Spring 2019 | Illumination: The Undergraduate Journal of Humanities by Illumination: the Undergraduate Journal of Humanities

The Undergraduate Journal of Humanities

Cover Art:

My Version of Spirituality Digital Art Kendra Raczek

The mission of Illumination is to provide the undergraduate student body of the University of Wisconsin-Madison a chance to publish work in the fields of humanities and to display some of the schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best talent. As an approachable portal for creative writing, art, and scholarly essays, the diverse content in the journal will be a valuable addition to the intellectual community of the university and all the people it affects.

www.uwilluminationjournal.com Through the publishing of our six student-run journals and magazines, the Publications Committee of the Wisconsin Union Directorate provides a creative outlet for UW-Madison students interested in creating poetry and prose, reporting on music and fashion, or delving into research in science and public policy. We celebrate creativity on campus by providing hands-on experience in publishing, editing, writing, and artmaking.

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

In August of 2017, I started receiving love letters. These letters are not styled with a ballpoint pen or sprayed with perfume reminiscent of roses. They are Sunday morning emails for those a part of “the love club.” Each Sunday, I received a love letter with wide margins as pink as 6 AM skies - pink 6 AM skies because everyone is too busy to notice in real life. Everyone is always busy. Everyone is too busy to stop and love themselves. Including creators inside this semester’s issue. As students on this campus enter classrooms, they also can leave something behind: love. Everyone wants to feel special, and hopefully everyone has, but feeling special in a classroom means working harder than anyone else. How can you get ahead? How can you be the person they remember? Self-love isn’t necessarily part of the process. So you struggle. And then, when you realize you’ve committed yourself to love affairs with everything but yourself, you make art, you write. You reflect upon the people and experiences that have harmed you, inspired you. You think about the places to which you never want to return and where you want to go. You think about how you feel at the end of the day, on the way home, and as you soak in the soft blue hue of a depressing news broadcast. This semester’s issue of Illumination is my love letter to you. Thank you for being vulnerable and sharing; however, don’t wait around to see what love might have done had you loved in time. You work hard. You are talented. You are creative. You matter. You belong here.

You are loved.

print staff

editor in chief | Ryan Mulrooney loves holiday music and Birkenstocks layout editor | Olivia Hughes loves Frank's Red Hot and watercoloring prose editor | Anna Rodriguez loves well-made cookbooks and waking up in new cities erose editor| Madison Knobloch loves apiculture and alliteration poetry editor |Hayley McNiff loves eating ramen noodles and using the Oxford comma art editor |Hibah Ansari loves coffee and controversy art editor |Jenni Lien loves watching sitcoms and veggie fried rice art editor |Kayla Wasserman loves hot yoga

executives Wisconsin Union President |Mills Botham Publications Committee Director | Fernanda Martinez Publications Committee Advisor | Jen Farley

digital staff

digital editor|Emma Liverseed loves poetry and hiking at Devil's Lake wisconsin idea editor | Evanka Annyapu loves potatoes & scouting out new cafes in town

marketing consultant| Ellie Spadaccini loves chocolate chip pancakes and The 1975 webmaster| Maddy Buetow loves cooking and baking director of photography |Noah Laroia-Nguyen loves printmaking and cooking photographer|Calder Sell loves photography, trees, and YOU! photographer |Tori Tiso loves strawberry jello and crafting collages staffwriter|Lauren Hartman loves yoga, pineapple pizza, and any and all dogs staffwriter|Zhiyun Zhao loves theatre and writing staffwriter|Meg Ruocco loves Disney Channel Original Movies, which she affectionately refers to as DCOMs. Ask her about it, because no one else ever does.

staffwriter|Marissa Beaty loves all things Queen and any whacky art (think Hironymous Bosch)

staffwriter|Gabrielle Masson loves sweet potato fries and running outside

PROSE

Muse

Sammy Gibbons

Intentions

Where do we belong?

Drowning

Guilty Hands Maggie Hendon

Elizabeth McGillis Drayna Keanu Rice

Sarah Arassi

POETRY

perform an exorcism [on your self image] Alexa Johnson

The Sceneic Route

Sunflower Tango

In the Mouth of Georgia Megan Kruse

Untitled Ethan Dickler

Snow Drifts Ryan Liam Maguire

Atomic Number 82

Elegy Kennel Alexa Johnson

Hometown Departure Megan Kruse

Conrad Wight

Emma Liverseed

C Koepp

ART

Thinking

Eliana Wasserman

Baptism

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT Elizabeth McGillis Drayna

Another Special Order

a12: being is a becoming Benjamin Sharp

Untitled

Diary

Self Portrait

Views of Dubai and Mecca

Alex Elgas Eliana Wasserman

Elizabeth McGillis Drayna Walter Egger Alex Elgas Eliana Wasserman Yaseen Najeeb

Fairydust

Ella Quainton

Place Where it Snows

At Last

Sway

Baby it's cold outside

Necessity is the Mother of Invention Sasha Arkhagha

Bar Food

Walter Egger

Diner

Untitled

Preoccupied

Kevin Tran Commercialism as Realism Kendra Raczek

Eliana Wasserman

Growth

Shot through the heart Alex Elgas

Sheikh Zayed Mosque Yaseen Najeeb

Hank

Sunny Townhouse Aaron Pawlinski

Coconut Flowers

Congratulations

Rumors

WINTER M00D

Filtered years

Cow Jumped Over the Moon

Jac Dellaria Raja Timihiri

Walter Egger

Genevieve Vahl Genevieve Vahl

Elizabeth McGillis Drayna Kevin Tran

Alex Elgas

Elizabeth McGillis Drayna Sasha Arkhagha Ella Quainton

Sasha Arkhagha

Thinking Oil on canvas Eliana Wasserman

perform an exorcism [on your self image] Alexa Johnson

by ensuring the tasks for the day are completed. commenting on the nuisance of stressors is redundant here as weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been over it enough to make each of us fall to our knees, hands to god. return the bits of food to the crevices in your mouth, swallow the strand of hair you used to floss it out while you are there. put away your anger, which has always felt this important. this hypnosis strives to deconstruct you until no longer recognizable. even your insecurities will be shed stolen as teeth from under a pillowcase [and the time you mustâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve spent, to manage to find sentimentality in anything.] by the end, you will learn to be self-conscious in new ways. you are only yourself until you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember which parts to hate. when you die, stand before your corpse in the mirror. assume the surrender position practiced earlier [and earlier again.] it will help to continue breathing, but in truth, all steps are optional. slide into your custom mold. a spine cupped coldly on the impression tray and how you will emerge, harder than steel, yet just as brittle, sensitive as enamel on ice, thick lacquer immersing you. it is time to relinquish your power. it will never be the last time, love.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT Woodcut Relief Print Elizabeth McGillis Drayna

a12: being is a becoming Digital Art Benjamin Sharp

MUSE

Sammy Gibbons Violet’s unblinking green eyes constantly stared at Margo. The real eyes were probably staring into rotten apple dents at the grocery store. But these irises, blended with shades of milky watercolors or jagged with emerald magazine cut outs, were only for Margo. Sometimes she talked to Violet’s penciled, slightly parted lips. A couple times she thought she heard hints of whispered responses. Margo smudged the final touch, a shallow dimple on her right cheek, with a stub of charcoal. She let her breathing come back to a normal pace, leaving her trance and coming out of the music’s flow. Her work had always been a feelings dump, her thoughts taking shape from her brush in some way, through colors or images. For a year all she could bring to life on canvas was heartbreak in the shape of a small, dimple-faced woman. The doorbell buzzed in the living room. Margo streaked her worn jeans with paint to half-clean her hands before pressing the speaker. “It’s me.” Elle’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Be down in a minute.” Margo wiped hair out of her eyes, adding a gash to the stripes covering the rest of her. Elle’s voice ebbed in and out. “I have to pee. Let me in?” “So impatient.” Margo pushed the button to let her in and rushed to grab the tiny canvas before she heard the elevator ding. She rested it on a box — it still needed to dry — and forced the closet door shut, shoving a few stray pieces of paper and bits of pastels in with the mess. She didn’t need Elle to see Violet.

Margo was at the sink scrubbing black dust off her arms when Elle walked in. Her friend’s small-boned frame filled the tiny one-bedroom apartment. “Is that charcoal?” she asked excitedly, rubbing a finger on Margo’s forehead. “Have you finally been at it again?” Margo pushed her hand away with a damp paper towel and erased the mark. “Oh, no, just throwing away some old supplies.” “I hope you don’t mean all your supplies.” Elle’s eyebrows curved in opposite directions and furrowed. “It’s been a year. You have to get out of this artist’s block. Today will help, I promise.” Margo nodded subtly but Elle was already shutting the bathroom door. The two went down to Elle’s dented Buick, situated at a jagged angle with its hazards on as an excuse, an emergency stop for peeing. Margo moved Elle’s massive bag of brushes into the backseat; she always insisted on bringing her own supplies. “It’s been so long since we’ve done this. I’m so glad you finally gave in.” Elle angled herself at Margo as she backed out of the parking lot. “I’m nervous.” “It’s only been one year in your 21 as an artist. It’ll come back to you.” Margo hesitated. “It’s just been a while since I made something people would see.” “If the Margo I know is still in there, you’ll forget about anyone else the second you have that paintbrush in your hand.

***

It was three years earlier when Margo re-met Violet. Six months after another fleeting and unsatisfying romance with some guy. Two weeks after she kissed a woman for the first time. Her touches and lips were magnetic, luring Margo from the bar where they met into a cab. More would have happened in her floral bed if their long hair and boobs brushing together hadn’t made Margo scream, “I’m not gay.” At the end of those two weeks, Margo had silently mulled over the little flame in the corner of her stomach that ignited that day. She almost blurted it to Elle when they mod podged magazine shards onto paintings. She dropped her scissors and grabbed small pinches of tobacco from a plastic bag, rolling them into cigarettes that would stop words from spilling out of her lips. As she inhaled deeply and began trimming along an airbrushed thigh, Elle’s buzzer rattled. “She’s here!” Elle walked on her toes to get the door. A dark bottle of wine came through the door’s crack before Violet’s curly hair. “Margo, in the flesh.” She walked over to me and looked at my halfmade collage, at this point made entirely of naked goddesses covering their crotches with orchids. She laughed softly. “I always meant to ask how you were after Elle’s birthday.” Oh right, Margo thought. A year ago she’d passed out on the couch before Violet, Elle and their tipsy friends left for dinner. Elle had just met Violet at a protest a few weeks before her birthday and they quickly bonded over their elaborate

“Protect Mother Earth” banners. Margo remembered being interested in learning more about Violet, but blushed when the memory of vomiting into Elle’s bathroom toilet came back, maroon sludge replacing suave words. “Is that charcoal?” she asked excitedly, rubbing a finger on Margo’s forehead. “Have you finally been at it again?” Margo pushed her hand away with a damp paper towel and erased the mark. “Oh, no, just throwing away some old supplies.” “I hope you don’t mean all your supplies.” Elle’s eyebrows curved in opposite directions and furrowed. “It’s been a year. You have to get out of this artist’s block. Today will help, I promise.” Margo nodded subtly but Elle was already shutting the bathroom door. The two went down to Elle’s dented Buick, situated at a jagged angle with its hazards on as an excuse, an emergency stop for peeing. Margo moved Elle’s massive bag of brushes into the backseat; she always insisted on bringing her own supplies.

“It’s been so long since we’ve done this. I’m so glad you finally gave in.” Elle angled herself at Margo as she backed out of the parking lot. “I’m nervous.” “It’s only been one year in your 21 as an artist. It’ll come back to you.” Margo hesitated. “It’s just been a while since I made something people would see.” “If the Margo I know is still in there, you’ll forget about anyone else the second you have that paintbrush in your hand.” *** It was three years earlier when Margo re-met Violet. Six months after another fleeting and unsatisfying romance with some guy. Two weeks after she kissed a woman for the first time. Her touches and lips were magnetic, luring Margo from the bar where they met into a cab. More would have happened in her floral bed if their long hair and boobs brushing together hadn’t made Margo scream, “I’m not gay.” Untitled Digital Painting Alex Elgas

At the end of those two weeks, Margo had silently mulled over the little flame in the corner of her stomach that ignited that day. She almost blurted it to Elle when they mod podged magazine shards onto paintings. She dropped her scissors and grabbed small pinches of tobacco from a plastic bag, rolling them into cigarettes that would stop words from spilling out of her lips. As she inhaled deeply and began trimming along an airbrushed thigh, Elle’s buzzer rattled. “She’s here!” Elle walked on her toes to get the door. A dark bottle of wine came through the door’s crack before Violet’s curly hair. “Margo, in the flesh.” She walked over to me and looked at my half-made collage, at this point made entirely of naked goddesses covering their crotches with orchids. She laughed softly. “I always meant to ask how you were after Elle’s birthday.” Oh right, Margo thought. A year ago she’d passed out on the couch before Violet, Elle and their tipsy friends left for dinner. Elle had just met Violet at a protest a few weeks before her birthday and they quickly bonded over their elaborate “Protect Mother Earth” banners. Margo remembered being interested in learning more about Violet, but blushed when the memory of vomiting into Elle’s bathroom toilet came back, maroon sludge replacing suave words. Violet poured wine the same shade of what Margo puked up that night. After setting three glasses down she joined the other two sitting cross-legged on the Margo couldn’t help but look at Violet every few minutes. Her round glasses fell to the tip

of her nose, balanced on a gold hoop in her nostril. They made eye contact once, Margo looked down quickly. Once they finished a couple glasses of wine they began to talk, suggesting paths for Violet’s pen to take but falling into off-road tangents. Elle asked if Violet was still seeing her girlfriend. When she said no Margo felt her stomach tighten like a rubber band ball Days after that a text from an unknown number blinked on Margo’s phone: “hey, it’s violet! wanna grab coffee and write/ draw this week? :)” They met but again distracted each other. They talked for hours, refilling their tea mugs until the barista started stacking chairs on tables. “I’m this way.” Margo pointed in the direction of her apartment building when they pushed through the doors. “I’m near there. I can take the long way.” Violet started walking as Margo’s mind started running. They reached Margo’s door after fifteen minutes of talking about they hated the cold but neither could ever live somewhere always warm. Margo started digging for her keys and Violet stepped an inch closer. “I hope it’s obvious I’m into you.” She smirked. Margo laughed, almost a sigh of relief. “It wasn’t, but I know it was grossly clear that the feeling’s mutual.” “Can I kiss you?” Margo nodded and their two lips moved together, broken up by smiles and small chuckles. “Come inside?” Two years later and most days spent with Violet, Margo felt comfortable. She wore a rainbow-striped pin on her purse.

***

She painted every day. The last time Margo painted something people knew about, she spent weeks mixing shades of blue and purple acrylic until she found the indigo color of outer space. She erased and redid Violet’s soft eyes, colored and crumpled like a dollar bill, beneath an astronaut’s helmet on the last day she painted in front of someone, reworking her nostrils until they flared just right. “How many times are you going to re-draw that?” Elle was sitting reclined on the couch lazily moving her hand across a sketchbook. Margo turned from the easel she stood at across from her and made a show of stuffing headphones into her ears. Her phone ringing interrupted drum crashes. She wrung her hands in a towel and stepped onto Elle’s balcony. “Hey, you.” “Hi,” Violet replied. “Can I come over?” “I’m at Elle’s, give me an hour?” “Yeah, sure. See you then.” Margo filled in the painting’s galaxies, added a layer of silver to the spaceship. The last flourish was a note on the back: To Violet, Happy 23rd Birthday. You’re my moon. Love always, Margo. The canvas was twice her size, but she carried it the few blocks between Elle’s apartment and her own. Violet was sitting on the front steps when she got there. “Don’t look at this, not yet!” Margo pressed Mars against her torso, balancing it on her chest as she unlocked the door. They got in the tight elevator. Margo leaned in to kiss Violet, but she looked down at the permanent ink scrawled in the canvas’ corner. Worry wrinkles carved deep ridges in her forehead. “What’s wrong? I promise it’s only kind of based on you, I know you didn’t want a portrait.

“Let’s talk inside, Margie.” The bell dinged. They shuffled a few feet to Margo’s door in silence. We should see other people. Margo muttered it over and over. It was all she could hear even after Violet’s indent in the couch disappeared. Two years had ended in an hour. Margo strained to catch her breath through sobs. She pushed the painting off the table, flipping it to see Violet’s hardened face. She jabbed her heel through the curved nose, into the pearly space suit’s middle. She stomped until only patches of stars remained, like meteor holes punched through their sky, until she collapsed on the couch. The next morning, Margo perched the canvas on her kitchen counter. She sat at the table across from it with a thick, empty sheet of paper and her paints. She twirled blues, purples, greens, white in a pallet until it made a glob matching the canvas’ background and started to recreate the scene, curvy-nosed astronaut and all. Hours later, she finished and hung it in her room across from her bed. She grabbed

Self Portrait Mixed Media Eliana Wasserman

a bottle of wine and the big canvas, and walked to Elle’s apartment, throwing the wounded painting in the dumpster as she passed it. As far as Elle knew, Margo hadn’t touched a brush since the day she completed the big canvas. The one thing Margo actually hadn’t done in a year was talk to Violet. Margo made excuses to always go out or to Elle’s apartment, usually said her home reminded her of Violet and made her feel sick, so no one would have the chance to barge in and lock eyes with dozens of green pairs. Elle pulled into a parking lot outside a crumbling brick building. Some windows were boarded up, others had curtains drawn like there was something inside too embarrassed for the outside to know it lived there. She got out and grabbed her brushes and apron, Margo followed empty-handed. The inside smelled like the outside looked — musty and abandoned, with a sharp hint of cleaning solution and fresh paint.

They walked up some stairs toward the thick, glue-like smell. Faint ambient guitar danced through the empty hall leading to the studio. Tall windows filtered dusty light onto the concrete floors and string lights tangled across the ceiling. Five people stood at easels holding blank canvases. They all wore paint-stained baggy jeans and shirts, most piled their hair on top of their heads in wild buns. “Grab whatever spot you want,” said a short woman wearing red cat eye glasses as she came up to them, handing them each a canvas. “I’m glad you could finally drag your friend along, Elle.” She winked at Margo as she went to stand in the center of the easel circle. “Thanks for coming, everyone!” Her volume rose slightly but her tone was still gentle like she was talking to a cat. “My name’s Greta. I’m so thrilled to see a few new faces. I hope you come back to The Space next week for another great free class. That one will be watercolor stilllife. But, without further ado, please welcome Marc, who’s so graciously offered to model for us today.” Marc stood up from a folding chair in the corner and took Greta’s place at the center, waving slightly with one hand and dragging the chair with the other. He slipped out of his loose, silky pants in quick motion, then turned the chair around and sat on it backwards. He draped one forearm along its back and rested his chin on top of it, his other hand gripped his thigh. His dick mimicked his coy smile, taunting Margo. She focused on his actual head.

“Have at it.” He smirked, a bit of a Southern twang tugging at the ends of his words. Elle set up an easel while Margo grabbed materials from the supply lending corner before planting herself next to her friend. They both tied their hair back like the others. Margo took a stubby pencil and started outlining his wide forehead, hypnotized into a trance as each brush stroke moved with the ebbing acoustic guitar notes. She traced the outline of his jaw with her eyes, letting her hand guide the pencil across the canvas. She stared hard at bump where his cheekbone pushed against his skin. Sketched the narrow space between his eyelids. The final touch of his face was a nose arched over his lips like an awning. Once she had the light pencil sketch done she squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, and let her mind and hand go. Margo thought of Violet when she swirled a cerulean shade in her pallet. She thought of their camping trip — the two of them close together in her thin hammock, talking beneath leaves interlaced like fishnet tights covering the sky. She thought of Violet’s house — it smelled like a grandmother’s bedroom, like dusty furniture and stale books that hadn’t been moved in decades. She’s probably there typing too fast, her shoulders raised to her hears as she hunches over her desk. Two hours went by and Greta trilled “time’s up.” Margo had colored his naked torso, the chair. Added some pink to his dry lips, mixed greens to form his olive skin tone.

She took a few steps back from the canvas to get a better look. She stared at Marc, back at the canvas, back and forth. Instead of a wide, blank forehead was a thin strip of skin fringed with bangs. The eyes were a green more piercing than his flat brown. The thin nose was nothing like the beak over his mouth. Tiny pricks dotted the narrow legs, nothing compared to his hairs long enough to braid. “How’d he turn out?” Elle came over to look at Margo’s work. “Jesus Christ, Margo.” “I thought it would work,” Margo whispered. “What do you mean?” Elle’s voice had risen when she saw the painting, drawing the other painters to Margo’s canvas, including Marc who snorted. “Have my tits gotten that big?” “I really tried, Elle, I’ve been trying.” Watered-down paint dripped from her paintbrush as her quivering hand shook it. “Well, you know, we have our own creative freedoms. I can see how you got your inspiration.” Greta wiped her hands repeatedly along her smock, confused and ready to get this group out of her studio. “Let’s all give Marc a round of applause! Take your canvases, leave the supplies…” . “Come on, let’s get you home.” Elle untied her apron. She started packing up her and Margo’s things, a rosiness creeping up her neck. Margo reached for the thickest brush again and plunged it in her Marc’s skin tone mix. She globbed it across the grassy eyes and ringed nose, smeared it on the face, layered skin thick over the long-lasting scar.

Fairy Dust Photography Ella Quainton

At Last Ink, gouache, colored pencil Jac Dellaria

THE SCENIC ROUTE Conrad Wight

A halo of half-assed winter sun around our driver’s head, she offered me a bite of her sandwich. I accepted without hesitation. (She grew up on the Northside.) Biting glare reflecting off fallow fields and grain silos; chill leaking hrough decade-old luxury windows; metal roofs blinding briefly, sending me swirling back into my mind’s eye as barnsides adorned in unmistakable bold-italic-curved-red whipped by like youth. “We beat Michigan today” over the radio. No time to stop; too much, it seemed, ill-spent stuck behind snowplows so the drive-thru it is

Baby it's cold outside Acrylic on Canvas Raja Timihiri

INTENTIONS

(trigger warning): sexual assault

Elizabeth McGillis Drayna

my phone trying to get me to come help him. So, I We’re sitting on your couch talking about that court went to this bar to get him and help him walk home.” case in Ireland. You heard about it, the one where the I hesitate. “I actually went there from this other random guy’s house who I was hooking up with,” I defense lawyer held up the girl’s underwear in court laugh, so orchestrated, so perfectly light-hearted. I am as evidence that what happened wasn’t rape. afraid to look at you. “That’s so fucked up,” you say. You’re quiet, sub “Nice, nice,” you laugh with me, signifying your dued. We both know you can’t relate. No one thinks allegiance. your boxers are sexual. My shoulders relax slightly. I allow myself to catch “Yeah.” I struggle to find more to say. All I can your eye, if only for a moment, before continuing. think of is my own drawer full of lacy thongs and all the situations in which they could be used against me. “So on the walk back he kept trying to kiss me… so many times that eventually I just let him.” “I’ve told you about what happened to me right? It This all seemed fun and silly and adventurous at was a long time ago.” the time. I even kissed him back eventually; it felt safe, “I mean, you told me that something happened, like a joke. but I don’t know the details,” you say. I can’t tell if “Anyway, I didn’t want him to pass out in the street, you’re hoping I’ll say more or willing me to change so I walked him all the way to his house, and by then the subject. But I can’t not tell it, the story clattering out of my it was super late at night, so I just crashed with him in his bed.” mouth, my embarrassing spillage. “He kept calling

Bar Food Ink and Collage Walter Egger

We actually went to my building first, before we went to his house. We sat on my stoop for forty minutes. We held hands. He asked if he could sleep on my couch. I said no. Then he asked me to go home with him, again and again. I laughed. Again. Again. “So basically he kept pulling at my clothes and trying to take them off, and I kept saying no and pushing him away. But he wouldn’t stop.” I did let him wrap his arms around me, though, when we first laid down. They were so warm and I was so tired. I didn’t even stop him from grabbing my chest. I decide to confess these details to you – that I let him wear me down; I accepted some of his advances. It sounds stupid now, out loud. What did I expect?

“Hey, Clare, it’s okay. It’s not your fault,” you tell me. You hold my gaze. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” My heart swells, and I am surprised at the effect these words have on me. “Thank you, Joel.” I smile briefly. “Anyway, suddenly I felt his bare penis pressed against me, and I froze. But he had stopped touching me. And then I turned around and realized that he was completely naked, passed out. So I built a barricade of pillows between us and waited, and as soon as it was light out, I went home.” I quickly buried the fear I had felt on the walk back to my apartment. It was funny, I thought, what a ridiculous story. I didn’t end up telling the story to my friends for a while though; not that day, or the next. I didn’t say much of anything to anyone that day.

Untitled Pencil, Ink, and Acrylic Walter Egger

I felt flimsy, as if, with a gust of wind, I would disintegrate. During my shift at the diner that evening, I spilled a vat of mayo across the kitchen floor and barely flinched. My hands wobbled as I carried dishes to customers, each time failing to remember who ordered what. When checking the toilet paper stock in the bathroom, I stared into the mirror above the sink. Who is this girl? I wondered, noting how sweaty the face looking back at me had become, its eyes glazed. I almost left out one of the most important parts. “In the morning, he texted me asking why I left while he was asleep. And I asked him if he remembered what happened and he said no. So I had to fill him in. And he replied, ‘I’m sorry, I’m an asshole.’” I think of the anti-sexual assault campaign on campus, the posters everywhere that say Don’t Be That Guy. “That Guy,” like he’s just the friend who never pays you back for drinks.

Someone who “has his flaws, but means well deep down.” That asshole, who’s annoying, but not enough for his buddies to stop hanging out with him. Not enough for him to face consequences. “Fuck, Clare, I’m so sorry that happened to you,” you say. Your earnestness suddenly makes me feel like crying. I try to remember if anyone has ever responded this way to this story before. “Thanks, Joel,” I tell you. A pause. “It’s really fine though, I mean, it was bad, but it’s not like he raped me.” “Yeah, but still, that’s awful. And just thinking about his intentions . . . Jesus.” This statement jolts me. Time seems to slow as I realize the weight in your response. His intention. I feel almost ashamed at my own naivety. I was the silly, stupid child who thinks that bullies are just playing, that they don’t mean it. He wouldn’t actually hurt me,

I had thought, ignoring the truth that he already had. “I guess I hadn’t thought about that before,” I admit quietly. You look surprised and concerned, like it had never occurred to you to give him the benefit of the doubt. All at once, I am certain that no one has ever asked you “are you sure that’s what he meant?” “Wait, what did you think he was trying to do?” you ask. “I don’t know, I guess I thought he might just be one of those people who sleeps naked or something,” I say. I once casually dated a boy who would always walk around naked at home, who thought it was conservative of me to be uncomfortable. I don’t get it, he had said, it’s not like its hurting anyone. “I’m so sorry Clare,” you say again. I stare at the wall, trying to remember what I was wearing when it happened. Leggings. He snapped them

Preoccupied Photography Eliana Wasserman

against my skin trying to pull them off of me. What had the weather been like? Warm, it was summertime, nice enough to be outside at night. I didn’t leave, though, because it’s dangerous to walk home alone so late, especially on a Saturday when people have been drinking. I am suddenly somehow furious. Everything is so disgustingly cliché: how he and I were friends, how I didn’t report it because he was friends with my friends and I didn’t want it to be weird. How I knew they would side with him. How my father thinks I am too paranoid about men, that I should cut them some slack. How he also thinks I should have known better. How a man hurt me and I am the one confessing. I am the one who is ashamed. “Clare?” You extend cautiously. You seem worried that speaking too suddenly might cause me to shatter into pieces. My focus snaps back to you, my friend who is a man who I trust, back to this room in your house. “I’m okay,” I tell you with a small smile. “Thank you, Joel. Seriously.” “Hey, it’s nothing; I’m always here,” you say, eyes filled with sincerity. You open your arms for a hug, and I accept. I know I am safe. You would never hurt me. We notice it has gotten dark and decide to go get Chipotle for dinner. We sit in the booth in the corner, complaining about schoolwork and gossiping about our friends between bites of burrito. “Oh wait, did I tell you? I’ve been talking to that guy I met at Kelly’s last weekend. He seems kind of cool but I’m not super sure about him.” “Oh no, what’s wrong with him?” you ask with mock solemnity. “Well,” I start, “he did that thing where, when I asked him a question, he said ‘I’ll only tell you if you let me kiss you.’” I grimace. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say, “I don’t think that’s bad. It can be cute.”

Shot Through The Heart Digital Painting Alex Elgas

Hank Film Photography Genevieve Vahl

Coconut Flowers Magazine Layout Genevieve Vahl

sunflower sunflower tango tango Emma Liverseed After the painting with the same name by Gina Litherland How do you say goodbye to a field— to vines & dirt & petal-heavy heads? At night, the bulldozers crouch just beyond the sunflowers, resting their jaws for an earth-crumbling tomorrow. Under a diminishing moon you brush the ridges of the leaves’ shallow teeth & listen as they slump & sigh, mourning in the moonglow & to comfort them, you reach for a stalk, pretending there’s a shoulder to embrace, silent as the flower bows its massive face towards you & suddenly you are peering into a pool of night, dark seeds spiraled in a Fibonacci sequence of three… five… eight… as you count an eight-step sashay. The first step stumbles but the second is smooth as a blade of switchgrass & a hum startles in your throat like a sleepy bee wandering back to the hive & this is how you become a dancer in a field of ocher heliotropics, waiting for their final sunrise & the next day as their roots are wrenched from the ground by unstoppable machines, you will recall how their heads swiveled to find the sun, how they broke their necks to chase the light.

WHERE DO WE BELONG? Keanu Rice

If I were to walk down the street in my hometown, I would most likely be met with suspicious stares, sideways glances, and subtle gestures indicating heightened caution from multiple adults as I pass. I must have done something significant in the past to attract such notoriety. But, I haven’t done anything at all. The primary demographic of my hometown is Asian, more specifically Chinese and Korean and I technically fall under the Chinese category. The thing is, I don’t look Chinese. My mother is Chinese and my father is African American and Native American. As a result, I have the physical features of a black man and that’s why many people instinctively fear me when I pass them on the street. Currently, multiracial people are stuck in an odd place when it comes to their self-identification. Since they lack a solid community, they often find themselves in a social purgatory where they struggle to discover who they really are and where they truly belong. Every mixed person’s experience with this issue is different. Ethnic background, family unity, home environment/culture, physical appearance/race, and social environment all influence each individual’s experience. Despite the wide variations in these factors, all mixed people could unite under at least one common issue: the experience of not belonging anywhere. Many friends have commented on my appearance with the most common statement being that I have the looks and gifts of a black person and the intelligence of a Chinese person (or that I’m black from the waist down and Chinese from the waist up). I think a common fantasy people have of those with mixed backgrounds is that we inherit all the benefits and little to none of the hindrances that come with our ethnicities when in reality, it’s more complicated than that. We mixed people inherit an amalgamation of traits from our families. Due to the random nature of genetics, whatever combination of advantages/disadvantages we end up with is left to chance.

Because I ended up with the physical traits of a black person, society has only labeled me black and treats me solely as a black person. White women clutch their purse and hold their children close as I pass them on the street; old Chinese ladies cross the street to avoid passing me on the same sidewalk as I walk to the bus stop—and then cross back after I have passed; people straight up call me a “nigger;” police have scrutinized and questioned everything that I say and do. When I was young, my father used to take me to see UCLA football games with his friends. One of the friends was white and the other was Hispanic but looked white. Instead of driving to Pasadena and dealing with traffic, we would take the metro in, watch the game at the Rose Bowl, grab dinner, and take the metro back. One year, the metro decided to replace the usual swipe cards with “tap cards.” Still in the early stages of that transition, there must have been a few kinks that needed to be ironed out. On our trip into Pasadena, the card readers were unresponsive and the gate leading to the station was wide open. After several failed attempts of trying to properly get charged for our trip, we decided to walk through the gate to the metro. The card reader at the station in Pasadena worked fine for our return trip. After we took the metro back to our home station, we noticed two cops, one white and one Hispanic, standing at the gate checking everyone’s metro cards. When they checked our cards they saw that we had only been charged for one trip when we had actually taken two. After realizing this, the white cop pulled my father and me aside and the Hispanic one took my father’s friends. The white cop started interrogating my father and me with questions such as, “Where are you coming from?” “Are you all together?” “What were you doing there?” “You guys are really all together?” “Why isn’t your card properly charged?” “You sure that you guys are all together?” I got irritated with him repeatedly asking us if we were all one group. I guess it was hard for him to believe

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that such an ethnically diverse friend group could exist. After the unnecessarily long interrogation, the cop charged us for our first trip and let us rejoin my father’s friends who had been released by the other cop a while ago. hard for him to believe that such an ethnically diverse friend group could exist. After the unnecessarily long interrogation, the cop charged us for our first trip and let us rejoin my father’s friends who had been released by the other cop a while ago. On our way back to our car, my father’s friends asked us what took so long. My father said that he will explain later. Once in the car, he exploded into a flurry of furious profanities as he explained what happened to us. Normally my father is calm and collected when dealing with and discussing racist encounters but this was the first time I saw him genuinely phased by one. He later said that what he was most mad about was the fact that I was there to experience it as well. Despite my difficult experiences, my trials and tribulations that come with being viewed as a black man in society have made me stronger as a person. I have learned how to deal with forces that serve to detriment me but are out of my control. My experiences have led me to embrace my physical appearance as well. I have grown out my hair to sport black hairstyles such as cornrows and box braids. I have also taken steps to express my Chinese side in my appearance. When I was young, one of my greatest dreams was to meet someone outside my family who would Rumors acknowledge me as Chinese without Screenprint questioning it. When I was in kin- Elizabeth McGillis Drayna dergarten, I met a kid who was hell bent refusing to acknowledge that I was Chinese. Even after showing him my family photo he said something along the lines of “That’s your

WINTER M00D Adobe Illustrator Sasha Arkhagha mom? She doesn’t even look Chinese, I bet she isn’t. I know what you are for sure though: BROWN!” Next thing I knew the teachers were trying to pry my bloodied mouth off of the kid’s leg. Later that day, after a good dose of corporal punishment, my father told me that I didn’t need to prove who I was to everyone. The important thing was that I knew who I was. Oddly enough, it was my own communities that were the first to refuse to accept me. Kip Fulbeck, author of Part Asian, 100% Hapa, addresses this topic with his own experiences: “We’re uncomfortable with people who don’t fit neatly into boxes because when they don’t do

so, it requires effort on our part… In my case, the only people who tell me I’m not Chinese are Chinese people.” When mixed people encounter this issue, they either decide to embrace only a part of their ethnicity and deny the other parts or continue searching for a community that will truly accept them for who they are. As one man from Fulbeck’s work puts it, “I am constantly debating whether the Chinese half is better than the Vietnamese half.” Fulbeck mentions that his own Chinese family members refuse to acknowledge him as Chinese. When old world values clash with modern and progressive ones, multiracial relationships can tear a family apart.

When I was young, I realized that although I frequently saw my Chinese grandmother, I had never seen my Chinese grandfather. When I asked my parents why, my mother was silent. But my father said, “Your grandfather is a racist motherfucker who refused to accept me being with your mother because of the color of my skin.” I took that statement to heart and for most of my angsty preteen years, I held an unreasonable animosity towards my grandfather. It wasn’t until after I started high school that I considered for the first time the possibility that there was more than one side to the story. I brought up the topic with my grandmother and her sister. My grandmother didn’t want to discuss the matter because she did not want to bring back painful memories, so my great aunt decided to show me the bigger picture. When my mother started dating my father, she feared how her parents would respond so she frequently consulted my great aunt. My great aunt was married to a white man, so she had experience dealing with similar familial issues. My great aunt actually managed to get the entire family to accept and welcome her new husband. My great aunt and great uncle sat my parents down to discuss what course of action to take. My great aunt and uncle stressed to my mother the importance of being upfront and honest with her parents about her feelings. They reassured y mother that her parents would come to understand in time. My mother was still too afraid to confront her parents and she eventually she resorted to having my great aunt break the news to her mother. My grandmother didn’t take the news well. Yet, she decided to not tell my grandfather. My grandfather eventually found out about my father when he discovered pictures of him with my mother.

Filtered Years Photography Ella Quainton Shortly after this discovery, my mother decided to move in with my father with no prior warning. As she was leaving, her father stopped her at the door in one last attempt to change her mind. When it became clear that she was not going to change her mind, he slapped my mother. He told her that she was no longer his daughter. Time passed and eventually my grandmother, along with other members of the family, warmed up to my father. And it appeared that my father was warming up to them. The only person who didn’t budge was my grandfather. My great aunt told my mother that she needed to try to communicate and be honest with her father. She never did. After my mother became pregnant with me, my grandmother invited her and my father over to have Christmas dinner and my mother agreed. When my grandmother told my grandfather the news he pulled out more chairs for them. Christmas day came around and the whole family was gathered waiting for my parents to show up. They never did. After I was born, my father became more and more distant with my mother's family. Famil barbecues were replaced

with curt greetings and eventually, even the greetings stopped. Nowadays it’s a surprise if my father says more than a few sentences to my Chinese family. Despite my best efforts, I have yet to get him to explain his behavior or make amends. I guess for a black man who grew up in Detroit in the 50’s, it’s easier to assume that everyone hates you. Fast forward to my second year in college, I get a text from my sister telling me that our grandfather had passed away. Dumbfounded, I called my great aunt to get the full story. She said that my grandfather had fallen ill and was bedridden in the hospital for a week. During that time she told me that my grandfather said that he wished that my mother would visit him but he knew that that was never going to happen. One of the last things that he said before he passed was that despite everything, he still acknowledged that my mother was his daughter. Sometime after the funeral, I asked my mother if she will be able to forgive her father. She responded hollowly, “I buried him a long time ago.” My parents were unable to properly handle the resistance from my traditional Chinese grandfather and my father grew to loathe my mother’s family. As a result, I have never seen both sides of my family

in the same room or sit at the same table. The only interactions that I have with my Chinese grandfather are when I visit his grave. Due to both history and family history, I am so far removed from my Native American heritage that I primarily identify as black and Chinese. But I will never deny the fact that I am Native American by blood as well. While I have never felt pressured to choose a side, a single ethnicity, I have a friend who did. My friend was put up for adoption by his black mother at a young age. He doesn’t know who his father is. He doesn’t even know what ethnicity his father is. All he knows is that he is a mixed child. Because he has the appearance of a black person and his adoptive family is black, he lives his life as a black man. For the sake of simplicity, he tells others that he is just black, and I can understand why. My friend is essentially being forced to pass solely as a black person. He is being forced to deny a part of himself. How can you claim to be something when no one, not even yourself knows what that is? By embracing only one part of their ethnicity, mixed people can obtain something that they have longed for: the sense of kinship that comes with being a part of an ethnic group. In doing so however, they also deny something of equal or greater value: the other parts if their ethnicity that they also belong to. In middle school, I finally found a friend group that fully accepted me, and I truly felt comfortable with. That friend group happens to be primarily Korean. Cow Jumped Over the Moon Illustrator Sketch Sasha Arkhagha

It took me until high school to realize how true my father’s words were. Some of these people have become my closet friends and at this point, I consider them family. A few weeks ago, a group of us were at a bar one night during a Thanksgiving holiday. One of the members from my middle school Korean friend group happened to go to school with the mixed friend (that’s how we met). My Korean friend decided that our mixed friend was worthy enough to be inducted into our Hyeongjegan (brotherhood), which is reserved for those of us who are close enough to consider each other as brothers. The mixed friend was incredibly moved by this gesture almost to the point of tears and he said something that really stuck with me, “I have never had something like this.” I remember him mentioning earlier that even though he fits in fairly easily and is

accepted in the black community, he doesn’t have any extremely close friends. By becoming a part of the Hyeongjegan, he found something that could fill the void his family left. He found the kinship and community that mixed people are inherently left to search for themselves. People help organize their thoughts by grouping items under categories. One of the most simple and common ways people categorize each other is by race. The downside to this is that misinformed and ignorant people often use these categories to come to negative, false conclusions of others. No one would have a reason to hate each other due to differences if differences didn’t exist. But I consider my distinctiveness the foundation of what makes me a human being. I personally would rather be hated for who I am than tolerated or loved for what I am not.

Baptism Photography Elizabeth McGillis Drayna

Another Special Order (Sketch) Ink and Marker Walter Egger

In the Mouth of Georgia Megan Kruse

The fangs of the south buried in the neck of its people. Incisor & molar—slick white bone sinking into bone of buildings, hidden away beneath streets, trodden into dirt with horse hoof and steel-toe boot. The gloved hand of a white man set in blue like the cloudless sky. His grimace masked, glasses thin and wired. Gomphosis, extraction. Thousands of canine-teeth pulled away and set on a table, where they bleed into tablecloth. Tongue of Georgia slipping into the throat of the tired, passing through scarred lips. Saliva gone foul, dried with history, tears left to water the gardens— cotton & tobacco. Black bark of the trees, the hollow whispers of loblolly and jewelweed. The rib-cage of this country—its toothless soul, Its buildings built of graves.

Untitled Graphite Nina Waech

Diary Screenprint Eliana Wasserman

UNTITLED Ethan Dickler

1 Two dots traverse the skyline quotidian And just as a dot is a type of line, Day is an interval of meridians Existing during a moment in time. A person is a single point spread out Across a lifetime of fleeting moments. The moment we had was a point about A line whose mem’ry has lasting lament. If equal as Chimb’razo’s apical, Then the interminable life with facile Has equal worth to the lackadaisical And the classes are of equal hassle. Our time - a point - stretching an interval; A mor’al second is a moment immor’al. 2 Kill yourself my futile - phone battery And my lingering thoughts of Her mind. Die and grow cold in the nightstand mortuary Until morning when I am recharged And ready to once again conquer the Continuous pain which lapses my day. No - wait - I can’t live with you Dead. Damn. Uh! Save yourself from the downward plunging fray Life bemoaned you through my miserable soul. Survive past my futile fruitless longings And nightly mourning laments your name tolls. Thrive in the dotted light of the morning Away from me in thoughts and thrustful insults; But wait - the pain - actu’lly, kill yourself.

3 The former ragamuffin vagabond Sat by the pier with a scotch in his hand As the ships came in to roost in the pond. He opened his case which lay on the land And pulled out his planner “6 months,” it read, While the days before were dotted out. He looked down at his scotch with loathsom dread. A woman sets her estoffer things about And takes seat across from the vagabond As a waitress asks what she most desires And the woman thinks before she responds: “Just a coffee” is all she does require. The woman puts her hand on her stomach As the man looked up looking hysteric. 4 A cold body unwanted by masses Left for the taking by the heardy folk So emerged the continent’s prized classes But conquered and ignored she was to sulk. Her Dreams of one day rising and setting Came true when the Don set free the legend, And from there, her beauty became threatening So, she was rejected by her brethren. For years she held her anger and disdain And fixéd her face with makeup for pride. Then came that cursed night of famine and flame From which no Great or Saint could save her side. Self-contained and mocked with no place to hide She dotted the i to her life and died.

Views of Dubai and Mecca

Photography Yaseen Najeeb

Ryan Liam Maguire

still i cant believe the snow drifts the mollusk mantels baked crusts of ice every winter strong enough to carry our childweights until our hollow bones betrayed us by filling by finding that we could fall through

Place Where It Snows Pen and Watercolor Elizabeth McGillis Drayna

Sway Photography Kevin Tran

DROWNING Sarah Arassi

Water rushed through his nostrils and filled his lungs as he tossed and turned, moving his body frantically so that he could escape the watery grave. An aggressive stream of bubbles flew from his mouth and nose and dissolved into the grey-green darkness that consumed him. Kieran sat up. The sudden rush of air conditioning made him aware of how sweaty his t-shirt had become, and the sudden upright position had startled his cat, who had become well-adjusted to sleeping on Kieran’s sweaty chest. Kieran clutched at his chest and turned his hand into a fist, beating it lightly. He reached for the thick black frames that lay on his bedside table. The shrill ring of his alarm clock began mere seconds after he regained a sense of composure and he grimaced at the thought of going to lecture. It had been perhaps the fifth night of restless sleep since he had returned from his grandfather’s village, and he was convinced that he had brought home with him an angry sea spirit that refused to let him sleep. Kieran flipped the switch of his alarm clock and swung his legs onto the cold tile floor, curling his toes as he braved the walk to his dresser. He grabbed a flannel and buttoned it quickly. He glanced at his cat through the reflection of the mirror besides his dresser and furrowed his brows. “What do you want?” he muttered, convinced the cat

was judging him for not showering for days. The cat stared back at him, stood up, yawned, and sauntered off towards his food bowl. *** “Kieran, can you kick off the discussion?” Kieran ceased his hangnail picking and looked up. “Oh. Well,” he stuttered, glancing around the room quickly before returning to the bearded twenty-something leaning against the desk in the front of the room. “I think the film is different than other movies by Kiarostami.” The TA nodded, looking around the room. “Okay, good. Does anyone else want to expand on that? Or do you have more to say?” Kieran hesitated and continued, as to not look like a slacker who didn’t watch the movie. “Well… okay, it’s just that all the other movies we’ve looked at this semester by Kiarostami are so… depressing. The emotions we get from it aren’t necessarily there because he intended for them to be. This is the first movie we’ve seen that has any ounce of hope because we don’t know if the main character lives or dies.” He noticed a hand timidly rise in the corner of his eye. “I honestly thought he died in a way.” Kieran shook his head. “He definitely didn’t die.” The TA held up a hand. “Well, hold on now, Kieran. Dana, explain your thinking.” “I think that this form of death the main character experienced is like rebirth,” Dana continued, spinning her pencil around her index finger. “Like… he’s come to some sort of understanding as

to who he is and what death is. You know, actor versus ordinary human, life versus death.” “There is no way he died.” Dana shook her head. “That’s not my point. The ending of the movie goes beyond that. It’s a metaphorical death. Regardless of if he dies or not, there’s something even more significant. Death of his old way of thinking.” Kieran watched her spin the pencil, jaw tense. “That doesn’t make sense,” he insisted. “The concept of a ‘metaphorical death’ doesn’t go with any of the physical shots or sustenance of the film.” “I think it does,” she said, her voice trailing off, suddenly aware of how adamant Kieran was about his claim. “Honestly, I think you both are correct,” the TA interjected. “It’s true, we don’t know if Badii actually dies. But we do know that the end of the movie is filmed in a way that makes us incredibly aware of ourselves, our beliefs and the balance between things we deem to be the exact opposite of those beliefs. It’s why this conclusion is so… unsatisfying to most of us.” Kieran sat through the rest of the discussion, eyes set on Dana’s twirling fingers. He got up to leave the second the minute hand on the clock hit twelve. He began his quick descent down the stairs of the communication arts building but stopped midway at the call of his name. He turned around, only to see the same person he had been staring at in class only a minute ago. “Hey, hi,” she said, a broken smile forming on her face. .

Necessity is the Mother of Invention Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator Sasha Arkhagha

“Hello,” he responded, very irritated Dana rubbed the back of her neck with her right hand. “Can I walk with you?” “Seeing as we’re both headed downstairs, I don’t see why not.” They began their descent. Kieran’s mind began to wander again towards the resurgence of the dreams. There was a time similar to now, he realized, when the same visions would startle him awake in the depths of night. It was when he was a boy first living in his grandfather’s home. The unfamiliar sound of waves colliding with the ancient wooden piers would initially deceive him into peaceful slumber, but his dreams would soon turn ominous. After waking up from a nightmare, his grandfather would appear at his side and hold him in his strong arms, recreating the same sort of sounds the waves would make with his own mouth. “Kieran,” his grandfather would say after his sobs would transition to sniffles. “There’s nothing to fear from the sea. It’s how we know that life goes on-”

“Okay, I gotta ask. Where did you go last week?” The two had just exited the building and now found themselves at the autumn wind’s mercy. “I was up north in Shomal,” Kieran replied. Dana’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Oh, wow, I used to live there. Why were you there?” “My grandfather died.” “Ah-ahh. Oh, wow, I’m so sorry.” “It’s fine.” Kieran was unaware of how to lead the conversation now. Dana was the central discord in his life. They came from two very different stances on how the world should be seen, evident in their constant disagreements in class. But he found it strange that she had spent time in his grandfather’s village – a place that was so close to his heart and hidden from the rest of the world. “How long did you live in Shomal for?” “Only for a few years,” she said. “I was really young, too, so I don’t remember that much.” “That’s understandable. I only remember a few things from living there too, and I was pretty

young as well.” Dana set her bookbag down and searched through her zippers, eventually pulling out a pair of earbuds. “This was bothering me too much,” she muttered, standing up and holding out the earbuds. “You’re the only guy I’ve seen on campus who doesn’t wear earbuds. Try listening to something when you walk. It’s a lot more comforting.” Kieran blinked a couple of times, took the earbuds, and thanked her. “I have to be heading towards my next class,” Dana sighed. “But I will definitely see you later this week. I’m sorry again for your loss.” She waved a quick goodbye and rushed off, bookbag thumping against her side. That night, Kieran plugged in the earbuds and held down the plus button for the volume on his iPod. The monotone voice of Phil Elverum blared into his ears and he quickly shed his clothing and lay under his covers. His cat assumed his nightly position on his chest and the heavy weight and twinkling guitar strings were just enough to let Kieran to fall asleep. *** He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but Dana eased the severity of his grandfather’s absence. She was not a fisherwoman. She had yet to possess the wisdom that came with experience like most elders had, but she had the same twinkle in her eyes and an outlook that lacked the cynicism that Kieran force fed himself. It was two weeks into their newly made friendship when she made what Kieran thought was an astute observation. “Remember how scared you

used to be of the sea?” The two were lying in what remained of the grass, and the hard dirt was cold underneath their shoddily covered bodies. Kieran blinked a few times in shock. They had only been talking for a few weeks now, and it was too soon for her to have figured out what was still plaguing his dreams. He was struggling to think of an answer as Dana continued with her rhetorical question. “I guess I shouldn’t just assume that everyone who’s been near water was scared at first. I just remember feeling paralyzed every time the waves came crashing towards me.” Kieran glanced to his right. Dana’s arms were splayed on the grass like crooked wings. Her face appeared cloudy and distant. “I don’t remember how it was that I got over my fear either. I think it was a matter of exposure. I’d be scared when it was just me out there alone, but it was never as bad when my family was around. My mom and I would look for seashells by the pier. My sisters and I would run around in the low waters before dinner and after would look out at the sea. There wasn’t really much to do in that village other than look at the sea, huh?” Kieran kept quiet, envisioning a young Dana running around with her sisters, laughing and chasing each other until they were called for dinner. He thought of the pier he and his grandfather would sit on, making out the shapes of fishermen boats through the thick fog. “Kieran?” His grandfather’s face vanished in his mind's eye as he focused his gaze on Dana again. “What do you think of when you think of

the sea?” “Uhm,” Kieran’s throat felt tight. “I think of my grandfather.” She turned to look at him. “Who was your grandfather to you?” Kieran’s chest began to beat hard. “After my dad passed away, my mother sent me to live with my grandfather. I assume it’s because she wanted a bit of space to relive her bachelorette days. But my grandfather took me in and treated me like… like my age when no one else would. He told me stories about our family and about the world. He had these hands that were so scarred and discolored, but they were so strong and every time I’d look at them while he told a story, I would imagine the places and things he must have done.” Realizing he was out of air, Kieran took a deep breath. “He was the reason why I wasn’t afraid.” Dana kept quiet for a bit. Her lack of response to everything he had said made Kieran’s heart beat so loudly, it threatened to escape his chest cavity. “We should go,” she finally said. His heart sunk. “Oh. Yeah, okay.” he said, beginning to get up. Dana reached for his wrist and took hold. “No, no. I meant we should go to Shomal this weekend.” And suddenly, Kieran’s psyche collapsed through the layers of reality and into his dreams. He felt like he was drowning. “Let’s go this weekend,” Dana continued. “I haven’t been in years. You’ll get a proper send off without the weird and rigid atmosphere at a funeral. It’ll be really nice.”

Kieran wasn’t sure if it was going to be really nice. He was especially dreading it as soon as he got into the car with Dana at the wheel. “I don’t know if I want to go anymore,” he declared, though he knew that the Toyota Prius was already well on its way there and there was no turning back. “What do you mean?!” The car windows were down and her short hair blew violently in the wind, matching the intensity in which she asked. “We experienced different places Dana!” A grin appeared on her face as Dana shook her head. “We’re experiencing the same place this time!” *** “Did you know that I used to be afraid of the sea?” Kieran looked at his grandfather in awe. The old man sat on the pier, his grey eyes shining. Diner Photography Kevin Tran

He reached for his sun-faded fisherman’s hat with his arm that wasn’t being held tightly by Kieran. “It’s true!” he continued with a smile. “And my father thought of a horrible way to get rid of my fear. He was a fisherman, see. Just like the men you see out there now. And one day, he woke me up at the crack of dawn only to tell me to get up and get dressed. So, I put on my trousers and rushed to meet him outside. “When I found out we were going on the boat… oh, I cried! Just cried. All it did was make me more terrified of what was out there.” His grandfather placed his hat on Kieran’s small head. His grandfather’s wrinkles looked all the more pronounced in that moment. “Just remember, Kieran,” he continued. “You should never rush anything. Never force anything.” ***

Kieran took his place on the pier, barefoot with legs dangling over the water. He couldn’t see much ahead, as the fog weighed heavy over the broad span of the sea. Well, this is a fucking waste of time, Kieran thought bitterly. “Hey.” Dana appeared besides him and swung her feet down from the pier, so they were barely skimming the liquid. “How are you doing?” Kieran couldn’t answer, and instead shrugged. A heavy sigh escaped Dana as she placed an arm around his shoulders. “I know it’s tough being back. Especially since you haven’t been back since the funeral. But your grandfather would be so happy if he knew you were here.” Kieran shrugged again, fixated on the dark water that breathed below him. He could barely make out the rocks that lay on the bottom of the sea floor; the white foam on top seemed to shield what lay underneath. “Kieran.” The tone of Dana’s voice was firmer, and he turned only to meet her glowing eyes. She squeezed his shoulder. “Remember when I was talking about metaphorical death in class" Fuck. He nodded, pursing his lips tightly. “Then you’ll probably remember that a metaphorical death is synonymous with an actual death. It’s a lot like how Buddhists think that with death comes ‘reincarnation’ or being reborn.” “You’re not Buddhist.” She rolled her eyes and dropped her arm. “I mean, yes.

That’s true. Let’s frame it this way. Badii seemed to experience a shift in paradigm after speaking to that old professor, right?” “Dana, you’re making me feel like a child.” “Ugh, I’m sorry. I’m just unsure of how to go about explaining this.” You don’t need to explain anything. Hearing you go on about fucking metaphorical deaths or real deaths or anything isn’t going to make me forget my grandfather or forget how shitty I feel. Death is a real thing. You can’t use it for some pretentious class argument bullshit.” Silence. She withdrew her arm slowly and sat very still, staring out into the vastness ahead of them. Kieran wondered for a split second if he had been an asshole. “I’m sorry,” she spoke with a small and hesitant voice. “It’s fine, Dana. I’m sorry too. I’m just… being here is too much for me right now.” “That’s okay, really. I’ll go get the car.” Kieran nodded in response. She stood up, offering an arm out to him. He stared at her lingering hand and took hold. She pulled Kieran to his feet and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you, okay?” Dana whispered. He could only nod in response and watch helplessly as she released her hold and offered another smile, turned and sprinted barefoot back to the car. Kieran looked down at his feet, crossing his arms. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He tried to recall a memory of his grandfather, but his mind was blank, and his body felt unnaturally warm and tingly. He removed his thick frames and

rubbed his face with tired hands. He took off his jeans. His flannel and t-shirt were discarded, and the earbuds that hung around his neck like an impromptu necklace were dropped into the water. Clad only in his boxers and blind to what apparent horrors lay before him, he gulped the crisp Caspian air and leapt off the pier. Upon impact, the air was forced out of him as the cold water paralyzed his muscles. Kieran opened his eyes, indulging in this dark silent place. He finally understood the balance between life and death just like Dana was talking about. Except something was not right, as this sort of ‘beginning of a rebirth’ he was starting to feel did not seem metaphorical. Oh my god, he thought. I can’t fucking breathe. A great force knocked the water out of his body and moved him towards the surface. He erupted through the barrier, gasping and sputtering through chattering teeth, “Fuck… Fuck…” Dana forced him to grab hold of the leg of the pier. Kieran attempted to catch his breath but struggled to keep an even tempo as salty tears intermingled with the water of the sea. “What’s wrong with you?!” Dana screamed, her face pale. “Why the fuck would you jump in?” He shook his head, lips pursed in order to cease his sobs. He couldn’t look her in the eyes, so he gazed out towards the sea. Miles away, he could make out his grandfather being scolded on a boat for refusing to spearhead a worm with a fishing hook.

C Koepp

when i am shot, and the knuckle of a stranger trips through my spinal cord, annulling perfect bow and expanse (do this, do that) in the dark, in the damned parking lot three-quarters of a mile above hell, a jacket-seed is planted and blue-crushable-velvet blooms and my last thought is not profound, simply calling to my attention something that had been impossible to notice before, like the infinitely soft glare of pitch flesh around the gaped maw of artificiality, something impossible that should never have happened, my little secret, locked up and unbothered in arteries who have weakened their resolve, like me, fleetingly named like rain, breathing like a cinema star, eyes enough, wondering if i am still too loud when i fall the right silent.

Commercialism as Realism Digital Art Kendra Raczek

Growth Digital Media Alex Elgas

Guilty Hands Maggie Hendon

He adjusted the collar on his cheap button-down shirt. The crowd of familiar mourners rejected him. He sat alone in the funeral home and stayed away from his late friend’s family. He clenched and unclenched his fists rhythmically. His fingernails cut and bruised his palms, but he hardly noticed. He only stared through a spot on the wall above the casket. Mourners passed by to view the deceased and disturbed his unproductive meditation. Shaking his head, he tried to come back to himself. He turned his gaze out the window and felt even more agitated at the cheerful weather everyone else was able to enjoy that day. Warm sun and a light breeze. It was uncharacteristic of that time of year. Two girls walked by, following the sidewalk and chatting idly. Feeling the anger and sadness well up inside him all over again, he looked down to his hands. He clenched his fist again, drawing more blood from his guilty hands. “Here.” A wrinkled hand forced its way into his line of sight. In the closed fist was a plastic cup full of water. “You look like you need it.” He looked up to see a melancholic smile shining down upon him. He reluctantly accepted the cup, and the old lady took the seat next to him. They sat in silence for a moment and watched people milling around. The deceased’s family’s tear-stained faces scowled at him briefly before moving on to greet other mourners. “They told me not to come,” he said to the elderly woman.

“I know,” she nodded. “Marcus was —” she stopped herself “Is my grandson.” He stared intently at his scuffed leather shoes. “Don’t you hate me too, then?” “No,” she shook her head, “I know you loved Marcus just as much as any of us. The fact that you were in the driver’s seat doesn’t change that.” Somewhere in the funeral parlor, someone bumped into a vase, and it fell to the floor and shattered. Suddenly, he heard it all over again. The shattering passenger window and the horrible scraping of metal against metal. Marcus’s screaming and the sudden, deafening silence. His trembling hands brought the plastic cup to his lips. “Here,” she said, fishing in her oversized purse. She pulled out a wallet-sized photo of himself and Marcus. He gingerly took the photo from her delicate fingers. The photo was several years old, taken at a concert they had attended together, but Marcus looked the same: youthful and more optimistic than anyone had any right to be. “This was in his wallet. It was recovered at the site of the accident, and I think you should have it.” His eyes welled up with tears, and there was no stopping it this time. Fat, salty tears dropped into his lap. “He loved you too, you know,” she said. “He could never hide these things from me. He wouldn’t want you to feel guilty, and I know he would want you to be here.” She patted his knee amiably before getting up and leaving him in solitude once more.

elegy kennel Alexa Johnson

the dog growling at you is just body language you haven’t perfected yet there are worse things to be than unlucky; what good has narrative done me: the video on tape, souvenirs of old pain, always wrong: that’s how it looked but not how it happened and you could manipulate me out of my trust, the way we have tainted our knowledge again and again. as carnage between fangs, my contempt is mine and mine alone. leave the leash on as my disdain festers. the violence so plentiful, the infection bubbling, swelling with sorcery, example: my brain bulges with cartography, places i have made and destroyed and built fresh - blistered flower petals, boiled saliva and sugar - reality gushes across cotton rich with antiseptic. the bottled truths of flesh: bones don’t burn, pus will ooze from the bite marks, all of the women you’ve been sink deeper into their coffins - baby, the birds do it, the bees do it, let’s go extinct - wrongful death surrounding us, the solace on terror; there could be black spots on lungs or a cracked rib slowly crushing the cancer, all of your fears come true, and what has changed: this is how your emotional body sleeps

Hometown, Departure I. Small town, 2015 Even the roads would run away from me. I chased them, salt-stained and rutted, and lied to you, father, smoked a cigar at the quarry alone. Overlooking the machinery that pulled minerals from the earth. In the cold mud of February, my back against an oak. Church bells in the distance. Roots like snakes held me down. Balanced on that edge—past and future. This is the place I lied to you, to myself, claimed I was not what I was when you turned to me beneath the empty trees, your boots stirring the dried leaves so that when I answered your question, it was hard to determine what and who made sound. I said no. You turned your back and walked away. Against the oak, tears blurred my vision.

II.

Big city, 2019

She cringes when I talk about you. You both have rattlesnake tattoos, hers twisting around her shoulder to kiss me when she leans in. Yours spits in my face when you turn your back to me; coiled, it is the length of your torso. Don’t Tread on Me. I have tried not to, father. We have not talked in years. In the morning, in her arms— the church bells wake us. She says these moments exist as fuck-yous to God. I still thank God for her. Even now, between the concrete buildings and the harsh face of asphalt, I drag the roots of oak trees behind me. She is my axe.

Sheikh Zayed Mosque Photography Yaseen Najeeb

Sunny Townhouse Photography Aaron Pawlinski

Congratulations Digital Painting Alex Elgas

FINAL THOUGHTS

There are so many people to whom I would like to spread love. Thank you to the Illumination staff, especially to those who are graduating, for all of the dedication and new ideas you bring. Illumination wouldn’t be this successful if it weren’t for you. A special thank you to Olivia Hughes and Emma Liverseed, because I truly believe both of you have listened and thought and created with love. I would like to send my love to Fernanda Martinez Rodriguez and Jen Farley for their displays of compassion and trust this semester. I couldn’t imagine collaborating with anyone else. Thank you to Illumination’s friends at College Library, PubCom Associate Directors, Karen Redfield, Julie Ganser, and all other staff who have continued the mission of humanities and have made other students on this campus feel loved. Love to all of my friends and colleagues on this campus - you know who are - for creating the most caring atmosphere of which I’ve ever been a part. Finally, Illumination, thank you for being a light during the undergraduate careers of myself and others. We love you.

Ideas Grow Digital Art Alexa Chmura