be here to see all of this. I wonder if she knew the tradition she was starting all those years ago. Even though

we do this every Sunday, it never gets old. I can’t help but smile from ear to ear as I see my wife putting cake mix on the tip of Oscar’s nose. Okay it’s time for me to get in there. I walk up to them and throw the flour into the air.

Untitled By: Thea Nitis Traveling by train is like Watching the screen as you fast forward You sit there with a feeling of ambiguity As you sometimes see your reflection In a new location at each stop Your eyes catch glimpses of different scenes Then you click play and people move around Then walk across the platform The show ends and their reality becomes your source of entertainment

Waiting Game by: Nora Albinus

*cover artÂ

home by: Cristina Masi i curled my head into his neck, while his heavy, hot breath exhales onto my forehead. he slowly moves down, pressing his beard onto my cheek — prickly yet luscious at the same time. my arm stays wrapped, oh so tight, around his torso.

rubbing my thumb, left to right, on his side. my legs stay tangled up in his, while playing footsie under the sheets. his arm lays as a cushion for my head, unbreakable.

Balance Beam By: Julianna Rush Teetering, She wanted to suck the blue, pink and purple From my eyes and make it her own, Tie a flag around her neck To hang as a symbol and another Over her eyes to forget the boy Waiting down the hall in her sheets. She was hungry for different types of bodies But kept the truth tucked in her throat Cowardly as she twisted people’s limbs For her own puppet show. Teetering, She always let the edges of her toes Touch the line and on that brisk night, Her fingertips sat right on my knee. She’d never let alcohol slide through her Bloodstream but it’s all that covered my Breath, skipped through my veins, made Everything a kaleidoscopic image. My ‘no’ Stood firmly and snapped her eardrums Even though I could barely hear it. Teetering, She told fictional stories of Where that boy’s hands made a home In her skin so she could sum in a rapid river Of our tears. They were the words that Broke the scale, my body falling Into the gravel. I held up a mirror, showed her the lines Scratched into the once clean glass That now cut my skin. She sipped a piece Out, held it to my neck, swore she’d Slash my throat if I didn’t forget the lies, But all she got to hear was Get the fuck out out.

Degenerates of the Dark by: Michael Kolesar Let the darkness shroud your mind Forcing the fading sparks of your conscience to surrender Shattering the walls into pieces to let you do whatever you please

Let the kids roam the streets in herds Scorching their mouths on sizzling pizza Yet always going back for more

Let the spray cans rattle Using the canvas of a dry stone wall to paint all those demons Washing the crimson bleeding off your hands in a murky shallow puddle Let the live grenade of a phone be put on silent As you tell yourself You were damned if you did her but oh so damned if you didn’t

Let the venue close for the night And use that skateboard to roll your ankle a few times on the rugged pavement As you wait to meet your favorite band Let the night be spent in a car obstructing the glimmering moonlight With tears nervously feeding into your dry mouths Telling each other the worst you’ve done and been through Let the kids shake the house with that new Grayscale record While the sun is peeking its head over the horizon Signaling that work starts in a few hours Let the night fall upon us Replacing Earth’s majesty with venom from the shadows And take the kids to the darkside

Ignite by: Jessica Jordaens

Actually Thriving by: Jeanine Castanga “Wake up, Stephanie! It’s time to go,” her mom yells from the window. Stephanie groans as she is still half asleep at 7:00 in the morning. “I don’t wanna go,” she says. “Come on, you’ve already missed two days this week,” her mom says as she enters her bedroom. "Please can I miss another mom?” “Absolutely not. I’m not getting another phone call from your principal about missing school,” mom explains. “Ugh, fine,” Stephanie rolls out of bed and gets ready for school. As she walks down the halls, she just keeps her head down. There’s no point in anyone seeing her face. She looks up to open her locker, and April is standing to her. Stephanie hears some soft laughs, and April whispering to her friend as she is pointing at Stephanie. Probably because Stephanie has not washed her hair in over a week, since what’s really the point of doing it anyway. Stephanie walks away. She does not want to make a scene or start a fight, especially since she has to get to English, her favorite class of the day. Her teacher, Mr. Jones, is trying to get the students to discuss the book they are reading, The Catcher in The Rye. But despite this being an honors class, Stephanie looks around to see a few students playing with their phones under the desk, two others sleeping, and the rest zoning out. Stephanie raises her hand. “I think this book really speaks to the impact that attachment can have on someone if they are depressed,” she says. “Wow, Stephanie. That is really insightful,” Mr. Jones says. A few of her classmates groan and give her looks as if they are annoyed. She usually is the one dominating most of the conversation in this class, since it is a subject she actually cares about. The bell rings and her classmates pack up and leave right away. “Stephanie, may I see you for a minute?” Mr. Jones asks her. Stephanie immediately thinks she is in trouble, but this is the one class where she has done nothing wrong other than miss a few days here and there. “I really think you should consider this opportunity,” he says as he hands her a piece of paper that reads “Grace Callahan Program for Young Writers.” “But, why? This is the best writing program in the state,” Stephanie says. “Yes, and I really think you can be a part of it. It’ll not only give you

something you love, but a community that I know you need,” Mr. Jones explains. Stephanie starts to tear up. She never had a teacher care about her this much. Most of them do not understand her daily struggles with depression, which makes getting up, keeping up with hygiene, and being alive daily difficult. “You really have a gift, Stephanie,” Mr. Jones says. "Thank you, Mr. Jones,” she says as she gives him a hug.

Let it Unfold by: Janae Fells Locked up, in my mind, thrown all the way to the back . For years And years This truth that has never been told, now ready to unfold. I felt as though I couldn’t talk to anybody, like no one would understand. I came to this selfrealization when I was 16…because it happened…again. The flash backs, feeling petrified, frozen I couldn’t move. Completely shook. Just waiting for my brother to walk through those doors. Please see, I have no control I’m scared, but he thinks it’s okay… I think to myself “why, why?" "Why does he think this is okay, why me?" They always say, the people who harm you are usually those closest to you…well shit. I'm here to say that’s truth.

Perspective by: Jessica Jordaens If only there was a way to you That went past yourself I say you don’t know me You say I don’t let you You say you want respect I say I give what’s deserved You never uttered those words But I learned them from you You stopped holding what was precious Once they outgrew your tolerance And yet you wonder why I hide myself away You gave me limited options Offered no guidance When I needed it most Now you get offended when I refuse What I never asked for You took my words Before I could find them myself And when I did You let them circle the drain When you washed your hands clean of them

Iridescent by: Natalia Veras

The Pressure to Fulfill the American Dream by: Daneil Chambers Humble beginnings Rags to riches Riches my child You are bright You are different Be successful For us Because we weren’t We gave you this opportunity to “better” yourself Be happier because if you have an opportunity to go to college Be formally educated then you’ll be richer Be richer and you’ll be happier, case closed Work hard Rise through the ranks Be different Be the one they look at Be the one they use as a benchmark The good ole American Dream Look what she used to be Look what she is nowIs she still real? I think not Our creation of a happiness slippery slope does not exit This is our New American Dream She sleeps waiting for our creation

Why can’t I just wiki answers my way through life? No one seems to have the answer No one seems to know the truth Moving, feeling, wading through a world of unknowns

My arms are just not long enough to wrap around the things I value I have to make a top 5 When I know there’s really a top 50 There’s so much to care for Too much to care for I just don’t know where to start I just don’t know where to end I just don’t want to choose

Am I Enough Day in Day out I spend my time Measuring myself Calculating the incalculable Was I good enough? Did I do enough? Am I enough? Some days I tell myself “You ain’t the shit” That’s right Double entendres intendente My ego leveled and I indeed am not shit I was made from dust So I am moldable I am in a reality of duality So I am living as I am dying I am growing each day So each day I realize more and more I am enough Some days I want to turn it off Some days I want to be infinite Some days I want to imagine myself in a different place

Each day that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve measured I have taken it for myself To measure and not judge Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when you confirm the incalculable There is no formula to success You are enough

Ego by: Janae Fells Nothing but a demon that consumes you Nothing but a demon that controls you Feeling...huh...what is feeling ? Cause when this demon is everything you are becoming there is nothing No feeling Numb.. that’s all Numb to your thoughts, feelings and emotion, actions. No care in the world. No empathy. Just apathy for others feelings EXCEPT YOUR OWN.

One Dead and 3 Critically Hurt by: Kristina Casubolo

Flashback to April 28, 2001. Before one of the most unforgettable tragedies traumatized the country, a 1992 Infiniti suffered a tragedy of its own. Perhaps the need for speed and rushing adrenaline pushed that foot harder onto the pedal. For most, this impulse fades when the charging vehicle threatens lives. In this case, when one minor accident didn’t suffice, the driver went looking to cause another. This hasty decision led four teenagers to learn what flying through a windshield felt like. When, speeding at 100mph, it seemed that nothing in the world could stop them. Not fear. Not the law. Not even the police in determined pursuit. Except, they were stopped. By a utility pole, tall and rooted and unforgiving. At approximately 1:30 am, the car was a car no more. Just two halves that used to be one. For three, it was the time of breaking laws, machinery, and bones. But, most importantly, this time generously offered second chances. For the other, however, there were no chances left.

I'm Coming Home By: Natalia Versas

Responsibility by: Scott Galgano A spattered horsefly smeared against the back wall of my classroom Its dangling thorax finally fell on the floor last Monday I took responsibility and cleaned it up after class If you were to jump in front of a train Whose responsibility would it be? To scrape your dangling thorax off the tracks To wash your guts away with a $10.00 garden hose Then to return to a dirty Harlem apartment And wish they had the guts to do the same â&#x20AC;&#x153;Responsibleâ&#x20AC;? is a frightening word It exists to remind us that we have to have a purpose And to have a purpose is what it means to exist I exist to scrape dead flies off of walls. You exist to jump in front of trains.

Untitled by: Indigo Moore

Shoved in a room with dozens of others, They are handed a sheet of tinfoil And told to wrap it around their body Like a blanket. I am handed a sheet of tinfoil. I think of the little children that shiver in the concrete. This is nothing like a blanket. The choir of women wrap themselves and cry. The little children shiver in their chain link cages, Shoved in a room with dozens of others. A choir of mothers wrap up their children and cry Into tinfoil blankets.

Nothing to Fear...But the Invisible Man Himself by: Elizabeth diGiorgio *Winner of the William K. Everson for Writing on Film People fear things they do not know. Whether a person is fearful of someone because they are physically different from them or act differently from that person, the fear of difference is still present between the two individuals. What happens then when a person is fearful of something that is a part of themselves? Does that person destroy that part of themselves? Is that person doomed to simply bury that part of themselves until it swallows that person whole? Director James Whale asked these questions when he directed The Invisible Man (1933). In the film, we see the exploration of both the fears of the unknown in our world and within ourselves, all the while shining a sense of humor upon the darkness. Through analyzing the use of repression, ‘The Other’, British humor, and mad scientists, we will come to understand how The Invisible Man is both a James Whale film and a horror film. […] At the beginning of The Invisible Man, we see the normalcy of the townspeople: ordinary people with similar clothes, drinking habits, and an eagerness to gossip. Once Jack walks into the inn, a hush falls over the townspeople. Jack’s cold behavior is foreign to the villagers. He wants nothing more than a hot meal, a room, and isolation, a foreign concept to the bar patrons. They are aware that Jack could mean trouble for their sense of normalcy, which makes them fearful of what this man’s true intentions are. This is where Jack’s actions turn him from a weary traveler to 'The Other.' "Closely linked to the concept of repression...the concept of 'The Other'... The concept of Otherness can be theorized in many ways...Its psychoanalytic significance resides in the fact that it functions now simply as something external to the culture or to the self, but also as what is repressed (but never destroyed) in the self and projected outwards in order to be hated and disowned...” (Wood 168). For Jack, this sense of “The Other” could imply other characteristics. “One of the clearest instances of the operation of the repression/projection mechanism: homophobia...is only explicable as the outcome of the unsuccessful repression of bisexual tendencies: what is hated in others is what is rejected (but nonetheless continues to exist) within the self.” (Wood 170). Just like how Jack represses his invisibility in The Invisible Man, other characters in Whale's film also hide their sexuality. In Frankenstein (1931) there are hints that the relationship between the Monster and Henry Frankenstein is more connected than just creator and monster, In fact, "...It is the horror film that responds in the most clear-cut and direct way, because central to it is the actual dramatization of the

dual concept, the repressed/the other, in the figure of the Monster...Whale’s Frankenstein can be claimed as implicitly (on certain levels) identifying their monsters with repressed homosexuality.” (Wood 171-2). This idea of homogeneity can be found in both Jack and Henry’s approaches towards their work. The monster is a symbol of Henry selfishly creating a living being without the use of a woman. Similarly, Jack wishes Dr. Kemp, Jack’s male lab assistant, to be his ‘visible partner’ to help him commit his crimes. The imagery of Jack’s wrappings is similar to a queer individual being trapped in the closet. Sadly, this idea of an evil queer character isn’t new, as stated by Harry M. Benshoff, “...Homosexuality becomes a subtle but undoubtedly present signifier that usually serves to characterize the villain or monster….further delineate the depravity of the villain.” (Benshoff 128-9). So, this use of homosexuality can push the ‘villain' to become more of an ‘Other’.

Bloom By: Jessica Jordaens

Tribulation by: Antonio DiLorenzo The good vs. the bad, Happy or sad. Feeling kind of blue, Did I forget what was due? Causing lots of stress, Turns into a mess. I touch my face as it starts to swell, This can’t be heaven, I must be in hell. My path was crossed, Now I am lost. Looking for assistance, I see someone in the distance. He must have a plan, Do I know this man? He’s dressed in all red holding a knife, This might be the end of my life. Clouds move in and the sky is black, Buildings I’ve never seen start to crack. He’s coming after me, But I can’t escape the debris. Buildings are burning making tons of smoke, The smoke hits my lungs now I’m starting to choke. I find a place to hide, Am I going to die? I’m lost in a place I don’t know about, I want to scream for help, but the words won’t come out. The man disappears into the night, In comes a strong light. I fall down and pray, Hoping the light pushes it away. This trauma came to an end, When I woke up in my bed.

Daffodil by: Cristina Masi The sun still shines in places where you are no longer Reflecting on all of its petals Its petals that drop, One-by-one Every winter season And come back every spring Just like the thought of you. Thinking of all the times That I made you smile Because I planted In your garden And you handing me An iced cold Pepsi As a thank you. Only these days, I plant them Next to your tombstone And you’re no longer there To thank me.

Vivacious By: Helena Rampersaud I am a new leaf on an old tree Soft and light And slightly wet from the midnight rain My home is more than meets the eye My lineage My stern tunnel of stories Is curled beneath the dirt Is made up of uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers with bloody palms And skin scented with sweat, swears, and masala Skin scented with fear, family, and salvation Chewing up sediments across borders Blindly I hang from my false paradise Hanging on a limb much higher than them Watch children tie ropes to my grandmother’s grandmother Call it a swing Break her back and laugh at how high they can kick their legs when she is tied down Dancing In the wind when it comes out I feel the stickiness of longing Of yearning to hear a motherland with I tongue I can't understand But soothes me as if it were a lullaby Lamenting For my grandmothers’ grandmothers And how hard it must have been for them to uproot themselves Learn to water themselves in a land whose rivers they couldn’t recognize Forced to bear fruit Sell them to the cane fields Feeling Forgotten and forsaken Migration will never be a word that will fit right in my mouth How can it when I close my eyes And see boats of brown men being beaten with cane whips And see the overseer spitting his venom at slow children in the fields

And see a woman’s body with scars around her neck and a swollen vulva Vivacious Provocative Cutting edge What a privilege it must be To be able to use words like this when your cells don't dance with generational trauma When you can say it after you have read the spillings of my quilted heart When you notice my line breaks before my screams When you do not need stanzas to help you remember When forgetting is your own choice When your tree is always in the sunlight When its roots belong to an orchard they can stay planted in forever When you always have access to rain How can you understand what vivacious means to me How can you understand what it feels like to only have your heritage exist in your memory How can you understand what if feels like to have your leaves ripped off your branches Pressed in books so that someone else can forget about you While they keep you captive forever? I do not write stories because I am Vivacious Provocative Cutting edge I write stories so my ancestors can rest in peace I write stories to soothe the screams of my people I write for the trunk of my tree

anhedonia by: Scott Galgano a term coined in 1896 it describes the loss of motivation and the ability to feel pleasure the things you used to enjoy are no longer enjoyable iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d try to explain it some more but iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not really in the mood right now maybe later

body by: Crstina Masi our bodies are often referred to as temples, but mine is more like a house. my hips are the bedroom, while my mouth is the kitchen. and people are always coming and going but whoever is lucky enough to come inside my bedroom, always feels right at home.

ー

The Influencer

by: Daneil Chambers

Act Like a Lady Miss American Dream by: Anastasia Romnakowski She sits on the pink cushion of the windowsill in her bedroom glaring out the window. “Act Like a Lady, Laura” is all she hears in her mother’s high-pitched voice. Act like a lady because it’s all she can really do. Act like a lady because that is all they want her to do. She pulls herself away from window watching and looks around her room. A lavender carpeted floor and grey walls is what Laura sees as it contrasts with the white furniture around her. Years’ worth of picture frames lines the walls, each giving her a sense of uneasiness. Each picture was something different she wasn’t “meant” to do according to her mother. Pictures of her playing soccer and basketball, pictures of her sliding in the dirt while playing with her cousins as a young girl. Even her college graduation picture made her mother scrunch her nose. “You had such a great catch Laura; I don’t know why you didn’t marry David. You wouldn’t have even had to think about school.” “I was a senior in high school. How could you have wanted me to marry him at that age mom? I was still a kid.” “Well I married your father at —” “I don’t want to hear it mom.” Her mother always gives her that disappointed look. The look that says, “why aren’t you doing things my way." Laura didn’t want everything to be her mother’s way. Laura didn’t want to have to “Act Like a Lady”, she wanted to be just Laura. It baffles her that even after all these years, now engaged that Laura is still expected to follow what her mother wants. Laura wasn’t meant to be a housewife and a mother at such a young age. Laura craved that sense of freedom and independence. She wanted to go to college first, make a name for herself. Laura did just that and attended college, becoming successful and determined to do many great things along the way. Laura turned around and did all the things she wasn’t supposed to. She went to college, graduated and right away started getting into her career. She wanted to get involved in education. To that her mother said why not do something where you can be home more. In translation, you need something small just to hold you over until you get married. She didn’t have a boyfriend right out of college, and to that her mother said that both Laura and her own clocks are ticking to become mothers and grandmothers respectively. When she gets a boyfriend after finishing her Masters, Laura’s mother is ready to burst. His name is Jack and he’s the all-around American Man her mother dreamed Laura would find. He’s in the business world and has a lovely smile and is very kind. It goes against everything Laura has done in her life so far, but she can’t help but fall for him. They start to date, and Laura figures out there was nothing to fear, he lets her do her thing and he does his. She waits exactly one year before bringing him home to meet her family. The moment her and Jack sit down at the table with her mother, Laura can’t help

but cringe as she hears, “Will you be getting married soon?” The couple stumble over each other’s words as they try to find a way to appease the woman sitting across from them. Laura chokes out a “not yet mom” and her mother scrunches her face once more. It’s a constant battle of Laura doing the “wrong” thing and her mother scrunching her face. Its constant arguments of what is “ladylike” and what is not according to her mother. There are times she can barely get through watching the news with her without wanting to walk out of the house. When Laura and Jack reach two years, two long years of hearing her mother’s voice nag her, they do decide in their own perspective to get married. He proposes to her by getting down on one knee and gives her a ring. Even though they discussed it and continuously planned, he proposed for the traditional aspect. Laura smiles and rolls her eyes, immediately pulling him up off the ground. All she can say to him is she is just excited to get married and be together. The next challenge the young couple faces is having to visit Laura’s family once more. Her father simply smiles and is happy for the two. He tells Jack to join him in the living room to watch the game on TV. Laura’s mother is standing by the kitchen counter wiping her hands after just putting the roast in the oven. Laura silently sticks out her left hand to show her mother the ring and waits with bated breath for a reaction. There is no scrunching of the face, there is no look of disappointment. There’s happiness in the woman’s eyes but, like always Laura’s mother always finds the moment to ruin it all. “This is lovely Laura. But honey, you need to get married soon to have children. None of us are getting—” “Enough!” Laura yells out to her mother then quickly snatches her hand back. She roughly turns on her heel and marches up the stairs. If she didn’t leave her mother be, she knew she would say something she would regret. As she makes her way into her old room, Laura hears Jack ask what had happened and Laura’s father sighing. This is how she finds herself sitting on the pink cushioned windowsill, wondering where she went wrong by her mother. Laura can’t stand to look out the window nor at the photos any longer, the tears prick her eyes and she lets her head fall into her hands. The gentle knock on the door makes her bring her head up, “Go back downstairs Jack. I’ll be there soon.” She puts her head back in her hands, willing herself to stop when she hears the knock once more. Laura’s head shoots up and she sucks in a breath about to raise her voice when the door opens. There in the doorway stands her mother clutching a brown leather-bound journal in her white knuckled right hand. She stands there tight lipped and pale, the unsureness of her next actions radiating from her. Laura swipes angrily at her eyes, sitting up straight with her chin sticking out. “If you want me to act like a lady, I’ll act like a lady in my own way,” Laura thinks to herself as she lets her features harden. Her mother walks into the room, shutting the door behind her then matches Laura’s look. “I’m sorry.” “Are you sure about that?”

Both women stare shocked at one another, Laura because she never remembers her mother apologizing before. And her mother, because Laura never talked back like that. Laura’s mother sighs, “Yes, Laura. I am sure.” Her mother sits next to her on the windowsill and Laura fights the urge to get up and storm out of the room. For as long as Laura could remember, her mother wasn’t the type to sit there and coddle her, not since she was a child. Instead she was tough and withdrawn as Laura grew older. Her mother holds up the worn-out journal. “This,” she says while holding the book up shakily, “is why I ask you these things. This journal is why I push you like this. I know it’s not right. I know I did more harm than good. I just wanted you to have what I thought was a good life for me. I wanted you to live the dream. I guess I never realized how alike we are. You can read this, or you can leave it as is. I know you are like me in the sense that maybe talking it out right away won’t go over well. Just read it Laura and let me know what you want to do next. I’ll be downstairs with Jack and your father.” The next thing her mother does is smooth down Laura’s hair, something she hadn’t done since she was a little girl. Her mother gets up and leaves, closing the door behind her. Leave it to that woman to always make her speechless. Laura lets her eyes fall upon the journal laying on the pink cushion. Against the pink, the brown leather looks too harsh to leave it there. Laura picks up the journal and opens to the first page. Her mother’s elegant cursive is centered on the first page: This Book Belongs to Evelyn. The pages are old and yellowing, feeling as if they’ll crumble as Laura flips through them. Laura reads through each page, finding out more and more about her mother. Laura learns about how the young life of Evelyn had many hopes and dreams like her own. The difference was, Laura got to live them. As a young girl, Evelyn cared for her siblings and helped her mother with her work as a seamstress. She had to work in the shop as well to help her family make ends meet. Evelyn wanted to attend school to become a secretary to which her father said otherwise. She was forbidden to go further than her minimum high school education and was told she had to prepare for life as a mother and wife. A common phrase Laura kept stumbling upon in her mother’s cursive was “Act Like a Lady, Evelyn.” Laura holds her breath when she sees a particular journal entry. “Just shy of eighteen and I am married to my Nicholas, we are expecting. My mother and father always said “Act Like a Lady Evelyn” but I truly just wanted to be Evelyn. Maybe they were right, it’s time to be a wife and time to be a mother. I shouldn’t have looked at school, look at this life I will be living. Nicholas bought us a home; Father was right when he said marrying someone a couple of years older was a smart move. I cannot wait to hold my bundle of joy. I want the best life for him or her filled with love and happiness. This child will be my everything. Mother says when you have your child, you fall in love all over again. I cannot wait to fall in love with my little boy or girl. I vow to do all I can for them.”

Laura doesn’t realize she is crying until her teardrops hit the page. All these things about her mother, she never knew. She never realized that her mother went through all of this. Or that she had so many mishaps along the way. She knew her mother loved her deep down, but she never realized what her mother felt about having her. Laura felt the urge to go to see her mother, to tell her she is willing to do whatever it takes for them to make amends. Laura shot off the pink cushion, journal tucked in the crook of her arm and hurried over to the door and opened it. There stood her mother, eyes wide looking like a deer caught in headlights. “Mom had you been waiting here the whole time?” “Honey I’m sorry I just wanted to wait to make sure you were okay and—” “Doesn’t matter. I read it. I want to work things out.” Her mother looked up at her with glassy eyes and Laura did the only thing she could think of. She pulled her mother in for a hug.

I Miss You, But I Get It By: Ezra Friedlander There’s thunder pounding through my head and I’m disappointed at all that could’ve been and I miss you but I get it—an impossible choice with no right answer I want to talk to you but I know I need to give you the space you took for yourself and even though I understand it with my bones I still want to hold your hand and I still want to give you a hug, wrap you in my arms so you can hide from all the people whose judgement you fear but don’t worry I know I need to keep these dreams to myself be satisfied with my imagination but I’m disappointed and I miss you and there’s thunder pounding through my head

Preserved Memories by: Kristina Casubolo A flower pressed in the pages Of a book worn and favored I thought of you when I picked it Among tall weeds that wavered In a peaceful meadow, by a grassy knoll With petals of blue and a stem of green I discovered a treasure better than gold And decided to preserve the beauty I’d seen Now I turn to that yellowed page Sweet and fragrant biblichor Wafting up from a cracking spine Where therein lies something more Untouched and perfect are the tiny petals Frail is the beauty of the withered plant Yet, in its veins survives vivid memories Of passion which I fear has become scant Oh, please, do fondly think of me, Of the time we spent, just us Don’t forget those little moments Aged and reeking of must When you receive this small yet heavy token, Remember the laughs and the unshared cries Let not a single memory leave you Do not forget the pain you saw in my eyes In the future we will hold hands I wait for that fateful day When I leave behind this old plant To be with you, far away I long to never think of the years you missed And the many words I have not spoken

To wipe the salty tears left upon my cheek And to finally fix whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been broken So I hold this brittle flowerÂ Of a faded green and blue No longer so vivid to me Like my memories of you

A Sentimental Feeling By: Janae Fells

Skeletons by: Jessica Jordaens The only thing stopping me From picking up the phone Is to protect you from the beast that hides Maybe one day it’ll subside Or destroy me from the inside I want to tell you all I should’ve Apologized for all my faults And share my hearts desire But it’s better left unsaid Unknown, they’ll be taken to my grave With no legacy to be forgotten

The Glass Vase by: Scott Galgano Can you keep a secret? I broke a glass vase a few months ago I think it may have been on purpose It was much more fragile than I expected And yet, it somehow excited me Seeing those broken pieces scatter across the floor sent prickles up my arms Like a warm kiss against a frozen cheek However, not wanting to stir any trouble, I tried my best to fix it No one needed to know it was ever broken Though the scotch tape and dried globules of krazy glue were clearly visible at the right angles, no one ever noticed No suspicion was thrown my way And so, I laughed; my misdeeds would go unpunished I broke the vase again last night And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m slowly running out of tape and glue.

Strawberry Ice Cream among the Forsythia by: Noelle Clark Dear Professor Roethke, A package arrived from the college this afternoon And inside was your poem and a letter of condolence I’ve already spoken to the President and the Dean of Students They asked if there is anything I need If there is anything they can do I thank you for what you’ve written Sir I really do She would have loved it She was all I had. When my wife died Sylvia, Janie’s mother, eleven years ago Janie hid among the forsythia in our yard For hours I ran about screaming and crying Lurching from side to side Like a wounded animal Because if she disappeared I was nothing And by the time I found her The sun had already set And I could see her little head Silhouetted Against the inky blue sky as she popped up and ran to me. Her absolute favorite thing in the world was ice cream Strawberry So much so that the subtle smell cloaked her and followed her every place as a girl When I questioned her about hiding from me She assured me that she wasn’t hiding

She was only sitting in the forsythia Eating her ice cream and talking to her mother So from time to time, we would sit and eat ice cream and miss Sylvia Together In the forsythia bush. When her mother died I felt an itch. A burning sensation Contracting and expanding Pulsating beneath my skin White hot and exquisite Spreading with insidious velocity Scalding me and ripping me apart Suddenly hot Suddenly cold I was a walking misdeed And I wanted to die. But Janie told me to look for my wife And I looked for her in the stars because Sylvia had craved them And she spoke of them frantically to Jane Knowing that her daughter Bouncing Clear- eyed Raven haired Sticky from sugar and daylight Would always understand her mother. Why is it that when those around you want to meet the needs of a grieving parent They do everything but offer silence? I need that most of all these days And I fear it. Because there was typically no silence when Janie was about She chirped and flitted and hooted and tumbled Sunlit and gloriously bright Unfurling over hills on a clear day But I live in fear of the weight of the condolences and sorry-for-your-losses Cringe from them as they threaten to crush her birdsong And smother her brilliance with their heaviness In the silence I can hear her and in the solitude I can see her She wasn’t of the cosmos like her mother

I cannot find her if I look there She was of the Earth Taking such pleasure in the softness of the windThe taste of bread The mystery of the shadows and the gaudy yellow blossoms of the forsythia. It’s a pleasure to see that you saw her and recognized her For the conductor of pure energy that she was And how she had the innate ability to experience the most epic of highs And the most catastrophic of lows Which wounded her and me in their severity I could not find her in those times I could only feel her spread her uninhibited self as thin as she could Until she all but vanished Sinking rapidly into the dark with the threat of never again surfacing Until a fish disturbed the water Or a cloud in the shape of a lollipop blew over her And she would return To her earthly realm And have her ice cream and her forsythia I am alone now Turning the gyre My Janie is all I had But You saw her and wrote a poem and told me so And I thank you, Professor And I ask you alone to come If you can And stand with me In the house that Jane and I shared And we will speak words of love to her On a sunny day With strawberry ice cream Among the forsynthia.

Red

by: Nora Albinus

This Place Hasn't Changed but Maybe I Have by: Michael Kolesar Haven’t stepped foot on this trail for 3 years To preserve the memories that belong to it Summer evenings with air blanketing bronzing flesh Lightning bugs being the flickering street lights of the forest Headphones hammering nails into my ear drums Nights filling the hourglass of time with ash to pretend it’ll never end Three years have passed Summer has ended A trail as vibrant as a tropical paradise Has been taken over by winter’s grayscale palette I take a step and breathe in pines that plug my nose Not many people from that summer remain Friendships have grown and wilted Only to be replanted to restart the cycle Love has been at the top of Mountains Then swan dived into rushing rivers leading down a waterfall Picking up the pace The boy who once ran is crawling into a man The chanting of the phrase No future Is being repeated by the figment of the boy running behind me Whether it’s a joke or serious is anyone’s guess I stop looking back to focus on the familiar twists of the path And my face slowly morphs into a smile Sunshine reflecting off the stream shows a highlight reel of the time between runs

I have the luxurious Honda Civic all in my own name I have a job teaching with students I love I can see the faded finish line of CVS in the distance And May holds graduation that once seemed like a fairytale All in 3 years A 30 minute walk turns into a 6 mile run Orange horizons leering through the skeletons of branches gives the sign to turn back This trail was taped off out of fear of clouding blue skyed memories But instead itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still the safe haven it always was So when the sun decides to come out of hibernation Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be right back at the starting line Ready to race the squirrels and rabbits through twilight again

All the Daughters, all the Mothers By: Ezra Friedlander To all the daughters who were enthralled, entranced, entrapped by a box made of everything they just canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite resist, or by snakes who whispered their dreams for escape holding a fruit given freely to stomachs convulsing with hunger, For all the mothers left behind gasping, grasping, galloping forward even when their path is nothing more than broken promises and memories of when they still heard giggles tinged with reverence: Her hands are deserts sun-bleached white, speckled with dots of golden granules, Her hands are stampeding horses galloping through the air, searing figures across the infinite plains between one breath and the next racing until, Her hands are pelting rains unable to contain anything other than frustration cyclically vexing itself, while you stay stuck behind bars of crystalized sand and dead trees, Her hands are coral reefs underneath a sea of diamonds hidden and tucked away from humid, hair frizzing sunshine, Her hands are skilled surgeons tearing apart the skin of festering wounds telling themselves they help more than they kill, Her hands are September days just on the cusp of autumn treesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; leaves lying on the line between sunset orange and dew-tipped grass green, caught between one breath and the next,

Her hands are warriors attacking the keyboard with their spear-like ends hues of blues and lipstick reds demark what’s today’s battle, Her hands are splotches of pink against cream white skin in the heart of winter when hot cocoa burns in its relief and you’ve never felt more alive Her hands are my mother’s hands, letting myself say: Here’s to all the daughters who want to rewind, go back in time to rewrite their fate and come back from their mistakes Here’s for all the mothers who stayed, stubborn and brave, waiting alone with their arms wide open, hands splayed under the stars whispering it’s ok

Instructions to an Artist by: Cristina Masi Go ahead and draw my huge forehead And my mismatched skin tone, Show my nose pinker than my cheeks. I want my thighs to be how they are, Thicker than average. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hesitate to throw some cellulite on them, Every indent is a part of me. I have no shame in choosing the jeans At the bottom of the stack, Because I am curvy. So paint me as I am, Or not at all.

Look at Me by: Natalia Veras

Bourbon by: Antonio DiLorenzo Remove the seal Take off the cap Fill up the glass I took a sip It was sweet and sour Same as last night Refill the glass I took a sip Abandoned My head starts to buzz Have another I took a sip Thinking about the past when shit was normal This is your last glass I promise I took a sip Heart racing Out of control One last sip… I took a sip. Standing in front the mirror Are you tired yet? I took a sip Pathetic I don’t even recognize myself You’re almost done I took a sip My vision begins to blur Palms start to sweat Who am I?

Let go by: Janae Fells Let it go baby, let it go Those are the words I heard my father speak to me Holding me Holding his depressed, heart broken, mentally ill child in his hands. Holding me As I fight back wanting to rage and scream, out loud, on the floor Scream out my hurt My pain My suffering My disbelief. Let it go baby, let that shit go He says to me, holding me as I hold his big arms for protection For love For affection For care For empathy For selflessness I hold his big arms as my tears are flowing out, like waterfalls, uncontrollably, falling on his arms rolling down towards his tattoos, holding me and not letting me fall Dad I don’t know anymore I say, I don’t know Let it go, just let it go he says Caressing my coils, rocking his baby back and forth , wiping my tears as they continue to fall I’m settling now My crying softens, turning so quiet, still painful But coming to an ease Still lost but I know I have my family Acceptance? Nope just pain The pain of getting your heart ripped right out of your chest to be slammed on the ground and walked away from like…nothing. The pain you feel losing a loved one, but this time out of the five lost this year they’re not actually dead but still there, just never coming back.

Dead to me Let it go, one last time he says I *inhale*, I *Exhale* And I did Let go.

Perfect Stranger by: Jessica Jordaens You are my perfect stranger You’re present with yourself Oftentimes too much You’re impressive without You’re title I knew I wasn’t ready to accept it I know that this is the amount I deserve The amount you try to give me My selfish desires distract me Like most things, it's all up to me I accept my lesser worth I take what I get and cherish Or at least I try not to relish In the seeds of my implosion For every past mistake They circle my subconscious daily Holding too tight When I try to let go and move on But I’m overwhelmed by the unfamiliar So instead I’ll remain as I am Submit myself into dormancy Until this storm passes I won’t tremble at the thought Of what I have to lose When I never deserved it in the first place I’ll take your suffering as my penance If only to relieve you I could learn from more responsibility

Black Boys By: Natalia Veras

Love to Hate Everything by: Justin Gonzalez People love to call me negative, but I’m just honest. I love to hate everything. I don’t look forward to anything because life always seems to find a way to disappoint. Growing up my life was full of sadness and tragedy. From what I remember of my parents they were mean and always reeked of alcohol. My mom left my dad and joined the circus when I was just five years old. Maybe she thought he would do a better job raising me if he was on his own. She was very wrong. My father and I lasted a solid two years until things yet again went to shit. When I was seven my dad forgot me at the supermarket and never returned. I was on my own at seven, but it wasn’t all bad. The homeless people that lived in the alley next to the supermarket became my new family. They taught me how to live on my own and fend for myself. After ten years of living in the alley I schemed my way into getting a job at the supermarket. Despite only having relationships with homeless people I have made a few “friends” at work. Now that I think about it, I don’t know if I know what a friend is. I know almost nothing about them. They know almost nothing about me. We aren’t very close, but we talk every day, so I guess that’s friendship. All they do is complain and whine about superficial things. I’m pretty sure none of them were forgotten at the supermarket. I don’t even try to bond with them because people always disappoint me. Seven years later and I still have the same job, working with the same people I hate my job, I hate my friends, I hate almost everything. The only thing I look forward to in my week is when my favorite customer comes by. Sunday at noon, Rose gets her weekly groceries. Rose is nothing like me, yet for some reason she draws my attention. Rose radiates brightness and happiness, I radiate depression and despair.

She always comes to my register, I’m hopeful that I catch her eye like she catches mine. She is the first person I’ve ever felt optimistic about. I don’t know why I get excited around her, she will probably disappoint me. I am twenty-four years old and my life thus far has sucked. I think I am ready to talk to Rose. After she disappoints me at least I can say for once I tried. “Hey Rose.” “Hey Ray.” 10 years later, me and Rose are married with 2 kids, living in a beautiful home. I’m an upcoming artist, she’s a lawyer. I have a family now and I’m nothing like the way my parents were. Rose taught me everything a friend and a father should be. I love to love her.

Secrets by: Jessica Jordaens Forgive me for my silence When I should have spoken And for speaking When I should’ve stayed silent I don't mean to bother Even though you say I’m not But I know myself More than you know me at the moment I know when I begin to lose touch Become abrupt and dismissive You’re learning this slowly Where I’ve known for years Even so I’m constantly unsure Constantly analyzing Looking for answers when the questions are unclear So believe me when I say That it’s me and not you And it will never be you Because I’m a problem that can’t be solved I can function better In my secrets Than I could ever In my truth, what little I know myself There will be more left unsaid Better that it remains unknown

My Friend Texts Me for the Millionth Time by: Kristina Casubolo

The desk vibrates/ I jump/ my pencils roll/ one hits the floor/ as my phone/ buzzes/ over and over again/ I reach for it/ anticipation/ building up inside/ who could it be/ at this hour/ the screen lights up/ and I see that/ it is midnight/ but below/ there is no concept/ of this time/ just a list/ full of inquiries/ for the present/ and the future/ from Xuan/ kind and sweet and thoughtful yet/ demanding to know/ how I’m doing/ wanting an answer/ to a question/ deeper than the typical response/ down a rabbithole of conversation/ I fall/ followed by more questions/ then another/ and another/ until I feel lost/ like Alice/ confused in Wonderland/ unsure/ of her purpose/ what/ am I doing/ with my life/ is this/ the right path/ for me/ time is precious/ I’m afraid/ to waste it/ I won’t be/ young forever/ does this suffice/ are you satisfied/ with my response/ because I am out/ of answers/ what is there/ left to say/ left to do/ I cannot see/ the future/ however/ I am sure/ that things will/ fall into place/ like buds/ breaking open/ blooming/ one by one/ in their own time/ in their own way/ or at least/ I was sure/ but now/ I don’t know/ what do you think/ the glow keeps/ me company as/ I wait/ for a response/ the light/ fades/ with my hopes/ for a response/ sweet dreams/ I say/ but tonight/ I’m not/ so sure/ they’ll be sweet/ for me

Can You See Me? by: Jessica Jordaens

Deep Cleaning By: Helena Rampersaud Some days I do not want to save others Some days I do not want to be a source of comfort A constant caregiver The forever nurturer I do not want to beam at the rising sun Or even ignite my candles when it sets I’ll mute the moon with cotton swab clouds Try to find the way back to myself in the dark Hands outstretched Searching for parts of me that feel familiar I’ll shut all my doors from the winds of the world That are blowing at the flame inside of me Shield it in my palm until it can dance on its own again Burn matchsticks And matchsticks And matchsticks For the brewing warmth of my spirit Until the fire within me can kiss my fingertips in gratitude I’ll close all my windows Lest I get soaked from the rain Some days I don’t even want to wipe away the tears of the earth that has grown me I’ll plummet myself to my internal basement Dust the cobwebs off my boxed inhibitions And release them to the tornados outside When the draft creeps up and starts biting I’ll blanket myself in the reassurance I saved for others Eat up so much of my own positivity I won’t remember what it feels like to not be full Run up the stairs vacuuming false promises that have stuck to my carpeting Scrub the bathroom walls that have grown molded with sins yearning for my own forgiveness Polish my could’ve beens and should’ve beens until they shine into existence Reach into my corners

My nooks, and crannies and grooves Give everything a good shake and a wipe down Build a shrine for my dreams of the future Always keep it adorned with fresh flowers and a single grain of salt Take down the outdated picture frames that have been cluttering the walls With faces I no longer recognize Replace them with mirrors so that I am always reminded that this spaceÂ Â This holy haven Is a home for me before anyone else

Complete Sentences by: Noelle Clark You’re too nice You’re too nice You’re too nice It was the threat of my departure that sparked everything that physically happened. Before that I had been sitting on a faded couch, breathing heavily After having walked up five flights of stairs, one flight more than I could take Without getting winded. We were both holding glasses of milk that you poured While watching me. Beads of cloudy condensation slipped down the glass Remarkably lazily and formed a shining, transparent patina on my hand that Felt almost like water but was oppressively thick and therefore not water at all. Your glass was dry, which was unsettling. It was around that time that I realized that it was all unsettling and that I made a mistake coming. Too nice Too nice Much too nice “It’s great,” I said brightly. The urge to speak the Way the others did to You slammed into me Clumsily, nearly knocking me Backward and off of the couch Entirely. I was conscious of your Nearness. The blue eyes that People complimented behind Your back while in the midst Of laughing at you as you Clung to youth and relevance Sparkled with laughter and Frightened me badly. “Thanks so much for thinking of me.” “You’re sweet,” you said. “I have to go,” I said. Too. Nice.

Grinning, you were between the door and me. A singular motion that was poisonous. Your hand around my arm, bile in my throat, hatred spread eagle in my mind. And suddenly your mouth was all over mine, hard, relentless. An obscene tongue darting Between my lips. To this day, I don’t know whether I screamed or whispered, Hands striking your fleshy back awkwardly in an attempt to injure, crush, and kill you. I jerked my face away after far too long and held a hand to my lips, warm and bruised By your kiss. You registered nothing but amusement until I began to cry. You replaced the amusement with a quizzical look. “Now, come on. Let me get you some more milk or something,” you cooed. You made a number of mincing sympathetic noises at me as I downed the milk, refusing To look at you. You opened the door. “I don’t like the carousel,” I muttered. “I think it's weird.” “Ok,” you said. “I’ll get you something else then.” “They hate you at work,” I said tucking my Battered bottom lip into my mouth. “They think you’re an asshole and that you are disrespectful.” “I know,” you said, licking the droplets from the outside of my glass “I know they do. I don’t care.” “You should,” I said. “I don’t,” you said. “I’m just happy you don’t hate me. Even after this. You’re too Nice.”

The Chipmunk and the Fox by: Justin Gonzalez

A Chipmunk decided to bake cookies for the village one Friday evening. The cookies were so good that all of the animals in the village wanted more. He baked them cookies every Friday because he saw how happy they made everyone. The village seemed to really come together over these cookies. New friends were formed, and everyone seemed to really bond on these Friday evenings. There was sort of an unspoken rule among the village animals to take just one cookie, so everyone can get one. They all wanted to give each other an equal chance on enjoying one of the Chipmunk’s famous cookies. But that rule didn’t stop the Fox. One Friday evening a Fox arrived at the Chipmunk’s house earlier than all of the other animals. He did this, so he can be the first to get to the cookies. As soon as the Chipmunk came outside with the cookies the Fox ate all of them. The Chipmunk of course let the Fox know how wrong it was because now the other animals won’t get to have any cookies until the following week. The Fox simply ignored the Chipmunk because he didn’t think anyone would do anything to stop him. As soon as the rest of the village animals came to the Chipmunk’s house they were drastically disappointed. They were all saddened by the news that all of the cookies had been eaten already. After seeing all of his friends so sad the Chipmunk vowed that it would never happen again. The following week before all of the other animals arrived at the Chipmunk’s house the Fox waited near his house. The Fox wanted to again be the first one to the cookies. When the Chipmunk came outside his home he saw the Fox. Right before the Fox could eat the cookies the Chipmunk stopped him. He told him he made a special batch of cookies just for the Fox, so he can have cookies and the village animals can have cookies. The Fox, without even thanking the Chipmunk, ate his batch of cookies. Immediately after he dropped dead. The village animals came to the Chipmunks house ready to get some cookies and were surprised by the dead Fox. The Chipmunk informed the village animals that he poisoned the Fox’s cookies, so they can enjoy their cookies. The village animals rejoiced and enjoyed their cookies surrounding the dead Fox.

The Postmodern Superhero By: Katherine Imperato *Winner of the William K. Everson Prize for Writing on Film If someone were to try to pinpoint one of the largest influences on mass culture in the past decade, it’s very likely that superheroes would come to mind. One of the most famous examples, often considered the iconic or quintessential superhero, has been the character of Superman. With the publishing of Action Comics #1 in 1938, Superman cemented the archetype of the superhero—“a heroic character with a selfless, pro-social mission; with superpowers ... who has a superhero identity embodied in a codename and iconic costume ... [and] dual identities, the ordinary one of which is usually a closely guarded secret” (Coogan)—in the modern cultural canon, providing the advent of what is considered by some one of the great cultural aspects of America. Of course, the idea of the superhero—and the character of Superman—has changed with the times. The nature of comics, with fast paced storylines, interconnected stories, and nigh-innumerable characters, as well as its relatively long history, allows for different hands to take the reins, so to speak, and with each new writer a new interpretation of the character in question takes place. The tendency for the narrative of Superman being exchanged and passed around from writer to writer has since extended beyond comic book pages to the silver screen, with TV serials and films drawing more fans in with the different ways of portraying the character. Interestingly enough, growing in parallel with the swell of popularity of comic books was the era of the postmodern. Postmodernism, seen as a period of interconnectivity, blurring of boundaries between “high” and “low” art, and questioning perceptions of reality, originated as a movement just after World War II, roughly around the same time of the “Golden Age” of superhero comics (which itself was established around the time of the late 1930s to late 1940s). Postmodernism is considered firmly established at the same time as the era of the “Modern Age” of superhero comics, during the 1980s. Not only have postmodernism and superheroism grown in tandem, the very nature of comics as mentioned above lends itself to the ideas of postmodernism—many of the common themes of postmodernism can be found within comic storylines and superhero films, such as pastiche, fragmentation, the simulacra, and hyperreality, and in turn the superhero genre’s influence as a mass media is reflected heavily within modern pop culture. And as the most iconic superhero character, Superman is endemic of this reflection just as much, if not more than, his other superpowered counterparts. For this paper, I would like to take a postmodern perspective on the superhero—to see how characters adapted from comics and expanded into films, TV, and video games can be read through a postmodern lens; using the ideas of pastiche, fragmentation, the simulacra, and hyperreality, to focus specifically how the character of Superman has changed and been influenced through time and media. ...In regards to animation, one of the most important aspects of the Superman films is

the digital cinema and effects used in their creation, a familiar tenet of postmodern digital cinema. It is these effects, whether it be computer generated images or morepractical effects, that work to manipulate reality and the audience’s perceptions (Manovich). Furthermore, the effects and their quality also impacts their portrayal and interpretation of the characters, even going so far as to impact the comics. The animation aesthetic—one that is rather obvious and sparingly used besides—of the 1978 Superman film almost informs the films themselves; the effects are not necessarily realistic, which when tied into the bright costume of the film and the characterization of Superman that Christopher Reeve portrays, leans into a more campy, lighthearted tone as befitting superheroes of the Silver Age. This stylization of the film’s aesthetic led to influence a great influence on comic and superhero films in the coming years. In contrast, the more modern man of steel has an animation aesthetic that belies a film more comfortable with painting cinema—one that is much smoother and natural looking, as well as being darker in tone and in coloring, and more mature. In a more practical example, one can compare the way destruction is portrayed in both films— Superman (1978) has some smaller scale destruction of buildings and monuments, whereas Man of Steel (2013) portrays the destruction of entire cities. Interestingly enough, one could argue that they both drew from earlier portrayals of the hero Batman—the 1978 film drawing from the campy style of the 1960s television show, and Man of Steel drawing from the earlier Dark Knight trilogy (2008). In regards to postmodernism, these similar but vastly differing aesthetics of animation of the films ties into the ideal of semiotic excess, or the oversaturation of sign, images, and information, something the 2013 film is more victim of. Furthermore, this contrast between the two films evokes a certain tension as well, between campy lightheartedness and darker “edginess”. Pastiche, especially when applied to the icon of Superman, is something almost intrinsically tied into the idea of being a superhero. Referred to as a “blank parody” or parody “without a sense of humor” (Jameson 1035), pastiche is a mimicking of a “distinctive style” of a work, to allude to the past. Whereas parody is an imitation created to mock the original, like how some argue that Superman himself is of Nietzsche’s concept of the Übermensch (Jacobson), pastiche is more of a duplication. Due to the nature of existing as a pop culture icon, the character of Superman has been alluded to, referenced, or imitated by forms of media across the world. One notable example is the film The Iron Giant (1999), where the eponymous character learns about and seeks to embody Superman, to the point of mimicking the character and stopping destruction (“saving the world”). Another more recent example, the manga/anime series My Hero Academia (2016—), has the main character’s mentor heavily influenced by Superman, down to the use of heavy shading and primary colors akin to John Byrne’s art style for the character’s design. Even expies, a colloquial term short for “exported character,” of other superheroes invoke the ideals and powers of Superman in the modern era, to the point that TvTropes, a popular wiki site known for indexing tropes found in media, has several dedicated pages to cataloguing other media that mimics Superman in some way, be it through costume, superpower, or personality (TvTropes). Furthermore, the creation

of Superman films, especially within a short period of time such as the past twenty years, invokes another form of pastiche—the nostalgia film. However, the creation of these films is exceptional in that they not only invoke nostalgia for the original films (as one could argue that Superman Returns is able to for the 1978 Superman films), but to the original comics themselves back when said comics were printed. Given that Superman was released in 1978, forty years after the original comics, the film invokes an idealized and a historical view of the 1930s, while simultaneously existing almost as an anachronism (with the use of objects such as helicopters and more modern phone booths). Clark Kent appears as a bastion of charming, small town, old fashioned values while Lois Lane exudes an attitude similar to the eponymous protagonist of Thoroughly Modern Millie, both of which harken back to earlier times in American history. Furthermore, the 1978 Superman exudes a nostalgic and idealized version of the “perfect man” back during the 1930s and 1940s—one of virility and strength, a monument to typical masculinity and heroic ideals valued by World War II and post-war western society. The construction of this film evokes nostalgia for a time long since passed when it was released, but in more modern days takes the place of the ‘original’ Superman. Beyond that, not only does the film evoke a nostalgia for the past, it also exists as a simulacrum for the same.

Edinburgh Castle by: Nora Albinus

Untitled by: Jessica Jordaens There is no greater comfort Than the arms of a loved one The warmth of their presence The care in their touch They say actions S peak louder than words I tend to be all words No action But still silent when I should be spoken Because of actions Yelling over my words At night I curl into myself Holding onto unspoken truths And actions uncalled for And I picture myself in your arms Blankets mimic the warmth Of your touch When you’re not there So gentle as you let me Lean into you Hold you Reminding myself it’s real As your hands take mine Letting me stay in the moment

Casublo and I The one from before, the one called Casubolo, is the imaginative one. I walk the streets not believing in the whole fairytale deal while Casubolo does. This is why we struggle to coexist. I’ve always kept my feet firm on the ground of reality. She soars so high in the clouds, I sometimes struggle to see her. Before, I drove every morning for forty-five minutes on the dreadful Merritt Parkway. While I did this, she noticed that the leaves were changing to brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds. When I trudged through the crumbly asphalt of the school parking lot, she anticipated crossing over the soft grassy quad. Together, we would enter Brownson Hall. Casubolo always knew where she was going, what was ahead, how to tackle it. Everything was black and white, had a clear beginning and end. Even when she didn’t know what she was doing, she knew she would somehow get to where she needed to go. Casubolo existed in a fantasy world, only she didn’t know it then. Now, I only know the beginning, but can’t predict the outcome. Like a fish in a net, I am caught in the middle of the black and white, lost in the thick gray haze of uncertainty. Every day I struggle to comprehend my new reality. Confined behind the same four walls day after day, I am unable to tread the green I once did. I miss the halls, stretched like open arms, that promised knowledge. I have begun to see things as Casubolo did, only too late. Neither of us know where I am headed, now. Longing for the chill of the early spring breeze on my skin, I shiver instead from the cold black shadows of uncertainty. I have learned during this time to share, to make space for Casubolo. We are forced to coexist now, writing the pages of our story one long day at a time. It isn’t always easy to do this. To pick up the pen and mark the clean paper with the ugly that has intruded on our life. When Casubolo takes charge, she looks for the good, captures the light, and puts it to paper. She longs for a past that no longer exists, hopes for the same hopes, dreams the same dreams. But even she knows what I know: nothing will be the same. Ever. I’m not at all sure who wrote this. Who took the pen and wrote of the difficulties of living through a pandemic; deciding to express the struggle of existing during the infamous year of COVID19? Maybe it was Casubolo, desperately trying to bring back the past in a written time capsule. Perhaps it was I from the present, trying to claw my way out of the haze. However, I do know this: neither can survive without the other. And as my story continues, they too will continue, together.

Snack Wraps An Excerpt By: Noah Garcia *Winner of the Sr. Eileen O'Gorman Prize for Short Fiction I drove to McDonald’s straight from the funeral service. Through the whole bleak affair, I couldn’t stop thinking about snack wraps. See, in the early 2010s and probably earlier, McDonald’s served a “Snack Wrap,” crispy or grilled chicken nestled inside an impossibly soft tortilla, topped with the requisite accoutrements of lettuce, cheese and a drizzle of a chosen sauce. It was heavenly. As teens, my sister and I often drove through McDick’s on hot afternoons after school and each munched on a crispy chicken buffalo. Sometimes I preferred grilled chicken ranch. Once I got grilled chicken honey mustard, one of the few regrets of my twentysomething years. The wraps were the perfect fast food snack: not too heavy but filling, a good mix of flavors, and on the $2 Value Menu to boot. My senior year, I failed a calculus test at the end of a Tuesday and had tears in my eyes driving home, but by the end of a crispy chicken buffalo, it didn’t matter anymore. The big secret is that it never did, but don’t try to tell high school me that. All this to say I can personally attest to the healing power of snack wraps.The teary eyes had come back, and thinking about my last somber snack wrap experience, I marveled at teenagers’ ability to be so selfish. Nobody else in the world can think so importantly of themselves and only themselves that they cry when they fail a math test. The tears were the same, though, then and now, if the reasons were a little different.The funeral was my dad’s. Like I said, a bleak affair. He was a prominent attorney, senior litigator for Exxon-Mobil in the latter half of his career, and worked 60 billable hours a week in a corner office in a downtown skyscraper from my birth until the day before he died. Heart failure, or liver failure. Some kind of failure. A few of his colleagues spoke at the rickety wooden podium about how accomplished and skilled he was. A gorgeous writer, one said. A talented orator, another. The Briar Club’s lawn was adorned in all dark wood and black drapes. The coffin was the color of a bitter Pike Place. My dad died with a small fortune; Texas oil pays well. There was one hiccup in the early 2000’s, though, like there was for many oil and gas companies. Enron went tits-up, and my dad didn’t talk to me for months. I never found out how much money he lost, but by the time Cliff Baxter blew his brains out in his Mercedes, my dad’s hair was grayer and sparser than I had ever remembered. Today, though, outside in June, I was mostly focused on the snack wraps and trying not to sweat through my suit. My sister elbowed me, damp and completely zoned out.“Go, dude. It’s your turn to speak,” she hissed at me. People started looking at me. I hate being looked at. My legs stiffly stood me up as though they belonged to someone else, and I got up to the podium.

I said some unmemorable, evasive bullshit about my dad being a role model and I used the phrase “pillar of the community” twice. It sounded like an obituary when it was supposed to be a eulogy, and those two things strike very different tones. It went over fine enough, though. Not like anyone would criticize my words. My dad just died. The foreign legs walked me back to my seat and my sister patted my thigh. The casket closed and somber men lowered him into the ground and shoveled clay on top of him. Everyone loitered after that, watching the dirt fall, and there was no Matt Saracen moment where I grabbed a shovel and proverbially buried my dad in memory. I just stood there like everyone else and wondered to myself what the point of all the loitering was. Midway through the dirt covering, I left. The last time I spoke to my dad was after my academic year ended. I finished my second full semester of law school, doing…not great. My dad went through the trouble of using his alumni status to get me into this certain law school; it starts with Y and ends in a-l-e. I didn’t have a burning desire to attend law school, but he got me in and paid for it. I didn’t have a scrap of an alternative plan for my life, so I couldn’t really say no. I came home from New England for a bit, and the night before I was scheduled to return north for my summer clerkship, he expressed his concerns, which were many. I don’t remember the full lecture, but he used the word “investment” multiple times. My schooling was his investment, or I myself was. And he wasn’t “seeing returns” on it. That wasn’t new, either. I retreated to my room, went to sleep, and caught my plane the next morning after he left for work.The tears came back as I inched along in Westheimer traffic. Heat waves radiated off the asphalt and the cars around me. I knew after my pit stop, I had to go back to my parents’ house to meet with the estate lawyer and start cleaning out his things -- things I didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. The road blurred with tears. More than anything, I needed to know what he wanted. From me, from himself. His dissatisfaction stretched beyond my failures, and I never knew why a man who took so much pride in his work seemed so insecure. If I wasn’t up to standard, the elite kind of standard, he took it as his own failure, his own embarrassment. I’ll never know why. The golden arches loomed ahead on my right. I just wanted a snack wrap. I decided against the drive through. I wanted to walk up to the counter, smell the French fries and salt wafting from the hectic kitchen, and hear that inexplicable beeping from one of the machines omnipresent in every McDonald’s. At the culmination of my craving, those legs dragged my feet up to the pristine white countertop and said desperately to the cashier, “A crispy chicken buffalo snack wrap with a small fries and a Diet Coke, please.” Unfazed, she retorted: “We discontinued that menu item a while ago, sir. We don’t have them anymore.”It just wasn’t my day. I felt all emptied out by the lack of snack wraps. I needed a snack wrap. My dad never needed anything as much as I needed a snack wrap. Maybe a defibrillator, at the end.

Marxism Meets Colonialism: Systems of Subjugation An Excerpt By: Noah Garcia *Winner of the Sr. Margaret Williams Prize for Literary Criticism

The founding principles of colonial theory rely on the assigning of value to colonial enterprises and imperial interests. Value is subjective; the society it operates within determines the actual value, financial and social capital, of all resources, objects, people, and experiences. In the imperial system, the nationstate holds the power to designate value, define currency, and create commodity. A cross-border economic system with colonial interests is predicated upon the necessity of the state’s consolidation of power. Power, internationally, must be consolidated by standardizing the value of resources, goods, and services that flow from the colonial interests back into the mother country. Because there is no context economically or socially to universally define the value of goods and services, the mother country must provide a system of value, defining commodities, economic growth, and the expectations of production from the colonial entity. Marxism mirrors European colonialism of the 19th century in its scope of nationalism as ideology, creating an economic system directly benefiting the mother country, and rewarding conformity and fealty to the state’s implemented colonial systems, whether domestic or abroad, as a supposedly righteous endeavor.Without the proper economic context, defined by the nation-state, colonial economic systems cannot profit the mother country, as colonies work from a completely different economic system of production than the Western world. Only by ideologically dictating to the colonial entities their allegiance to the mother country does the colony operate under the mother country’s thumb. Imperial nations that operate as empires carry their own ideologies; they define the empire as its own morality. In order to discuss economic systems perpetuated by colonialism, a foundation of the colonial plight must be established. The entire goal of colonialism is to strip away cultural context to exert control over the lives of the colonial citizens. This is a direct parallel to Marx’s goal of stripping all other ideology from his own citizens, leaving the ideology of the state to rise to the top. It is misleading, however, to address the ideology of nationalism directly, as it is merely the void of a workable, culturally contextualized values system. The falsehood of nationalism as ideology works through the absence of anything else. When there is no cultural context, the nation can step in as the only authoritative presence, and claims itself as an ideology when, in reality, it is simply an oppressive government entity on the lives of its colonial citizens, and for Marx its domestic citizens. Marx even advocates for variable social capital according to the state ideology:

"Capital also is a social relation of production. It is a bourgeois relation of production, a relation of production of bourgeois society. The means of subsistence, the instruments of labour, the raw materials, of which capital consists – have they not been produced and accumulated under given social conditions, within definite special relations?” (Marx). Marx admits that there is no separating the social and economic value of goods, and that they are dependent upon ‘social conditions’ – conditions that the state defines value for and expects from its citizens. Even the value of labor and in turn commodity comes at the jurisdiction of the state, able to be defined through the lens of the empire and its geopolitical interests. The imperial ideology demands that the state set these values for its people, domestic or colonial. The British understood this as well; their distinction came with the difficulty of defining social and economic capital for colonies with completely different worldviews. The nation itself is elevated to sentient status, and the ideology of nationalism credits the nation as integral to the value of the society that it holds. Benedict Anderson, in “Imagined Communities,” asserts that the actual abstraction of the nation only exists in the minds and the priorities of those who belong to it. Because of its almost sentience in the political and social minds of its citizens, nationhood “tends unconsciously to hypostasize the existence of Nationalismwith-a-big-N (rather as one might Age-with-a-capital-A) and then to classify 'it' as an ideology” (Anderson 49). Nationalism, in and of itself, is not a function of ideology. It carries no moral code, no structure of principles, but because of the ‘imagined community’ that it inhabits, it is elevated to the level of an ideology. Once it reaches this point, it can be used to culturally subjugate colonial territories in accordance with the imperial ideology of nationalism. The idea of nationalistic ideology puts the state first, even for colonial interests that will never be accepted domestically, and never reap the political benefits of citizenship within the domestic empire. Marxism relied on these ‘imagined’ communities to hold its social structure together. In the absence of religion, the easy designation of bourgeoisie and proletariat allowed for the populace to fit into either community, feeling a sense of class solidarity. The falsehood lies in the fact that both of these ‘communities’ lie under the purview of the state, and class solidarity in an economically and culturally restricted society doesn’t work. Marx championed class solidarity, and European colonialism relied on imperial solidarity. The European system had an easier task, as it merely subjugated its colonies and forced imperial solidarity by dismantling colonial societies. In both cases, the only solidarity is to the state itself.

Contributors Nora Albinus is a photographer based in Westchester, NY. She primarily takes headshots and portraits for clients, but takes landscape and pictures for fun!

Jeanine Castanga is a Senior Creative Writing Major at Manhattanville pursuing the dual degree program in Early Childhood Education. The short story you are reading is from her Senior Writing Portfolio, “Hot Button Issues in Education,” which utilizes fiction writing to examine different issues that teachers may face in their classrooms. This story examines how a teacher can have an impact on a student who struggles with mental health.

Kristina Casubolo is a first year student at Manhattanville College with a passion for writing! She is currently double majoring in Communication Studies and English with a concentration in creative and professional writing, though she is looking into minoring in Finance as well. She can’t wait to see how much she'll grow here as a person and a writer!

Daneil Chambers is passionate about the arts. She finds ways to express herself through various modes of expression, with a common thread of channeling the human spirit in all her works.

Noelle Clark is a Manhattanville senior, majoring in English. You can usually find her lurking around anyone who is eating french fries the hopes she can snatch one off of their plate. She would particularly like to thank Graffiti for publishing her poetry this edition and for giving her a chance to get her work out there.

Elizabeth DiGiorgio is a senior at Manhattanville College. She is graduating with a double major in English with a focus in Film and Communications and Media. She hopes after college to be able to work and continue her interest in creating ceramic art. This is the second time her work has been featured in Graffiti.

Antonio DiLorenzo is a junior at Manhattanville. He is a sports studies major, but has an interest in creative writing. (Poems, short stories, etc.) He is the third person in my family to attend Manhattanville College.

Janae Fells was born and raised in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY. She is a student and soon to be 2020 college graduate from Manhattanville College with a major in Communications & Media Studies with a concentration in Photography & Film, and double minors in Art History and African Studies. She always had an interest in the arts, poetry, photography, media which later on became a passion of hers. She grew up in a household of educators and artistic people that always wanted her to find ways to express myself, which made her determined to dedicate her life's work around telling stories and expressing myself through her art work.

Ezra Friedlander is a transgender nonbinary senior at Manhattanville College who uses they/them pronouns. Ezra majors in English with a concentration in literature because they love to read. Ezra tries to write short fiction and poetry when the muse allows for it.

Scott Galgano is a graduating senior in the Manhattanville College Class of 2020. With a major in psychology and a minor in marketing, Scott plans on pursuing a career in online advertising via social media. In his free-time, Scott is an aspiring singer/songwriter, having already released two albums through Bandcamp, and is currently using this period of self-quarantine to continue writing poetry and recording music.

Noah Garcia is an English Literature major and junior at Manattanville. He is also a member of the Valiants baseball team. He is a prospective law student and served as the Associate Editor on this edition, and also is excited to be published for the second time in Graffiti.

Kate Imperato is a third year Undergraduate student currently majoring in English with a Focus in Creative Writing and a minor in Film Studies. Kate has been writing creatively for most of her life, focusing on long form fiction and fantasy. While she had initially taken a Film Studies course last year to assist in writing movie reviews for Touchstone, she fell in love with studying and analyzing her favorite films and media, and discussing it with others. When not writing, she typically spends her time playing video games, reading, or playing Dungeons and Dragons with friends.

Jessica Jordaens is a a digital media major at Manhattanville College, and a member of the Class of 2020. Since writing has always been something that interests her, she took the opportunity to expand her style from prose to poetry and screenwriting

Michael Kolesar is from Mahopac, NY and is a senior majoring in Math. Everyone knows him as the guy who works at CVS, but he's also a substitute teacher for PNW Boces. When he's not in work or school you can catch him at pop-punk/punk shows diving off stages or screaming into microphones.

Cristina Masi is a senior Communication Studies major with a triple minor in Sociology, English, and Philosophy. She has had two on-campus jobs and two on-campus internships. She believes that her Manhattanville education and professional experiences will lead her to a positive future. She is excited for what is to come.

Indigo Moore was born in New York City on April 28th, 1998 and grew up in Harlem. Growing up a little stranger than most girls, she liked watching the news rather than cartoons or Reality TV. Inspired by a desire to help people, Indigo enrolled in Manhattanville College in 2016 and Majored in Communications, hoping to use her words to help people the same way journalists do.

Geena Metellus is an aspiring photographer who focuses mostly on still life. At age 16, she noticed her interest in taking pictures of her mother’s food, which sparked her desire to pursue a major in digital media. While at Manhattanville, Geena worked as Director of Photography in two short MVP films and picked up an interest in animation and portrait photography. She currently runs a food instagram where she advertises her mom’s food for their upcoming business.

Thea Nitis is a junior at Manhattanville College. She is an English Literature major and a psychology minor. She is excited to be published in Graffiti for the second time.

Helena Rampersaud is graduating with a double major degree in Creative Writing and Communications. She is passionate about using her voice to share the stories of marginalized communities. Helena is proud to write about her Indo-Caribbean heritage, generational healing, and wellness. She is grateful to have had the opportunity to be this year's editor-in-chief.

Anastasia Rose Romanowski is a Senior majoring in Childhood Education and English (Creative Writing). She is from the Bronx, NY and is very fortunate to have a beautiful family, incredible boyfriend and great friends who support her. Throughout her years here at Manhattanville, she has grown and flourished into the strong independent woman she is today.

Julianna Rush is currently a junior at Manhattanville. She is majoring is psychology and minoring in sociology. She loves to spend her free time writing poetry and is so excited to be a part of Graffiti!

Natalia Veras , also know as Culture Face, is a digital visual creator based in New York City. She incorporates her favorite cultures to juxtapose the reality that exists in her mind. Veras has experience in many fields of the visual arts, including creating album covers, creative directing and shooting themed series photo shoots. She also throws annual art showcases. Through her Dominican-Bronx born eyes, she is sure to transport you to an alternate reality. a reality where fashion, music, love, and happiness all coexist.

SPRING 2020 Manhattanville College

Purchase, NY