Main Street Magazine | UNH | Fall 2017

Who was Hamilton Smith?

- p.22 what happened to yik yak?

- p.8 -

the history of main street

- p.15 -

inside the rushing process

- p.28 -

creative writing to fight addiction

MAIN

- p.34 -

STREET

main street

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Us

Editor’s Note

Andrew Hartnett Editor in Chief Stephanie Khairallah Senior Managing Editor Madison Forsberg Digital Editor Michael Valotto Photography Editor Alex Bostic Issue Editor Aiden Reo Digital Editor Bri Doherty Issue Editor Gabriela Misiewicz Contributing Photographer Makenzie Pelletier Contributing Photographer Danielle Ouellette Contributing Writer Merideth Clarke Contributing Writer Lucas Leblanc Contributing Writer Doug Rodoski Contributing Writer Ellen Gibbs Contributing Writer Veronica Ok Contributing Writer Kayla Lutz Contributing Writer

The Main Street has been doing a lot since you’ve seen us last. Thanks for calling by the way. Welcome to the brand spankin’ new Main Street Magazine, back from the dead. Well not quite dead, but perverbially so. Last spring things looked grim for the Main Street - our funding was under serious debate and scrutiny. Alas, where was the student body to turn for well informed skeptism? Fortunately for you, and also maybe us, our pals at The New Hampshire decided to save our skins.

We work for them now. The man, am I right? Anyway, now we get to sit in their office and mooch off their school supplies. Ain’t that somethin’?

MSM is entirely funded by your student activity fee. Thanks SAFC! We’d also like to thank TNH for adopting and funding us. Sorry for trashing the newsroom.

We appreciate you.

The staff at MSM would like to thank our friends at UNH Printing & Mail Services, as well as the delivery drivers who bring our words to you.

All opinions expressed are solely those of MSM & its writers, and are not directly affiliated with UNH, nor SAFC.

You can find us at MainStMag.com facebook.com/mainstreetmagazine MainStreetMagazine@gmail.com @mainstreetmagazine Mub Room 132

with love from the main street

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

what’s inside?

funny you should ask, because quite a bit, actually

Features

who is Hamilton Smith? - p.22 history with Funso Alfayan - p.10 newman’s own summer camp - p.13 a history of main street magazine - p.15 music as edification - p.18 stories of genocide, a play - p.25 an inside look at the greek rush - p.28 Brady or Belicheck? - p.30 creative writing as therapy - p.34

Creative Writing

the anomymous booty call - p.14 the death of yik yak - p.15 such stuff as oatbran - p.32 piece meal - p.36

Photography

skater boiz - p.20 birds - p.38

Reviews books - p.5 movies - p.5 food - p.7

Poetry p.27

art by former MSM editor Beccy Anderson // @anderson.artco on insta

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

staff picks // insider tips our favorite bathrooms on campus:

“Second floor library because it’s the smelliest.”

-Andrew

“Ground floor, Hamilton Smith bathroom at 4:37 p.m. on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

-Madison

“The HoCo bathroom because I can just run upstairs after drinking four cups of coffee.”

-Aidan

“Below HoCo near administrative services.”

-Alex

“The bathroom in the mystical land below HoCo and above business services because I feel like a dragon in it’s lair

-Bri “I like the one in the basement of the library. It’s where I go out of my way to poop.”

-Mike

“Nesmith because it makes my poops feel like the horror movie that they are.”

-Stephanie

best/worst party line: (try & match an editor to a horror story) “Piece of advice, when you hide from the cops make sure you bury yourself in more leaves next time.”

“Long story short my friend woke up in a bush dressed as Spiderman to someone dressed as Venom posing to fight him.”

“One time, I won a game of pong I wasn’t even playing.

Then got asked to leave the party because my ‘celebrating was obnoxious,’ so I stole their toilet paper.”

“Every time I puke it’s monumental.”

“If you’re going to start a fight with a drunk chick twice your size, make sure she isn’t wearing rings”

“So I wake up covered in glitter, with a tattoo of an anchor on my ankle. My favorite jacket is missing, there’s blood on my guitar, and I’m pretty sure Jack wore his speedo last night.”

—4—

“I got locked out of my room and, when my R.A. let me back in, we opened the door to my buddy peeing into the waste-paper basket.”

reviews

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

movie - gerald’s game

When looking for a good fright, Stephen King is no doubt your guy. But, with the release earlier this year of the movie adaptation of his 1992 novel, Gerald’s Game, Stephen King has transformed into your give-you-the-down-right-CREEPS guy.

This new-to-Netflix flick, directed by Mike Flanagan, is about Jessie, a woman seeming to be in her early 50’s, and her husband, Gerald. The married couple had planned a weekend away at their lake house in one final attempt to spice up their love life and save their marriage. To Gerald, this means isolating themselves for the weekend so he can handcuff his wife to the bed and try to role play his long-time developing rape fantasy. However, life had another plan for Gerald, who collapses from a heart attack and leaves Jessie handcuffed to the bed with no means of reaching help. Trapped and seemingly alone, Jessie begins to fall further and further into her subconscious as dehydration and a shattered psyche take over.

Aiden Reo | Digital Editor

Madison Forsberg | Digital Editor

This survival tale is not for the faint of heart, believe me. Coupled with themes that could be triggering for some, and hard to stomach for most, Gerald’s Game i a roller coaster of discomfort from the very eerie beginning to the very mind-blowing twist at the end. As Jessie begins to wonder who exactly she married, she uncovers memories from he long-ago childhood. The viewer experiences the evocative effect of having to save oneself, both mentally and physically, right along with her.

Gerald’s Game isn’t haunting like The Conjuring haunting, but it will still surely send tingles down your spine, make you look over your shoulder once or twice, and probably get up to lock your doorjust to be safe. Yet, oddly, at the end of the hour and 45 minutes of almost constant uneasiness, you can’t help but admire the story because it does exactly what a horror movie is supposed to do. Gerald’s Game scares you.

book - trouble boys The story of The Replacements is one of addiction, desperation and just not giving a fuck. Published in March of 2016, Bob Mehr’s biography Trouble Boys: The True Story of the Replacements provides a vivid account of the most undocumented yet influential chapter in music history. Mehr chronicles the lives of Paul Westerberg, Tommy Stinson, Bob Stinson and Chris Mars, the founding members of the punk rock/alternative outfit The Replacements, as they navigate through the Minneapolis music scene in the early 80s.

“It’s death, jail, or janitor if this music thing doesn’t work out.” recounts Paul Westerberg And that was the truth, throughout the biography, Mehr highlights that for the 4 musicians, music was their only way to safety. For these boys, music was a way out of the complacency that comes with living in the Midwest.

in the alternative music scene in Minneapolis in 1981.

Mehr details the bands early shows in the Twin Cities area as being spontaneous and erratic; sometimes they played well and sometimes they played for 5 minutes. This “curse” would follow the band throughout their career, largely due to their alcohol consumption. One cannot discuss The Replacements without talking about their alcohol intake. According to Mehr, Westerberg and Tommy Stinson would finish a bottle of whiskey, play a gig, go to sleep, wake up and do it again.

Their self-destructive behavior is a recurring theme throughout the biography as it was the main reason they never made it above the top 40 on the music charts. It was during their 1986 SNL performance that they squashed any chances of being signed to a major label. Mehr recounts that it was Westerberg’s use of an expletive during their song “Bastards of Young,” that got the band blacklisted from the show.

Early songs like, “Stuck in the Middle,”(a reference to the Midwest) “Taking a Ride,” and “I Hate Music,” are melodic and lyrical representations of how the members of The Replacements felt in their early years. Westerberg’s Trouble Boys is a thrilling read to anyone who is a fan of agonizing, slurred vocals coupled with Bob Stinson’s as- The Replacements and anyone who has ever wanted to be saulting lead guitar established the band as a serious force in a punk band.

—5—

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

main street eats

Photos by Ellen Gibbs @ Street in Portsmouth, NH

top:

Curry Fries bottom:

Korean Miso Pork @ Street

—6—

main street eats

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Ellen Gibbs | Contributing Writer PORTSMOUTH - Street: the humble name doesn’t give this neighborhood noshery the credit it deserves.

On the numerous occasions I’ve dined at this Portsmouth restaurant I’ve never been let down. My most recent visit was not different, with their reimagined, worldly inspired flavors. Scanning the menu, crossing off dishes I’ve had in the past like the operations manager of gustation, I am once again caught in the middle of a difficult decision: a toss-up between pozolé or the miso healthy salad? This time around, salad won. To be fair, it’s much easier to toss a salad than it is a hot bowl of soup.

The food arrives, #foodporn worthy on instagram. Some of the most popular dishes are staples at our table: a pile of spicy and addic-

a parade in the street

tive fries, seasoned with a blend of curry, drizzled with curry-infused mayo, and garnished with tangles of green onion. But the essence of Street’s cuisine shines through with their fried chicken cemita.

Stacked on a toasted cemita bun, the Pueblan-inspired sandwich with a slab of chewy, fried queso fresco immersed in creamy chipotle mayo combines the umami flavor of chicken with the sprightly flavor of cilantro. The crispy cheese and chicken is an unparalleled foil to the satiny texture of avocado and pickled red onion.

That same umami flavor is applied to the Korean BBQ beef.

A dish so many restaurants have a tendency to ruin with overly sweetened, syrupy marinades that the beef flavor is lost, was thankfully avoided.

Yet with all these highs, this visit to Street did not come without a few misses. The forgettable, miso healthy salad, served in a bowl and when taken to with a fork overflowed with a dense amount of kale, and a few spare, white beans.

The rest of the salad’s ingredients - fennel, napa cabbage, celery, spinach, scallions, snow peas and sunflower seeds - had me questioning whether I ordered a salad or just a pound of cabbage. Lesson learned? Stick to the recommendations and regular favorites.

Like its eclectic staff, Street’s cuisine is a hybridization of multiple cultures. The food pairs prominent influences from Korean, Middle Eastern and Mexican dishes with popular favorites of the Great American Melting Pot.

reggae toast - the horseshoe cafe

Stephanie Khairallah | Senior Managing Editor

NEWMARKET - The café sat untouched for months. Wood planks covered the doors with a small note that promised they were “coming soon,” but we were all beginning to doubt it. Yet in early June, the Horse Shoe Café finally opened its doors, marking itself the official second coffee shop of Newmarket, a feat no one dared to attempt for the last 15 years as Crackskull’s Coffee & Books monopolized the industry from their perch on Main Street. Somehow, the Horse Show exceeded everyone’s expectations. The room is small, and minimalistic. A short stack of records rests by the door and reggae or ska music is playing lightly in the background. It is a fabulous spot to work on homework.

The shops sells specialty coffee and home baked goods. Each

coffee is described less by adjectives and more by a series of foods that are not in fact coffee. ‘Chocolate, orange, caramel twist, almonds, saffron,’ none of these are actually in the coffee. The coffee is imported, fair trade, from all over the world. Might I recommend you ask Nori, the owner and barista, to just surprise you. He always knows what’s up. It would be a true travesty to add cream or sugar to these brews. Nori hand roasts his coffee every morning around 4 a.m. and the coffee is crisp, sharp and the right kind of bitter.

The Horse Shoe café sells toast; not just toast, but like, toast.

I had leavend bread with goat cheese, pepper jelly and bacon.

It’s the kind of thing you could eat all day. For five consecutive days I found myself ordering the goat cheese medley and nibbling on it —7—

through every meal of my day. It is quite a piece of toast.

Their bacon, egg and cheese is to die for. The shop bakes all of their bread in house, daily, at about 5 a.m. The classic sandwich arrives on milk bread, a flakey loaf with a sharp, crunchy crust. The meal comes with just a dabble of “Kewpie Mayo,” a Japanese version of our classic eggy spread.

Nori, the owner, immigrated to the United States in his youth. He met his wife, the co-owner and bread baker of their shared business, in San Francisco. The two were highly involved in the local “ska,” reggae and skate scene. They try and carry these roots with them throughout their establishment.

To learn more about the brand spankin’ new restaurant, check out the video we made for them on our website.

Fall 2017

Main Street Magazine

the anomymous booty call

Kayla Lutz | Contributing Writer

So it’s midnight. On a Wednesday. I have an eight a.m. the next morning. I’m walking my dumb ass across campus for a booty call off of Yik Yak.

Yeah . . . I know . . . You think it’s embarrassing that you met your boyfriend on Tinder, try meeting him on Yik Yak. I mean, c’mon, I can’t be the only desperate person for sex on campus right? I mean obviously not, because he was the one that posted the thing, but still.

Don’t tell me you haven’t seen these posts before. Usually in the late night or early morning, the ideal time for the sex deprived creepers on campus to become desperate enough to post out their horniness in an attempt to find another desperate enough girl to answer.

“Even on the way there I was questioning my motivates.

Not to mention pride.

Then I remembered that I had none.”

Trust me, even on the way there I was questioning my motivates. Not to mention pride. Then I remembered that I had none. The pride, I mean. I just wanted to get laid and that was enough for motivation.

I know this is starting to sound like the beginning of a horror movie… don’t worry, it’s not. I mean the relationship was but the first

night was just a red balloon over the rain grate.

“What’s the board game over there?”

Besides, we didn’t even sleep together that night. I know. My whole motivation for going out that night in the first place and I didn’t even get laid. What the fuck, right? I had gotten to his dorm. He let me inside. Closed the door to his bedroom.

And then reality kicked in, what am I doing?

“Oh that’s Blockade. Do you want to play?”

“Um, sorry but I don’t know if I can really have sex with a stranger…”

I know, subtle. I walked all the way over there for nothing. He surprisingly doesn’t end up kicking me out. Instead, I am seated in the corner of his bed while he lies back against his pillows. We sit in awkward silence for awhile until I begin to ask questions back and forth trying to figure out why he was on Yik Yak in the first place.

“I’m a senior, about to graduate in a few months, and I’m still a virgin. At twenty-two, I’m still a virgin.”

“Wait seriously?”, I guffawed.

“And you were going to lose it to a random person off of Yik Yak?” Who does that?!

He shrugged. “I just wanted to get it over with and hoped whoever showed up wouldn’t be too ugly.”

“Okay, but Yik Yak?”

“Hey, you answered it.” Shit.

“Touche.”

I looked around his room, looking for more ways to make a person out of this stranger.

—8—

“Uh, yeah . . . Sure.” Definitely not the games I came over to play, but whatever.

We stayed up through the night, playing board games and talking. He ranted to me about his ex girlfriend. He narrated his summer internship out in Boston. He laughed with me about his brother who lived downstairs in the same dorm. He even showed me several drawing pads filled with scribblings and notes. By sunrise, I had moved from the corner of the bed to sit next to him.

“Well you said you had class right? I don’t want to keep you.” He seemed reluctant.

I got up to start putting on my converse. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Now I’m tired and I still didn’t get laid.

“Now should I get up to get breakfast, or go back to bed?”, he mused to himself.

“Well if you stay in bed, I’ll join you and we can both go to sleep . . .” Better than nothing.

He threw open the covers. “I like that option better.”

After a while I fell asleep next to him. He didn’t end up losing his virginity to a stranger, but he did cheat on me with some- strangers he paid, nonetheless. But who would’ve thought the desperate stranger looking for a booty call could become someone human enough to hurt me.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

the death of yik yak Madison Forsberg | Digital Editor

In 2015, Yik Yak was the app to have on any college or high school campus.

Now, in the closing months of 2017, Yik Yik is no longer a downloadable app in the App Store, and the anonymous grasp Yik Yak once had on its young and curious users is gone.

re-download it once again. The company had supposedly laid off around sixty percent of their entire team by 2016 after struggling to combat issues of bullying, harassment, and threats all taking place anonymously on their app.

Yik Yak was first started in 2013 by Tyler Droll and Stephen Buffington, up-and-coming entrepreneurs and long time friends. After it’s creation, Yik Yak’s popularity grew like wildfire.

It was, at one point, on the top 10 most downloaded app list and was even estimated at one point at being worth somewhere around 400 million dollars, according to Business Insider.

Yik Yak was becoming a problem app for some, especially in high schools where bullying can already be a problem without the use of an anonymous platform. Many high schools put a ban on Yik Yak, meaning the app was not able to be used if your phone was connected to the school wifi. However, this did not stop use of the app in the schools area if someone was using cellular data instead of the provided wifi.

The idea behind Yik Yak was being able to anonymously post a thought, and chat with all of the people in your area. It has been described as an anonymous Twitter. But instead of favorites and retweets, your post recieved votes from other people in your area.

If people liked what you posted then they would ‘up-vote’ it, making it more likely to be seen by other people. But, if your post received 5 ‘down-votes’ then it would subsequently be deleted from the feed. This also applied to comments made in reply to posts, 5 down-votes and it’s gone.

Built on truly showcasing the idea of “Freedom of Speech,” the anonymity that the app provided seemed to appeal to many of its users. People flocked to Yik Yak for a while, many obsessively refreshing the feed multiple times a day just to see what people in their chosen mile radius were saying.

But anonymity is not always as great as everyone seems to think, and in fact, may have helped lead to Yik Yak’s eventual collapse.

As of May 5th, 2017, Yik Yak is no longer available to be downloaded in the app store. Even if you had previously had Yik Yak downloaded on your phone, there is no way to

Eventually, the possibility of harassment coupled with the continued rise and improvement of other daily-use apps like Snapchat, Instagram, and Twitter, lead to Yik Yak falling from popularity and no longer having the following to support it’s continuation.

This resulted in the founders making the decision to move their staff to other companies and end Yik Yak’s 5 year reign.

Though Yik Yak is no longer available, it’s legacy still lives on. Other copy-cat apps, or apps built on similar premises, are still available in the app store. covert.ly and Shush are two of the recreations. Both are based off of anonymous discussions and preach a message of being able to say what you want when you want, much like the late Yik Yak. Though these copies of the very memorable app are available, they are not as popular as Yik Yak once was. covert.ly barely has any users —9—

around the University of New Hampshire area and doesn’t have the daily grasp on it’s users that Yik Yak was able to develop.

Other anonymous apps seemed to have been inspired by Yik Yak, but some have run into the same problem of having to delete their platform from the app store. One app dating back to 2014-2015, called Fade, was supposedly the picture form of Yik Yak. But once again, anonymity became a problem for this app when users began to post nude photos to their location feed. Meaning, anyone using the app could have access to a nude photo of somebody that they did not know and that they did not want or ask for. This would also leave the user wondering if the person who posted the nude was the actual person in the picture, or if someone somewhere was unaware that their naked body was just made available to a very large anonymous picture-sharing chat room.

Though Yik Yak is no longer around, it did something bigger than just give college freshman something to scroll through during lecture. Yik Yak created a platform to connect thousands of people within an area in an instant, and took away the awkwardness of having to get to know the person who’s posting. It was pure conversation, sometimes not of the stimulating sort, without the strings attached.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Professor Funso Afolayan and his wife, Bola Afolayan, in traditional Yoruba garments.

Talking history with Dr. Funso Afolayan Bri Doherty | Issue Editor

In the Nigerian village of Iwo, measures had to be taken to ensure that specific children of the town would not die and return to the spirit world too soon. Ceremonial shackles would be placed around their ankles to weigh them to the earth and chants would be voiced to persuade the spirit world not to take them back. Before Funso Afolayan was born on July 3, 1957 in the village of Iwo, his parents recognized that this might not be a normal child coming into existence. His parents believed that he was an Abiku.

According to the village’s beliefs, Abiku children are spirit children who choose to be born into the world, but only for a short period of time. They choose to come into the world for a few months or possibly a few years, and then they decide to go back to the spirit world by passing away at a very young age.

In the Yoruba language, “Bi” means “to give birth, and “Ku” means “to die.” In this belief, these children are literally “born to die.”

“The child is not here to stay,” says Afolayan. “The child just came here to have fun, you know,

have fun for a couple of years and then go back.”

Before he was born, his mother gave birth to four different children. All of them died very early, the oldest one only lasting about a year and a few months.

“The death of four kids in rapid succession, one after another, made my parents…conclude that this is actually the same child that keeps coming back again and again and keeps dying,” says Afolayan. “So when I came, the conclusion was that I was that child reincarnating myself in the same woman.”

In order to keep Afolayan from dying and returning to the spirit world, his parents took him to a “diviner,” a spiritual leader that actively solves problems through a connection to the spirit world. Here, his family performed rituals that would inhibit Afolayan from leaving and returning to the spirit world.

The diviner and his family made incisions into his skin under his eyes.

They then placed medicinal herbs into these cuts to make it difficult for Afolayan to make a passage back into the spirit world. Afolayan still — 10 —

has the scars from these incisions faintly gracing his skin under his eyes.

“The purpose of the rituals is to entice, encourage, or compel the child to stay,” says Afolayan. “Or, if the child does not agree, you can also direct those rituals to the spirit world to make it difficult for the child to go back.”

Afolayan was the first of his mother’s children to survive through infancy. His name was given to him to protect his being. His full name, Folorunso, is a shortened version of a sentence in Yoruba, “Fun Olorun So.” In Yoruba, “Fun,” means gift, “Olorun,” is god, and “So” means to watch or protect. His name indicates that this child is given over to God to watch and protect so that he does not return to the spirit world, unlike his siblings before.

“Of course, in the modern day, people will explain it as infant mortality. They will say this is just the people’s way of explaining high incidents of infant mortality,” says

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Afolayan. “They need a metaphysical way to explain a deficient medical system that makes kids…die early.”

Afolayan grew up in his village of Iwo in Northern Yorubaland, the traditional region of the Yoruba people. His parents were cocoa farmers, and did not live in the Iwo village. Therefore, Afolayan was raised in a house with his grandfather, his siblings, and his grandfather’s seven wives.

“I had always assumed that we would have all of this, that this would always be with us.”

“Every [wife] was considered grandmother,” says Afolayan, “cause that is the culture. They are all your grannies.”

His grandfather, Afolayan Orileola, was an extremely important figure in Iwo. He was the Advisor to the King, a Diviner, an Herbalist, and the Head of Hunters. Due to his high stature, his first name was eventually converted into his last name, so that it would carry on through generations.

“I think the most significant part, the biggest impression, was he was also a diviner,” says Afolayan.

“For me, that was the most fascinating aspect of this life.”

or the supernatural. He’s making connections with the spirit world, and you are aware of that. So you maintained a kind of solemn silence as you watch what is going on.”

In his village, people would seek out the diviners to help them solve their problems. According to Afolayan, “they are able to see into the world that is unseen, in a way that ordinary people don’t always see.”

“It was kind of extraordinary.

I wish I had paid more attention,” says Afolayan, reflecting back on his time observing the rituals. “I had always assumed that we would have all of this, that this would always be with us.”

These problems were not always physical. According to Afolayan, “people come with problem of having bad luck, misfortune, failure in business, failure in marriage or relationship, or failure in work.” The diviner would assess the problem, then consult with the spirit world to work with the people to solve their problems.

During the 1950’s and 60’s, Nigeria was engaged in a time of extreme political unrest. Nigeria had gained independence from British rule in 1960. However, the politicians that took over from the British did not manage the country well. They lacked experience, mismanaged the economy, and did not know how to run a democratic system. Various political parties used this mismanagement to their advantage. They capitalized on ethno-religious divisions in order to gain power in Nigeria.

In order to connect to the spirit world, the diviners would perform mystical rituals. For example, the diviners would create a chain with palm knots attached to it. They would throw the chain onto the ground. How the palm knots landed would tell them which “odu” to consult. An Odu is a chant used to interpret solutions to ailments.

Afolayan recalls, “It would be kind of a solemn ceremony, because you know there is a kind of interaction and engagement with the divine

“You have to keep switching sides almost immediately,” recalls Afolayan. “When this group came, you quickly tell them you are supporting them. You break out their badge and you carry their flag and you wear their uniform and you keep dancing for them. So when the other group came, you take that uniform off and put on the next one.”

In their village, and herbalist was like a doctor and a pharmacist combined into one. The herbalist would diagnose the patient, and also provide the medicinal herbs and make the medicine to treat the patient. As a child, Afolayan and his friends were entrusted to gather the herbs for the medicines.

“We would go to this place which was about close to a mile from the town, and we would harvest whatever he needed,” says Afolayan.

In the traditional system, the hunters were the warriors of the village. They protected the town and also supplied meat for the community.

Professor Afolayan attends his friend’s wedding in traditional Yoruba garb — 11 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

“It was a very difficult, turbulent, and unstable period. And growing up as a child, you cannot forget that memory,”

“They are the kind of politics ‘either you are for me or you are against me, and if you are against me, then everything I can do to destroy you, I will do so,’” says Afolayan.

Occasionally, political groups would come to Iwo in the middle of the night, forcing the community to flee the village in panic.

“The entire village would be empty because you don’t know whether they are coming to attack you or coming to kill you,” recalls Afolayan.

“It was a very difficult, turbulent, and unstable period. And growing up as a child, you cannot forget that memory,” says Afolayan.

“I mean, if you had to wake up, 2 AM in the middle of the night and run into the bush and stay there for the next 5-6 hours before they send the message ‘OK, they are all gone,’ you cannot forget those kinds of things.”

Despite this political turmoil in their country, the people of Iwo still found happiness, hope, and spirituality in their religion. Each year, during the peak of the dry season in Nigeria, the people of Iwo gather to celebrate their village’s god, Awoji.

The celebration begins a few days before, with sacrifices of animals and food, dances, and masquerades.

Then, on the morning of the sacred day, everyone gathers in the center of the town and walks about a mile into the hills surrounding the village, to the grove in the mountain. During the march, the villagers were dancing spontaneously, drumming excitedly, and singing enthusiastically.

Professor Afolayan attends his friend’s wedding in traditional Yoruba garb.

`“We would hear voices,” says Afolayan, “maybe people are making the voices, but they could sound like the voice of the spirits talking to the people of the community.”

Then, the final sacrifice was made, and the entire village would wait for the rain—at the height of the dry season.

According to Afolayan, “At the end of the veneration, it must rain. Because without rain, it means the whole world is upside down. The gods have not accepted our sacrifice.

And every year, it rained.”

Usually, it would begin raining while the feast after the sacrifice is ensuing.

“The eating would be going on, and, somehow, somewhere, during that period, there would be rain,” says Afolayan. The village would rejoice! They would all run from the mountain back to the village.

“Everyone would be waving [the palm leaves] and dancing, and singing, and celebrating, and almost making the declaration, ‘we’ve had a good year, we are bringing in a new year of prosperity, of progress, of good health,’” recalls Afolayan.

“And it’s after I’ve grown up I keep asking myself, ‘how did it rain every year?’ I mean, why was there no year that it did not rain?”

— 12 —

Funso Afolayan moved to Ile Ife in 1977 to pursue his education at the University of Ife, now known as Obafemi Awolowo University. He attained his undergraduate degree in History with a minor in Philosophy, then went on to pursue his masters in History with a minor in International Affairs as well as Anthropology. He then achieved his Ph.D. in History. He then became a professor at the Universtiy of Ife until 1993.

Afolayan then spent the Spring semester of 1993 at Amherst college, where he was awarded a fellowship for 6 months. He then accepted a one-year position to teach African History at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri. Since this would become a three-year position, Afolayan sought to relocate his family to the United States. However, the United States government would not grant his family a visa, because his job was not as permanent as required.

“I couldn’t get my family here, so that was now a problem,” says Afolayan.

This forced him to pursue a more permanent job, which brought him to UNH, where he has been teaching since 1996.

“I never thought I was going to come and live in this country. It never even occurred to me once. I believe if anybody had told me two or three years before I come here that I could be living here I’d say ‘no, it’s not possible,” he remarks, chuckling.

Fall 2017

Main Street Magazine

a nice hole in the wall at Paul Newman’s summer camp Meredith Clarke | Contributing Writer The only source of light in the cabin was the water bottle with a flashlight underneath. All of the campers were in their bunks and all of the counselors were sitting at the end of each bed on their trunks.

“If you could have dinner with anyone who would it be and what would you eat?” asked Will McDonald, a counselor in cabin Green 13 during a tradition called cabin chat.

“I would eat dinner with Paul Newman, to say thank you for everything he’s done for me….and we’d eat pizza.” Said Connor, a camper in Green 13. Within a few weeks he’d learn that he was cancer free.

In 1988, actor and racecar driver Paul Newman decided he wanted to open a camp for children living with serious illness. Over the course of nine months Newman found a plot of land and developed 33 buildings able to honor the medical needs of all of these children and named it “The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp” after his hit movie “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”.

Maggie Gaal (right) former camper and osteosarcoma survivor prepares for her second summer on staff at camp with her best friend, Emma.

At first, the summer camp was just a fun thing for kids living in hospitals to do. It was a place to get away, where they could live in an environment with no rules or regulations. What Newman could have never predicted is how the camp would have such an impact on these children. Doctors became stunned as their patient’s started to become incredibly resilient and many of them started to do the unthinkable: survive. “The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp” was giving children a reason to live, a reason to fight for another year.

Now the camp serves more than 1,000 children per summer. Children ages 8-15 all with diagnoses like cancer, sickle cell anemia, HIV/AIDS, and metabolic disorder stay in a cabin of ten others to bond through their experiences. They partake in 12 programs ranging from theater, to woodshop, to a 30 foot ropes course and so much more. Through these programs and camp traditions, psychologists and child life specialists have been able to come up with a way to make sure that the campers get to take home as much as possible to set them up for success in the next, week, month, year and even decade after they leave camp.

“Camp was five years old when they started to appreciate that kids were acting out along the lines of their traumas and their adjustment to their chronic or acute illnesses and camp began to realize that it couldn’t be just about entertaining kids and forgetting about their lives for a while it was also about moving their lives forward.” says Dr. Karen Carlson Psy.D, the former camp psychologist.

When children grow up with a serious illness they tend to miss out on critical social developmental opportunities. When they would be learning how to make friends and try new things in elementary school, many of them are spending their days in hospitals. Camp provides these kids with a safe and supportive environment where they can refine their skills and take home the confidence to make friends.

“A lot of time in the hospital, with your parents, living in the world of adults that are holding different expectations of you. Natural consequences. The biggest impact that has to do with social skills in normative child environments at schools. Illness can take a big toll on self esteem and aspects of social development and the treatments can impact basic things like memory and learning and things like that” says Dr. Carlson — 13 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Downtown, designed to look like an old western At the first day of camp every session the camp director asks the kids to do three things: “Make friends, try new things, and be kind to one another.” The entire week is based in these three goals. Counselors push kids to get into their “stretch zone,” which is where a person is uncomfortable with something but can push themselves to try it and become comfortable with it.

Clare Watkins, an osteosarcoma survivor and current Adventure counselor tells her story: “Camp takes a program that could be a fun thing to do and making it more by trying something new or pushing them to get out of their comfort zone and learning about themselves. When I was a senior camper doing the tower was the most stressful thing for me. It seemed like something I just couldn’t do especially because there were no other campers in my cabin with mobility issues. But because of that I felt like I had to. I was so scared of heights and I felt so bad about my conditions and I cried as they were hooking me in. Both years I made it to the top of the tower by climbing the rock wall and I zip lined down and I did something that I didn’t think I could do and that’s what camp is and that’s why I wanted to be on adventure because that’s such a big moment and taking something that was once so frightening to me and being so comfortable with it.”

This is where intentionality was born. Every thing at the camp from the words the counselors use, to the songs that play in the dining hall, to each program have a specific purpose. Campers only come to Ashford, CT for one week out of the year, so it’s the camp’s mission to provide these children with as much magic, inspiration, and growth to last them the rest of the year.

“Intentionality is just making sure that everything that you’re doing is for the benefit of the camper. Thinking ‘what do these campers need’ and then going from there.” Says Stephanie Bellman, the Assistant Program Director at Hole in the Wall.

A 2016 study conducted by Dr. Ann Gillard, the camp Director of Research and Evaluation, follows the program — 14 —

impacts that over the course of just one week on the children and their families. 53% of parents reported that their children’s sense of possibility increased a lot and 32% reported that it increased some. The majority of children also reporting an increase in friendship and connection skills.

As fun as the programs are, most campers remember one thing over any other: the counselors. Training staff to create a loving, supportive, and overall goofy environment lets the campers know that camp is a place to be themselves and try new things.

“The people make it special like the facilities are amazing but it’s the people you meet or the counselors I had that made sure I had a great week. My camp friends will always stay with me. Everyone at camp just gets it.” says Taylor Alcorn, a former sibling camper and current horse barn counselor.

With the first former camper on the board of directors and now 40% of the full summer staff (and countless number of volunteers) being former campers, one thing is apparent: camp makes a long lasting impact on everyone who has the opportunity to step on the grounds.

So thank you Paul for this Hole in the Wall.

If you’d like to get involved in camp you can check out https://www.holeinthewallgang.org/get-involved.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

a history of msm Andrew Hartnett | Editor in Chief

“What year did we start? I need to update the website ‘About’ page…”

“Look it up” “No, that’s the problem. We are where people go to look up something like that. It’s found in the about page, but if the people making the page- us- don’t know when it started, nobody else can either at this point.”

“What about the filing cabinet…?”

In a dusty black filing cabinet standing silently in the corner of MUB 132, 30+ years of history sit plastered among the inky pages of issues past. Through dozens of staff writers, editors, designers, production nights, inside jokes, and features upon features, Main Street Magazine has stayed consistently available to students for more than three decades, though it’s taken many different forms. Though the magazine has faced challenges both internally and externally, it has remained nonetheless.

And so, among pages past and photos forgotten, Main Street Magazine’s archive sits in a file cabinet too heavy to move, and almost too daunting to investigate.

But we needed to know what year Main Street Magazine officially started while updating our online information, so I spent an hour or two that could have been spent studying instead looking at all the past issues of Main Street that we had available. Collections of issues from every year of Main Street since 1987 (we also had issues from 1985 and 1986 when Main Street went

under the title Catalyst Magazine) laid sprawled out on the newsroom floor, laying bare the work of writers and editors past. We found that we started at least sometime in the early 80’s, though no previous records of a UNH magazine exist before the 1985 issue of Catalyst Magazine. We had no answers about our own beginnings, but we were intrigued at how many issues of Main Street Magazine there had been, and how many had been forgotten and left to collect dust in the corner of the newsroom.

“Well I think it’s great you’re doing this. It’s nice to talk about it, but admittedly I had forgotten that I did that all those years ago,” said Julia Hanauer-Milne abashedly as we danced around pleasantries at the start of our interview. Hanauer-Milne was Editor in Chief of Catalyst Magazine from 1984-85. Like the magazine today, under Hanauer-Milne’s control, Catalyst focused heavily on feature stories within their semesterly issues.

She noted that Top 10 Lists were big on Letterman that year, so they included a few here and there. Attention spans were always short, it seems.

The biggest change from 84 to now has to be layout. As Hanauer-Milne described layout taking “hours and hours” using “x-acto knives and a lot of laying down lines.”

“I mean, the classrooms still had typewriters, if that gives you any sense of time,” Hanuaer-Milne joked, dating herself on the changes between hand-laid articles, and the issues now as Main Street moves into the multimedia world. The layout itself made sense, and the stories ranged from a piece about square dancing to an

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Left: Winter 1989 cover and back cover, Right: Last known cover of Catalyst Magazine

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

inside look at the firing of thousands of air traffic controllers. The process, though, has evolved immensely.

“It’s crazy how it’s changed,” says former writer, senior editor, and editor in chief Krista Diamond. “We didn’t do any social media. I think you still needed a college email address to sign up for Facebook. It’s not like it is today.”

Diamond graduated in 2010, and currently lives in Las Vegas freelance writing for food and outdoors publications. As far as her time at the magazine goes, Diamond remembers the staff as being sarcastic and funny (they’re still sarcastic) as they spent all night producing the magazine and eating take out the week the magazine was due (also something that will never change). Diamond found inspiration for her issues from weekly alternative news magazines, mostly out of Boston, like the Weekly Dig (now known as DigBoston).

“We liked to do it in a way that sounds like you’re having a beer with someone or just talking. I loved the conversational feel of the magazine.”

Under Diamond’s command, every issue had a little bit of a different theme, usually centered around one main story. She recalls “The Sex Issue” being a big deal and raising some controvery around canvas, or at least with funding boards. Main Street has seen at least three sex-related cover stories in the last 15 years, and we can only assume that sex will always be a topic of interest at UNH. One of the first cover stories published under Morgan Cutulo’s (UNH Class of 2017) command was about what being a virgin in college was like, and the follow-up issue featured students who didn’t drink or party.

“I think it made a statement about what people do and don’t do, and what’s normal, especially around UNH,” said Cutulo, Editor in Chief 2015-17.

Cutulo’s vision for the magazine featured creativity and flexibility allowed tot the writers, demanding no real theme or focus from any one issue. The magazine continued to follow a geometric design different from past issues that had shown abstract positioning and randomness to reign above calculated placement and right angles.

“We would let people tell their own story, which we wanted, but it ended up turning into kind of a diary entry type of reporting,” admitted Cutulo, referring to a number of stories that lacked in sources and narrative.

Instead, students took the chance to write about themselves in a printed publication. There would have been more online space for students to write about themselves, but at some point during Cutulo’s time in charge the website was hacked, and there was no real form of a recovery system at the time.

Cutulo made moves for Main Street, though, as she hand-delivered the magazine to academic buildings around campus during a time of budget cuts, and saw that MSM would continue to be funded by spearheading the — 16 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

merger of TNH and Main Street along with last years TNH executive editor, Allison Belluci. Without Cutulo, Main Street wouldn’t have made it to your door, and probably wouldn’t be here at all as an available publication.

Budget, like with all industries, has always been something to wrangle with. “In a time of budget cuts, it was pretty amazing. We even kept it my senior year despite further cuts. I remember the newspaper getting hit hard,” remembers Chris Arcand, Editor in Chief of Main Street from 2001-02. Main Street stopped running ads sometime in the late 90’s, and though we can’t find an exact reason why it stopped, we’re much happier to fill the space with photos and features.

As far as pieces go, it seems that MSM has always indulged in its space for feature writing, as well as writer and time constraints. “We would always assign extra stories because 2 or 3 writers would always flake out. It was a constant battle to keep people on task,” said Arcand, speaking all too familiarly of the stresses of dropped articles. “The magazine was more special interest pieces than news. Some writers from the newspaper would try to do long pieces for us, but then quit when they realized it was more like writing an English paper than a quick newspaper article.”

Regardless of format, the writing must be done.

As I sit here, 6 p.m. on Friday night before production weekend, I wonder if I or any other journalist will ever really feel like they’re on time for a story. I’d wager not, but I’ve seen a few writers who feign being put together nicely. Hanauer-Milne, who has now been out of the writing business for 21 years laughed as we talked last Monday nightabout an article due Friday that she hadn’t started by the start pf the article. I laugh, not because she’s behind schedule, but because we’re all behind schedule, and it doesn’t matter if we need to lay lines with rulers and knives or update the Main Street Magazine, Facebook page everytime an article comes out. Time and money will always be out to get us. Some things never change.

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Previous Page: Top: Controversial KKK cover from 1989, Bottom: Back Cover of spring 2001 Issue This Page: Above: Virgin cover story from fall 2015, Below: Opening pages & photospread from infamous 2004 sex issue

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

eclectic examples of edification how an 89-year-old man taught me to love music Stephanie Khairallah | Senior Managing Editor

I had a professor who claimed, in a very aggressive manner, that the artistry of our generation was dead, and that we were ruining the way the world was. He was 89, he could barely hear, and he was overly confident in his lackluster ability to read lips. He cited Nicki Minaj and Tiesto – he claimed music carried no significance or emotion as of late.

He blamed our cell phones and our fast paced lifestyle. He suggested we lacked curiosity and drive. The course, “Philosophy in the Arts,” explained “Whitter’s Law,” a self-proclaimed theory constructed by the professor. In short, he believes in order to be appreciated and understood, music must be listened to many times as to allow yourself familiarity and room to grow around the sound. He explains how music can create an ‘oceanic feeling,’ or a moment of pure bliss defined by an overwhelming feeling of togetherness: a wave of euphoria.

Yet my professor asserted that we were not capable of achieving this level of emotion and insight. He insisted we listen to long winded symphonies, his music of choice. These were not horrible by any means and they struck the audience of students as pleasant, but did not deliver a feeling of edification. He claimed we did not understand the music. We agreed.

Alas, who needs classical music? The background of dramatic films? Elevators? The only exposure people born after 1990 really had with classical music was from these means. Unless you participated in a school marching band, a hobby that seems to be dwindling in popularity, you probably did not know much about the dense world of classical music.

So because we do not understand the music, we rejected it. We sat in class, looking apathetic and bored, only perpetuating my professor’s impression that we lacked curiosity.

However, good music still exists in 2017; I found myself more and more bothered by my professor’s boisterous banter about our generation: his popularized examples did not reflect the mass majority of music in the making, just the tip of a very dirty and polluted iceberg.

I eventually raised the courage to speak on the manner. I told my professor: “you are wrong and we are better than you think.” He yelled, he demanded my reasons and to reject his rationality.

So I wrote him a playlist. I told him to look up a funk band called “Lettuce,” a group of nine with brass instruments, keyboards and electronic influences. The band is famous on the festival route, and masters of their creative crunchy craft. They can jam for hours, delineating from their track listing and simply improvising groovy noise. It was definitely not in the wheelhouse of my symphony toting professor.

I assumed he would hate it. I prepared myself emotionally to be publically chastised in class – I had just mustered the will to speak nonetheless. I stayed up all night the evening prior. I considered skipping, I considered dropping, I considered packing my bags and joining a religious cult in the forest.

I was pleasantly surprised when he came in the next day with a spring in his step. This was unusual of the 89-year-old man.

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Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

harsh armadillo: funk. newmarket, nh

people like you: gyspy folk. dover, nh

He exclaimed that this was just as much classical music and his own Bach and Sibalis. He claimed the energy of the music made his old bones shimmy and his heart skip. His strict intimidation seemed to crumble away in excitement over our common appreciation for something, even if it sounded different from what he was used to. I was shocked he could wrap his head around the stuff.

Underneath the “fire beats,” and the iTunes top 10 downloaded list, there is a world full of the artistry and experimentation in music. ‘Good’ music is hard to find because good artists often lack the marketing teams or the money and management to manipulate the media. Music has become buried under sales goals and target demographics. he art of music exists, it simply will never be as profitable as churning out another Taylor Swift song. Therefore you will never hear good music as often. ‘Good’ as in created with artistic intentions, that is, good as in capable of eliciting the edification my professor begged us to find.

Yet the accusation that our generation lacks the proclivity to create art is underhanded and offensive! An allegation that is simply uneducated and unaware of the dense and elaborate communities behind the façade of commercialism.

Technology has allowed for music to break off into tangents – hundreds of genres and subgenres riddle the battlegrounds of YouTube and SoundCloud. Music has not become myopic or cheap, it has developed into the opposite; the industry has become a non-restricting world with every resource at the touch of a button. This does not make music simple and stupid, it creates the opportunity to research and develop a sound with qualities and dimensions previously unobtainable.

I am trying to imply that our generation is still capable of an edifying experience with music – we still create art and experiment with sound. Bad modern music is played the most often because it is commercialized to do so specifically. Of course Anaconda is horrible, it was written by a team of marketers to sell the implication of sex to children with the purpose of making money, not creating art. The more often a song is heard, the more money it is to make, obviously.

Yet there are still people exploring instruments and rhythm and harmony. Besides the strict structure, where is the difference in conducting an orchestra verses a solid jam? They both require a group of like-minded people, working together and exploring their talents to create sound that evokes emotion for an audience who recognizes the dedication and creativity which built it.

EDM and gypsy folk might make no sense to someone who did not grow up with the sound – but classical music shares a similar confusion to a generation raised otherwise. These genres are completely different and exactly the same. We clash generationally because we do not understand one another. We hear a boring gruel in their classical clashes and they hear random explosive noise from ours.

Yet, we must not let ourselves close ourself from understanding perspective. We must allow our ears to be open. Listen to the classical song, even if you think it is long and boring. Allow yourself to recognize and appreciate things you may not inherently understand. We have the unique ability to learn and to listen to as much of whatever we might want. My professor left with a list of local bands. I left with a Bach CD.

Get weird with it – experiment, explore, edify.

— 19 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

SKATER BOYS Gabriela Misiewicz | Contributing Photographer

— 20 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

“Do what you love and try not to look at what other people occupy themselves with. Most people seem restless and bounce around too much to focus or even pay attention enough to themselves to figure out exactly what they really do love, as opposed to what people around them are doing.”

-Rodney Mullen

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Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Hamilton Smith: Mining Millionaire the icon that reaped the rewards of imperialistic conquest By: Michael Valotto & Stephanie Khairallah

DURHAM – The name Hamilton Smith is iconic throughout the University of New Hampshire. But who was the man of mystery behind the recently renovated building?

Smith was regarded as a philanthropist to most, and a dog lover to some. Yet the man behind the title could be seen as one of the most influential figures in the conquest for gold and diamonds in the late 19th century.

Smith gained his capital from the imperialistic exploitation of black South African labor by means of indentured servitude. These funds have been used within the University system – now we title buildings after this very fellow.

Dr. Funso Afolayan, associate professor of history at the University of New Hampshire said, “If they [capitalists] did not have Hamilton Smith, they still would have done it [deep level mine]. He, [Hamilton Smith,] was a facilitator who came in at the right time when they were in need.”

On May 15, 1906, the Manchester Union reported Mrs. Smith’s estate at more than $600,000; with adjusted inflation this is roughly $16 million. However, the financial records of Hamilton Smith seem to have disappeared, or else, have been destroyed.

group of miners & overseer. photo by j. davis

As found in archives in the University of New Hampshire’s Dimond Library, a memorandum of the death of Hamilton Smith reads: “Directly or indirectly, the University has profited from H.B.S.’s fortune as follows: 1. Valentine Smith scholarships- gift of $10,000.

2. Smith Hall- $16,000 from his stepdaughter Mrs. Edith Congreve Onderdonk.

3. Bequest of $10,000 in his will- left in trust to his partner, Henry C. Perkins, became $12,888 before used for library (Hamilton Smith Hall).

4. Part of his estate, by will of his widow, and after the death of his stepdaughter (Mrs. Onderdonk).

This became available by 1920 and the UNH Trustees used the sum of about $120,000 to construct the first unit of Congreve hall.

P.M. Marston. February 15, 1960”

Born in Kentucky on July 5, 1840, Hamilton Smith married in 1886, in London to Mrs. Alice Congreve. Smith had no biological heirs. He was the son of Hamilton Smith Senior and the grandson of Judge Valentine Smith.

Smith had no formal education, yet was an expert of deep level mining. He practiced his trade under his mining father for the duration of his adolescence; Smith had the capacity and intuition to survey uncharted land and to locate precious metals deep within the ground. He was the truffle pig of valuable minerals.

One of Smith’s associates and close friends, Henry C. Perkins, revealed in Interviews with Mining Engineers,

by Thomas Arthur Rickard, that, “he [Smith] had trained himself by practical work in his father’s coal mines in Indiana. He was a masterful character, he had a powerful intellect, a great grasp of the controlling factors in any undertaking, and a genius for thoroughness.”

The Rothschilds & Their Money

Smith met the wealthy benefactor, Lord Rothschild while inspecting hydraulic mines at the North Bloomfield Company. He then became the consulting engineer for the Rothschild family, according to Perkins.

“Hamilton Smith was instrumental in introducing abroad the greater number of those American mining engineers who have brought so much credit to the profession,” said Perkins.

Smith was particularly fond of South Africa for his mining endeavors as referenced by Dr. Gary Brechin, the — 22 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

author of Imperial San Francisco: Urban Power, Earthy Ruin. At the time South Africa was considered the “El Dorado,” of mining.

Smith founded the Exploration Company of London in 1885, along with Lord Rothschild, a British financier, similar to a modern day venture capitalist. Rothschild played an instrumental role as financial benefactor to exploit the resources in the South African region.

According to Robert I. Rotberg in his book The Founder: Cecil Rhodes and the Pursuit of Power, the purpose of this London based enterprise was as an “investment fund, specializing in overseas mining properties.”

The role of Smith and Lord Rothschild’s company was to survey and appraise untapped ore deposits or advise current mining operations. This was done on land that was taken by imperialists from the native South Africans.

Following the Napoleonic Wars, many imperialists left their homelands in search of land and resources around the world. South Africa was highly contested during this time of competition. During the Napoleonic Wars, the Cape Colony of South Africa was taken by the British. The war to take South Africa was almost entirely funded by the Rothschild family.

In Niall Ferguson’s book, The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World, he says, “N.M. Rothschild [Lord Rothschild’s grandfather] was instrumental in almost single-handedly financing the British war effort, organizing the shipment of bullion to the Duke of Wellington’s armies across Europe, as well as arranging the payment of British financial subsidies to their continental allies.”

Rothschild’s family aided worldwide imperialism; Lord Rothschild continued this pattern of subsequent domination through mining in South Africa.

Cecil Rhodes & His Influence “People came from everywhere to stake their fortune in South Africa,” said Dr. Afolayan. “One of the most notable people who came was Cecil Rhodes.”

“Cecil Rhodes almost epitomizes this aggressive unscrupulous form of imperialism.” Said Dr. Afolayan.

Cecil Rhodes was an imperialist, a businessman and a politician. He played a pivotal role in southern Africa in the late 19th century. With his foothold as a politician as well as his wealth from his business exploits, Rhodes used his influence to annex large quantities of land to use for personal gains. Rhodes and his company paved the way for the future application of apartheid by working to alter laws on voting and land ownership. The De Beers mines made use of a segregated compound system that regulated the movement of their workers until the end of their contracts.

Cecil Rhodes was desperately in need of funds to buyout a competing mining firm in timely congruence with Smith’s newly established company. Through the connection of Smith and mutual associates in the mining industry, Lord Rothschild gave him the finances he sought. Prior to Rhodes’ connection with The Exploration Company, Rhodes founded the De Beers diamond firm which, until recently, controlled the global trade of diamonds. Rothschild became a critical shareholder of the De Beers Firm.

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“I contend that we [white British] are the first race in the world, and that the more of the world that we inhabit, the better it is for the human race.”

- Cecil Rhodes,1877

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

The Manipulation of South African Labor

According to his research, Dr. Midas Chawane of the University of Johannesburg states that if not for cheap native labor, mining would not have been possible in South Africa. The production costs in the gold mines of South Africa were usually very high due to the depth of the gold bearing reef. Smith’s specialty was to determine the abundance and value of these hidden minerals deep within the earth’s surface. Smith’s decisions were based on the potential for financial gains for his parties of interest such as the Rothschild family, whom he worked for.

“First, the problem was that the mines were collapsing,” Dr. Afolayan said. “The workers could no longer reach deep enough.

Capitalization and mechanization of mines [was necessary] to gain access to deep ore below.”

Ore is a naturally occurring solid material from which a metal or valuable mineral can be profitably extracted, like gold, or diamonds. After all the resources were extracted from the surface, mining firms were in need of reaching valuable ore at deeper levels.

Map of British Provinces in South Africa, 1885

The average gold content of the ore is low. The internationally fixed price of gold prevented the mining companies from passing on any increase in production costs to the consumer. In their attempt to seek cost minimizing strategies, the mining companies sought to reduce labor costs due to the difficulty of minimizing capital costs. Reducing labor cost was not a challenging task for the mining companies. In contrast to white labor, black labor was thought to be unskilled and could therefore be paid less. Deprived of the political rights such as voting or free movement and the right to bargain collectively through trade unions, South African’s were taken advantage of in a form now known as indentured servitude.

“By taking their [indigenous people’s] land, they were compelled to be laborers in the mines of the settlers,” said Dr. Afolayan. “Either you work in their [settlers] farms, or you work in their mines, where the workers were subjected to all kinds of indignities.”

It was easy and inexpensive to accommodate black mine workers by housing a number of them in compounds, therefore keeping the expenditure within cost effective limits.

The Capital

Smith, through his vast connections within the mining community, middle-manned the business transaction between Rhodes [De Beers] and Lord Rothschild. Rothschild raised £1 million to purchase a competing mine. After purchasing the mine, Smith’s exploration company was used to inject cash into the mines owned by Rhodes. Rothschild became one of the prominent shareholders of De Beers diamond mining firm, founded by Cecil Rhodes.

In 1892, Smith travelled to Witwatersrand, a 56-kilometer stretch in the Gauteng Province, South Africa. Here Smith surveyed and appraised the potential for gold on behalf of the Rothschild’s. Smith came to the conclusion that the land and gold was worth approximately £ 215 million, that could be raised at a rate of £10 million per year. Today, with inflation, this would be approximately £24 billion raised at a rate of approximately over £1 billion per year. An influential article written by Smith ran in The Times on January of 1893, claiming that the Witwatersrand had reserves worth over £300 million. Now, with inflation, that would approximate to £34 billion.

In the book Diamonds, Gold, and War: The British, the Boers, and the Making of South Africa, author Martin Meredith, states that the outcome of Smith’s survey resulted in the formation of a company called Rand Mines. Nominal capital was worth £400,000 at £1 per share and the Rothschild’s picked up 60,000 shares. Within five years of the formation of Rand Mines, each share was worth £45 a piece.

The English Department rests within the newly constructed Hamilton Smith Hall. Hamilton Smith’s legacy was commemorated by his ability to procure precious materials. The legacy of his associates was that of imperialist conquest. Today we celebrate him as a philanthropist whose donations helped build the university. The means by which he came into such funds, though, are of a moral & historic debate.

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Fall 2017

Main Street Magazine

stories of genocide told on stage By: Lucas LeBlanc | Contributing Writer

Another person is wearing your clothes...

Another person is drinking from your cups, eating from your plates, and sleeping in your bed. Another person is living in your house. You’ve just returned from a concentration camp, and your life is not your own.

“Wouldn’t that make a great play?”

This was the question that Trina Davies’ father asked her when he sent her an article from The Guardian back in 2004. A Bosnian judge had just returned home and found her apartment, clothes, and life being occupied by a former typist named Ankica.

Fast forward to 2017, 13 years after the initial inception of “The Apartment”, the scene created from the initial article that began the life of the play, and The Bone Bridge finds its world premiere performance at the University of New Hampshire.

How did the The Bone Bridge, a play about men and women living through their pain and moving on after the wake of the Bosnian War and attempted ethnic cleansing of Bosnian Muslims come to be? How does someone react to the story of one person stealing another’s life, only to have them return from the concentration camp they thought there was no coming back from?

“It must feel like you’re mad”

“What comes to mind first are questions,” said Davies. “To come back thinking only of your own home, having been expelled, having had these terrible experiences.”

She grew silent for a moment.

“It must feel like you’re mad”

This was 2004, before those responsible for the crimes were held accountable in world court. On July 21, 2008 and May 26, 2011, Ratko Mladić and Radovan Karadžić, two of the most notorious names behind the Bosnian War and Genocide during the 1900’s, were arrested and tried at War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague in Netherlands.

After news spread, stories of death, genocide, concentration camps, and ethnic warfare were flooding in from Bosnia and Herzegovina. All were terrible, all were important. Bosnian Muslims were being targeted, sent to concentration camps, or outright killed throughout many parts of the country.

Another story, this time from British Columbia, Canada. A man named Branko Rogan once served as a prison guard in a concentration camp for Bosnian Muslims. He was recognized

by a refugee while shopping in Vancouver, and put on trial in 2011.

From stories like this, The Bone Bridge slowly came together.

“My head just goes to ‘what is that like?’” said Davies.

“What happens when you come home from this… experience and you have to decide whether you open that up or don’t? Am I just going to pretend and put it all behind me, or do I make that a part of my life that I have to relive?”

Reliving past memories, especially those of pain and suffering, is a common theme in the play. How do the characters move on? How can they rebuild their life when they have endured this unimaginable pain?

Pain, is a motif that created the turning point in an unlikely character.

In The Bone Bridge, Davies created a character, named The Leader, who was an amalgamation of Mladić and Karadžić. It’s easy to write an evil character with no human attributes, but in order for the character to work, he needed to be believable. He needed to be human.

“There was a video of [Mladić] at his daughter’s funeral, and it’s fairly common to have a coffin with a viewing window for the face. He was standing over it and he just kept wiping the window, wiping the window over his daughters face, and he just couldn’t stop,” said Davies.

“And I thought to myself, ‘ahh, there’s the human’.”

Humanity is a core value at the center of The Bone Bridge- a woman comes back from a concentration camp only to find an old friend had assumed her life, a refugee who only wants to forget the pain of their past finds one of the people who helped cause it out shopping on an ordinary afternoon.

Davies got her first chance to fully develop the opening scene she had written, “The Apartment”, alongside the

Photos courtesy of Michael Wood, Administrative Manager of the UNH Theater & Dance Department — 25—

Photos taken during UNH’s production of The Bone Bridge, run October 4-8, 2017 rest of the play while working with The Citadel Theatre in Edmonton, Alberta.

The company asked her to work on anything she wanted, and thoughts about the stories she had heard about the Bosnian War were compiled in a notebook.

“It’s minus 30 degrees and I’m literally sitting in a coffee shop near the public library watching trial videos from The Hague on my laptop,” said Davies with a laugh.

The first complete draft of The Bone Bridge was completed in 2013.

Now, in 2017, Davies has two completed drafts, a Canadian and American version, and one fully staged production here at UNH.

Before coming to production, The Bone Bridge had to beat out over 240 other plays in the Woodward Playwriting Competition, which is a part of the Cultural Stages project. This project aims to bring in a deeper understanding of international cultures through the arts of theater and dance, and teach them to both the audience, and the cast and crew of the play.

“It’s an amazing opportunity,” said Davies. “It’s a crazy awesome opportunity.”

For senior Isabelle Beagen, the process was a little different.

“It became a lot of trying to

understand a war and genocide that I knew very little about,” said Beagen, the co-director of The Bone Bridge.

“This is the second Cultural Stages play I’ve been involved with that was about a genocide that no one knew happened.”

Her first, Sematakaki, was created by the Indonesian Papermoon Puppet Theater and produced in 2015. It dealt heavily with the Indonesian genocide of the 1960’s.

Actor Serena Lockhart, who played the role of Branka in The Bone Bridge, had a similar experience.

“We did not hear about this, and most of the cast didn’t know this happened,” said Lockhart.

This was the first foreign piece that Lockhart had ever acted in, and she was amazed at the ability of the play to reach not only the actors, but also the audience every night.

“It’s important to not only show people the different sides of the situation, but to show it in its entirety.”

To both Beagen and Lockhart, theater is a tool that can be used to transcend the differences in cultures, in order to create a story that both sides can learn from.

“It’s crucial because it opens your eyes.”

How do you see your life? How do you view your culture? How does it — 26 —

reflect among others? These are all questions that Beagen believes are important for the audience to consider when viewing a play like The Bone Bridge.

“It is a very specific play, in that it’s looking at very specific moments in a very widespread and complex issue.”

Beagen cites islamophobia as an example. In both history and the play, islamophobia was a key factor of the beginning of the Bosnian War, and the mass genocide of Bosnian Muslims.

To Beagen, not reflecting on what is happening now in the world around us does injustice to the play itself.

“Why this play? Why now?”

These were the key questions to Beagen, who started off her role in The Bone Bridge as a part of the selection committee in charge of choosing the winner of the Woodward Playwriting Competition.

What is the role of cultural theater? Does it truly have the power to open people’s minds; To make them ask the hard questions they might not want to ask?

“Watching other cultures makes you understand [them] in a way that you wouldn’t from just watching the news or reading a book,” Beagen says.

“It makes you think. It makes you think about your role in the world, and it makes you think about your connection to other people in the world.”

— 27 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

an inside look at recruitment Danielle Ouellette | Contributing Writer

They told us what to wear, what to say and what not to say.

That biggest topic to avoid?

No booze, boys or bibles.

The outside of the Chi Omego soroity house.

Recruitment, rush week, whatever you want to call it, it’s all the same. A bunch of girls who want to join Greek life for a variety of reasons. Never in a million years did I think I would be one of those girls, but, this year, I decided to sign up for formal recruitment to see what everything is all about. I endured seven days of various activities and by the end of it, I was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. I’m not sure which aspect was the most draining: the smiling, the repeated conversations, or the 6+ hours of walking, standing, and cheering day after day. Regardless of the negative aspects of this whole process, I wouldn’t go back and change a thing.

Rushing this semester was one of the greatest experiences I have ever had, and I have met so many great people because of it.

Day One On the first day, we met our recruitment counselors. These are girls who have gone through the recruitment process and are currently in one of the eight sororities here on campus. They are there to lead us through the process and help us make very important decisions.

During this time, they disaffiliate with their house to eliminate any bias towards one house over another. To me, this seemed strange. Just because they weren’t wearing their letters doesn’t automatically eliminate their bias towards their chapter.

But, apparently, we were supposed to be able to ask them any questions about any sorority, without feeling intimidated.

On this day, all of the girls going through the formal recruitment process gathered in the Granite State Room of the Memorial Union Building to be assigned a recruitment counselor. There were 12 recruitment groups each containing 50-55 girls. If it were up to me, I could’ve come up with six more efficient ways to let each girl know their group.

But, clearly, it wasn’t up to me. After each name was called, we met our counselors, got a brief rundown of the next six days, and then we were set free.

Day Two For me, day two was orientation. Again, we all filed into the GSR to get a more in-depth description of what the rest of the week would entail. The women who run the — 28 —

whole thing are members of what is called the Panhellenic Council (also referred to as Panhel). This is, for all intents and purposes, the executive board of sororities. They described our schedules and the various times that we had to arrive for events. If we were late, we were not allowed in. They told us what to wear, what to say, and what not to say. The biggest topics to avoid? “No booze, boys, or bibles.”

The women of Panhel reassured everyone that hazing is illegal in the state of New Hampshire and how all the rumors we have heard are not true. I could only think, “of course they’re going to say that. We wouldn’t want to join their precious Greek life if we knew the rumors were true.”

At this point I still couldn’t believe I was actually going through with the whole process. Never in my entire life had I imagined myself as a sorority girl. The matching outfits, the cheering, and the peppiness was never something I could see myself being a part of. So, as I was sitting there in the GSR, my first instinct was to roll my eyes. As the days went on, I learned that there is so much

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

more to Greek life.

Following orientation was informal recruitment. Each chapter had a room on the third floor of the MUB. If you’ve ever been to the third floor of the MUB, you know how tiny those rooms are.

Now, imagine over 50 girls in each of those rooms. It was hot. It was loud. It was mayhem. During the informal recruitment, we got to meet with sisters from all of the sororities on campus. This is where the first impressions were made. Most of the girls were very welcoming and friendly. They approached us as soon as we walked through the door, taking us to chat about their chapters.

Others weren’t so warm and seemed like they couldn’t care less that we were there. While that was my first interaction with most chapters, I didn’t want to base my entire decision off of one night.

one thinks that if you have seen one sorority, you’ve seen them all, you’re right. Well, to a point. The houses are all different and, to be cliché, they all have their own personalities.

However, when you’re in a house, especially for recruitment, you are asked the same questions at least five times. The basics consisted of “what year are you?” “What is your major?”

“Where are you from?” “Why did you decide to rush?” It’s a lot like the first few weeks of school when you’re meeting new people.

Following open house, we all lined up outside of the MUB to enter the GSR from the back door.

We waited extensively to go inside and sit down for one minute to put our top four chapters into a computer. From this data, chapters observe which girls want to be invited back for the next day’s events, which are invite only.

Days Three & Four There were two days of open house. Since there are eight sororities here, they were split into two days. Day one, for my group, consisted of Delta Xi Phi, Phi Sigma Sigma, Alpha Xi Delta, and Sigma Alpha.

Delta Xi Phi and Sigma Alpha are what the Panhel calls ‘associate chapters.’ This means they are not official members of the panhellenic counsel, but they are still recognized. For this reason they have a completely different recruitment process, and do not partake in the same activities as the other chapters following open house days.

Outside each house, we were lined up alphabetically by last name while the recruitment counselors took our phones and water bottles.

They cheered at the beginning and then lined up to link arms with us. It was deafening in the tent. Sitting less than a foot from each other, we had to yell to be heard.

Friday was part two of the open house, and this is when I got to see Chi Omega, Alpha Phi, Kappa Delta, and Alpha Chi Omega. If

Day Five Day five is when it started to get fun. This day is called philanthropy day because, well, we learn about each chapter’s philanthropy.

The catch, however, is that we only get invited back to up to four chapters. This is why we choose our top four the night prior.

I was invited back to two chapters. I picked up my schedule that morning and then got ready for my first “party.” Since I only went to two of these parties, and they were only 45 minutes a piece, I was done pretty quickly. After we finished, we were instructed to go to the Strafford Room in the MUB where we had to preference our top two chapters.

Day Six Preference Day. The biggest day, right after bid day, for rush week. We got invited back to up to two chapters to have a more in depth conversation with the sisters.

We were instructed to dress up, as if we were attending a wedding, and went to the parties we were invited to. They had us line up to take attendance and then the sisters came out of the house. It was silent.

— 29 —

One sister, the vice president of membership, called out our names one at a time and a sister greeted us with a rose. We walked into the house together and sat down at a numbered table. There, we spoke more about what we could bring to the chapter and what we could do within it, for example running for an executive position. On preference day, we spent the hour with only one sister. This was a good chance to get to know them on a more personal level. Again, after the hour was up, we went back to the MUB to put the chapters we had seen in order of which we prefered over the other.

Day Seven BID DAY! The day we had all been anxiously awaiting finally arrived. We were finally going to find out if we had gotten into a chapter and, if so, which one was going to be our new home.

Bid day went something like this. Around 7pm they all went into the GSR of the MUB and sat at a table with their recruitment group.

There, the recruitment counselors gave them each an envelope which they could not open for another hour or so. Then they all walked to Memorial Field in front of the Whittemore Center where they got to learn the chapters the counselors and panhel council were a part of.

They “ran home” to their chapters, meaning, they ran to where their sorority was standing on the field.

Everyone got to open their bid and run to their new home. They partied on the field for a while before going to their respective houses to continue partying with food and drinks.

If you had asked me a year ago if I planned on being in a sorority in college, I would have laughed in your face. Never in a million years did I see myself going through the rush process with hundreds of other girls to maybe join a group of another one hundred girls. After this experience, I can honestly say I would do it all over again. It was one of the most fun times I have had, and I met a lot of wonderful people who I can call my friends.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Brady or Belichick?

by Doug Rodoski | Contributing Writer

“The Pats were doormats despite the efforts of Jim Plunket, John Hannah & Sam Bam Cunningham.”

One of the benefits of being a non-traditional student is that I have watched part or all of most of the Super Bowls, live on television. Beginning with Super Bowl VIII, when the 1973 Miami Dolphins defeated Fran Tarkenton and the Minnesota Vikings by a score of 24-7 , I can remember past athletes of that sport and many others clearly. I have the perspective of comparing them with the athletes of today, and I have to admit it is an interesting dynamic. Not only that; it is fuel for many a spirited conversation with my younger classmates at University of New Hampshire.

So what businesses have I to weigh in on the revered New England Patriots? Born in New York and high schooled in Florida, my first duty assignment in the Air Force was at Pease Air Force Base in 1982-83.

Subsequent enlistments and deployments in the Army notwithstanding, I have spent most of my adult life on the New Hampshire Seacoast. I have seen Larry Bird play at the old “Gaaden”, Ray Bourque skate with the Bruins at the same arena, and I went on a field trip from Pease in 1983 and saw Carl Yastrzemski hit a double against the Cleveland Indians, in his final season at Fenway. Although not a native born New Englander, I appreciate great moments in sports regardless of location. For instance, the Chicago Bulls of

Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and Phil Jackson were great for the sport of basketball. They won two sets of three championships, and might have gone on to more if the team’s management had not decided to rebuild, instead of letting the players and coach defend their legacy.

My earliest memories of the Patriots are from elementary school.

The Pats were doormats despite the efforts of Jim Plunket, John Hannah and Sam Bam Cunningham. Things began to turn in the mid-seventies, as New England was involved in division races with the (then Baltimore) Colts and Miami Dolphins from 1975 to 1977.

I can remember how I thought Steve Grogan was the Man. Every year that the Pats would try to bring in a new quarterback, Grogan would end up bailing him out, like a relief pitcher in baseball. I swear it seemed like he had a 30 year career, much like Tim Wakefield of the Red Sox. I have been amused over the years when Patriot haters take their best shot --- I have to admit there has been fuel added to that fire by certain events. I remember the Snowplow Game of 1982.

Boston Globe staffer Stan Grossfeld recounted the event in a January 3, 2010 article printed in Boston.com. On — 30 —

December 12, 1982, in a regular-season game played between the Miami Dolphins and New England Patriots ( at the old Schaeffer Stadium in Foxboro), the stadium’s snowplow operator, Mark Henderson, cleared a spot on the snowy field specifically for New England kicker John Smith. He kicked the game-winning field goal to give the Patriots a 3–0 win. Henderson, a convicted burglar on a work release from MCI-Norfolk at the time of the game, was released from prison later and currently works in the construction business. In the Hall at Patriot Place, the infamous green John Deere tractor and the attached sweeper hang suspended from the ceiling --- a part of New England Patriots lore.

When interviewed afterwards about the controversy surrounding the game, Henderson reportedly joked, “What are they gonna do, throw me in jail?”.

I have to smile at that one, and when you add in Spygate and Deflategate it does seem like the Pats have not been worried about popularity contests over the years. That being said, I stand in awe of the job that Belichick has done during what can only be described as a dynasty.

I remember the Pats going to the Super Bowl XXXI, and losing to the

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

Packers under Coach Bill Parcells. It seemed to me at the time that they had a very serviceable quarterback in Drew Bledsoe. Sustaining an injury that could have killed him, Bledsoe had to spend time sidelined to recover. And Tom Brady strode in to the picture.

Anyone who looks at old combine footage and pictures might not be impressed with the early Brady that was drafted. At Michigan, he was a backup to Brian Griese. His physique and speed and reflexes were not exactly off the charts. I recall how I did not like Bledsoe being replaced due to injury. It reminded me of how seniority protocol was mishandled when a divided San Francisco ownership favored Steve Young over Joe Montana, after Montana’s injury in 1991. Much how I dislike the owner of the Colts, who’s drafting of Andrew Luck did not allow Peyton Manning to finish a brilliant career with the Colts. And that is another reason I thought the Pats winning the Super Bowl last year was so great. Said Colts owner had an issue with the Pats and, along with other owners, facilitated the suspension of Brady.

So, who gets the most credit-Brady

or Belichick? I submit that we are witnessing a symbiotic association, and that one supports the other. If it sounds like I am non-committal, I simply want to be fair to both. Despite sports radio chatter to the contrary, I do not feel that Brady would gain anything proving he could win without Belichick, or vice versa. Brady needs to retire as a Patriot, and not with another team. This happened with Forty-Niner Joe Montana and the Chiefs. And with my childhood hero, Baltimore Colts quarterback John Unitas, who retired with the Chargers.

Brady is the consummate professional, and Belichick- well, I really liked a description an NFL analyst made regarding the Belichick teams.

Before the Pats beat Andrew Luck and the Colts in the 2013 AFC playoffs, Belichick was criticized for having his teams pass all the time. His response, and his team’s response, was for the Pats to beat the Colts 43-22 in the divisional playoff game that featured six rushing touchdowns for New England.

This prompted one analyst to equate the Belichick Patriots with Transformers: “They turn in to whatever the other team can’t handle.”

So I was really engaged during this

— 31 —

latest Super Bowl. Cranky owners plus jealous fans plus an inept commissioner plus injuries that make it seem like Brady has a new receiving core every year---none of these stopped the Patriots from making the most epic comeback I have ever witnessed in sports. I will forever cling to the memory of the Edelman catch. Three Falcons on him and he takes his hands off the ball, which defies every law of physics I have ever heard of and hangs suspended an inch above the ground, and he makes the Catch. I also will cherish the image of the Falcon’s owner whooping it up in the first half, and becoming increasingly quieter as the Comeback took place.

In closing I want to add a story about my days working retail in an office supply store in Portsmouth, before my Army deployments. One day an old guy came in--- he had to be ninety years old ---and he asked me if we sold one of those eight and a half by eleven magnifier sheets to aide reading of fine print. When I found it for him, he thanked me and said he used them to read baseball box scores in the newspaper. And I thought, “That guy is me when I am that old, a sports fan to the end”.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

for that english major

by Alex Bostic | Issue Editor

Photos By Bennett Mosseau - Instagram: @bmosseau

Such Stuff As Oatbran

Oat Bran is a rather mun-

dane meal, one which presents a transient window for edibility before it eventually regresses into a blob of ghoulish rubber, but I seem to make it every day. This is, in part, because I’ve lost my artistic appetite.

Like staring down at the depths of congealed Oat Bran, with its opaque face yielding nothing but a wrinkled, grimaced expression gazing upwards in perpetuity, I have no craving for my cerebral right-side. As an english major burgeoning on the cusp of academic fruition, saddled with debt and no clear back-up plan, suddenly succumbing to a head full of oatmeal is not exactly opportune. Somewhere within the stratum of my literary career I broke that seal between work and play. Words which once held power now seem trivial and pathetic, like squinting down the iron barrel of a .22 gage and inexplicably concluding that the skeet at the end is as irrelevant as its ceramic exterior would suggest. Where’s the love? I have no clue, but it’s not sniffing my sorry ass anymore. No

art, no love and no will to write about the world from my proverbial, thought-escaping island. And like falling off the horse, there’s no immediate instinct to climb back on, especially when it turns out it’s not a horse but a deranged and intoxicated troll with a valium addiction that you’ve been riding. There’s a sense of morbid curiosity in it all, laying on the cold bedrock, watching everyone struggle to stay atop that dumb troll; therein lays the perspective of it all, I suppose, the game you never realize you’re playing until you lose.

Though I never was very infatuated with the game to begin with. English and literature can be a bloody business when operated as such, but it is the thrill of the ride that makes it worth it. Like a true ambitious journalist, I’ve always been a devout cynic masquerading as an objective realist while secretly being a stone-cold, crippling pessimist. But now, instead of viewing the world from my cushy oyster, I’m starting to agree with the nihilists.

Our social platforms are openly ridiculous, with every new app or me— 32 —

dium shoving themselves into view like bottom feeders. The multi-headed beast of evolved social media is steadily becoming more legitimate, but beneath lays an undercarriage of moral catacombs that reek of molding inanities and asbestos, and so instead of diversifying my portfolio, I prefer it all to be fumigated.

I’ve always been taught to search for the obscene and the contradictory, but little did I know, my generation would service a glut of this, with a surplus reducing the demand for the prey I grew up hunting; there’s no thrill if the buck ties itself down and marks its heart with an “x,” where’s the hunt in that? In this day-and-age, where every act of human tragedy is instantly on our phones squashed between updates of the ‘Sox score and some social phenomenon, it’s almost a workout not to become a depressed nihilist. Everything is ludicrous now, and I find myself drifting towards the opposite, gazing at the bowl of oatmeal in all its banality.

Of course, this is all cemented in the fact that I fell out of love with words around the same time my

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

intimate love turned sour. It was true love, until it wasn’t - and that was it - until I came to the shuddering discovery that the entire well was poisoned, and love was reduced to nothing more than a cackling poltergeist, chasing me down disguised as a twisted caricature of my ex-girlfriend. It’s impossible to comprehend the risk of salvaging love, especially when that love is fashioned together like an old, decrepit tent with insufficient poles. In reality, saving a relationship is nothing short of an exercise in masochism; instead of grabbing a life-jacket and gluing yourself to a lifeboat, you go down with the ship. But if given the choice between love and Oat Bran, who in their right mind would choose Oat Bran? Oat Bran sucks.

Edelweiss ˈ

Though, of course, that decision is inextricably contingent upon the quality of love, as well as the degree and supply of Oat Bran, considering its quality is rather straightforward.

So here I am, stranded and faced with that daunting event horizon of the unknown, lashing mangled expectations and listless mediocrity into some sort of raft.

In effect, this has led me to feel I’m missing something, like there was an indiscernible carrot suspended by a stick on my back that I’ve been fruitlessly chasing. Now that carrot is gone, potentially mistaken for valium by the troll - or my heart by some poltergeist - and I am left with nothing to lead the way.

/edāl-vice/

No, no, I’m glad you called, I actually wanted to reach out to you.

I don’t remember that, but I saw him the Other day, I motioned but he didn’t see, what a dick, right.

No, keep going, I - No I interrupt - I’m loud, it’s a problem.

It’s just that I smelled a waft of some old fragrance a couple days ago.

Yeah, like the smells that trigger some nostalgic hallucination, Except I wasn’t tripping, I was just smelling.

Honestly it kind of had that moldy, sarcophagus odor.

Yeah I really don’t think bigfoot’s dick would smell like this.

Okay, then yeah depending on bigfoot’s game I guess.

Yeah if he’s got big feet - but anyway I remembered an image with it.

It’s from a movie, but obviously an old one - in color.

Some suit playing guitar in a chair - a man - and when I thought of it, I felt awful. Like the feeling when a teacher yells at you as a kid.

No, worse. Nah we Jews always knew Santa wasn’t real.

Okay, like as if I had forgot something - which I did - but like crucial.

I might never know, but that was it, just a mini glitch in my day.

Yeah bigfoot most definitely slays.

— 33 —

You would think that saturating my life with literature and writing would be able to overload and jumpstart the system, like injecting a shot of shakespearean philosophy directly into the chest.

But no assessment of the human condition can bring me back, no, I’m much passed that. Perhaps I should meditate while listening to The Bible on audio book and call my local senator and beg for forgiveness, or entertain my fantasy of becoming a gypsy and release my inner-vagabond. All strong suggestions, but all futile in the end. Although love is but a chemical process evolved to facilitate reproduction, it sure has a habit of overreaching its boundaries.

In truth, I have tried to recapture that old flame, but no matter how I try and rage against that dying light, I cannot reverse it. I am at the mercy, therefore, of time’s unflinching rigour, be it helpful or harmful. I feel old, very old, staring down my bowl of Oat Bran, seeing myself in that wrinkled face glaring back. Without my books and love of writing, this world seems different, but neither brave nor new. It is just a world, filled with bumpy, swirling opaque landscapes, and best devoured when hot.

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

fighting addiction with creative endeavors Kayla Lutz | Contributing Writer

Dover’s SOS Recovery offers a creative approach to combating addiction.

SOS Recovery offers creative workshops for recovering addicts

DOVER - As the widespread drug epidemic continues to grow, places like the SOS Recovery Center in Dover offer a place for addicts to begin or continue their recovery through alternative support programs encouraging creative endeavors. Laina Reavis, the Capacity Building Specialist, took some time to sit down with us and explain more about her own recovery as well as some of the services that the center offers.

Laina’s recovery began in 2015. She woke up one day feeling miserable and realized she needed to get clean.

When asked about the detoxification process, she chuckled.

“I didn’t go to a detox center like most people do. I detoxed myself, I don’t recommend it. it was a nightmare. I did that for a month and once my family saw that I was clean, my mom took me back in and said she would support me through it.”

Though Laina now helps others begin their recovery from addictions, initially she knew nothing about it. A family friend told her about the meetings, where she began her twelve step fellowship to recovery.

“I walked in and was like ‘Wow, these are my people.’ I heard all of these different stories from all these different walks of life, one person I used with, another I went to school with that I had no idea used, older people, blue collar workers, white collar workers, everybody.” After hearing so many people that had been getting their lives together and been getting better, she realized she too could stay clean.

She continued to go to meetings even after a relapse she kept working towards her recovery. About nine months after her relapse, a friend of hers from the fellowship told her about SOS. She signed up to go through training to become a Recovery Coach and help others through their journey. After her first session, she was hooked.

“It was the first time that I had a purpose in life other than focusing on my recovery.” She then volunteered in the Registrar’s Office at SOS for six months full-time. When the opportunity came for SOS to open a center in Dover, Laina applied for the job and got it.

SOS offers a variety of services such — 34 —

as twelve step fellowships like Laina is using for her recovery, Smart Recovery is Cognitive Behavioral Therapy based, the system also offers Refugee Recovery, Family Addiction Coping (for those with loved ones dealing with an addiction), and many different group activities like bowling and football viewing parties. Volunteers themselves structure therapy programs for participants with the help of a staff member to facilitate. Some of these programs include yoga, art therapy, music therapy, women club cardio, and rock climbing.

At the beginning of August, Shane Morin contacted Laina about starting a writing therapy group at SOS. (There is a similar program being run by Mike Nelson, which is who contacted Shane to get the program started in Dover.) After going through the volunteer requirements, Shane contacted me as a co-facilitator to the group in case he was unable to attend. While Shane is not an addict himself, he got into writing as a way of relieving himself of issues that he had as a child of addicts. His father was a recovering addict and is still recovering, but Shane’s mom

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

passed away due to addiction complications. He began writing after a personal tragedy struck and continued to use it as a way to cope with his mother’s death. Most of Shane’s writing focuses around alcoholism and the way addiction affects not only the addict but everyone around them.

The writing group, affectionately named “The Long Mile,” is running at SOS every Tuesday from 4:30 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. with varying topics and styles of writing discussed each week. Some subjects used thus far are relationships, personal identity, and what recovery means. There are usually examples given on the topic by more well-known poets and artists such as Emily Dickinson and even Bob Marley. Occasionally videos of spoken word poets are shown, such as that of Sabrina Benaim and Neil Hilborn. Members of the group are encouraged to either follow the topic of the day or to free write as they please.

Corey Denyou is a regular member of the Long Mile, who explained how the group and writing has really been helping his recovery.

“Writing allows me to keep myself

above my demons. We all have our own paths and problems but all we can do is make the choice to be greater than we were yesterday, or don’t. Life is all choice but writing and art in general can help anyone who wants to rise up from their addiction.”

Though he doesn’t always vocally participate, he has attened almost all of the writing group sessions thus far and he is always in the background absorbing the atmosphere. The group encourages participation of any kind.

Crystalline Vernll is a member of the Long Mile. Occasionally her young son can be seen offering pillows to the other writers around the meetings in his own way of helping their recovery. Crystalline uses writing not only as a means of recovery but also to center her thoughts to move forward.

“Writing has been very therapeutic for me, especially with my recovery.

When I feel out of control, it helps organize my thoughts, figure things out, and solve my anxieties. It is a freeing feeling to put everything in my head down on paper and I always feel happier afterward.” She

has been using the writing group to expand her scope of journaling to poetry and other forms.

Though it is a writing group, the main focus of the program is to assist with recovery. Sometimes as volunteers, we don’t have all of the answers for the questions members are asking.

Having Laina present during the program has been helpful when new members are coming in and asking for advice on the recovery services that SOS offers. Having the recovery center open has been a pivotal point to many in the community as they have a safe place to talk about their addiction and work through their recovery while knowing they’re not alone.

There are three different SOS Recovery Centers in the area: Dover, Durham, and Rochester. Though they have a few employees, the centers functions successfully through volunteers. SOS offers internships - class credit can be arranged for students. Laina encourages those interested in research, outreach, marketing, and more to contact the recovery center’s Dover location to see how they can get involved.

More information can be found at:

facebook.com /sosrecovery

Laina Reavis, Kayla Lutz & Shane Morin workshop their pieces

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Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

piece meal Veronique Ok | Contributing Writer

“Molly, you know your awful right” I told her through the broken screen of my cell phone. I could imagine her now, thousands of miles away, her lips pursed, the Miami sun making her already tan skin tinge with the cancer I told her she would get if she didn’t wear sunscreen. “Don’t judge me, he’s cute,” she tried defending her promiscuous behavior “and he’s not a white guy, isn’t that nice?”. I rolled my eyes, since I relocated to what she thought was the whitest possible state, she was perpetually making fun of me. “Are you okay though?” I asked, my voice hesitant, I hoped the extra sun exposure and city life would be enough for her. The line went quiet for a moment, and I could only think about all the things that have already changed in such a short amount of time.

“There can only be one” she told me, her small eyes slanted at me behind rectangular shaped glasses. She was petit, with long flowing black hair, and beauty mark right underneath her right eye. I stammered in response, I looked around our peers, afraid I did something wrong. “The token Asian friend, you know” she jokingly laughed, her eyes still fixed on me. She always had that ability on me, to instill fear and make me doubt myself amongst our friends.

Molly had a competitive streak that translated in every aspect of her life, including our friendship. She was bubbly and witty, and I was awkward and timid. We were sitting clustered in our school’s cafeteria, surrounded by dingy blue walls, and squished pieces of Smuckers stuck on the floor. My uncomfortable ninth grade body shifted even more so uncomfortably under her gaze. “We going to practice today?” She asked, both of us knowing full well were going to show up to track practice. Joining the team was a decision largely influenced by Molly, another one of her ventures she taught would be fun.

“When we can take a break” I huffed, the warmth of the spring afternoon permeated my skin, and we both dripped with weariness. Our swinging ponytails collectively swung to a null. We stopped in the middle of the strip mall pavement, as the suburbs did not treat us to picturesque running trails. “What if we just went to Carvel” she pointed to the dingy grey storefront, the Carvel sign was colored in muted pinks and blues, and the door was left ajar as if to say they didn’t care if people came in or not. Our running group separated, we were the slow-mos, the ones who didn’t necessarily care about the sport, just another afternoon to kill time. “What if coach finds out? What if the other girls found out?” My nervousness rattled out through my voice, her eyes squinted in reply, “who cares” she stated simply. Many runs with Molly consisted of running for approximately twenty minutes then spending the rest goofing around and talking shit about everything we felt entitled to. Those were the basis of our conversations, a mutual hatred for all things high school and life. We’d wallow in our self pity, laying atop her bed on after practice, her record player she bought to seem cool would play some sort of obscure band I pretended I knew. We both awaited the days of escape, spoke our dreams aloud to each, in hopes of one day reaching them.

We grew up, sort of. We both ended up working at the only Vietnamese restaurant in town. The atmosphere of the restaurant was solidified by walls painted with chubby monks slurping soup, seat coverings ripped and held by duct tape, and fake bamboo plants placed in every corner. Yet, every Thursday evening the crowds would begin to appear, and wait the long lines for the Pho. The crowds varied from the locals who donned boat shoes and sweatshirts, the hip New Yorkers who’d cite Yelp like it was their Bible, and lastly actually Vietnamese families that thought tipping was optional. I was an awful hostess, my first job at the age of fifteen, I regularly stuttered my questions, constantly avoided eye contact, and just general clumsiness plagued me. I begged Molly to work with me, though I only met her a year ago in my godforsaken ninth grade English class, we understood each other, to a degree of inseparability.

“Do you miss home” she changed the topic after her long pause, I didn’t, but I missed her. I started to ramble off all the different people I was meeting, all the college parties that were so much fun and how stupid I thought my Biology class was, all the mundane things that I thought were important. “You know what I kinda of miss though? Pho” we both laughed, remembering long Saturday night shifts we specifically asked to work together, just so we could share a meal together at the end of a busy dinner rush. “You know what I kinda of miss though? Carvel” she laughed, I cringed at the one practice we ditched to grab ice cream. We both held sugar cones topped with mint chocolate chip flavor, the cones were so hard I thought they were fake, and first taste of the freezer burned toothpaste, we both understood this was the punishment for going to get ice cream in disguise of running.

“Should we get chicken or beef tonight?” Molly asked me. We were an hour away from close, I was wiping down wet drinking glasses, as she was pouring water for customers. The kitchen was crammed with harsh sounds of Vietnamese and Spanish, the stress of a full house slowly wearing everybody down. Our bodies bumped and jostled with — 36 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

close proximity, our manager eyed us, reminding us to keep working. The end of the night, counting our tips, our favorite chef, her greying frizzy hair bound in a cap and her apron smudge with oil, pushed the steaming noodle soup onto our table. “Eat, eat” she gestured with her hands, a woman with few English words but much to say. A massive bowl, the collective sizes of our heads, brimmed with steaming beef broth. Rice noodles, long rectangular shaped, almost translucent, almost al dente, with a chew when we picked them up with our chop sticks. Thin slices of steak meat were stacked atop our bowls, ever so slightly pink, the hot broth was enough to cook them through. Flecks and pieces of spring onions gave the bowl a sweet hue. On the side, always, a plate of fresh bean sprouts, just for crunch, and a slice of lime and sprig of Thai basil just to elevate the beefy broth. The broth was everything, so essential, even on hot summer days you could find yourself craving this soup. The stock took the entire morning to make, rendered from the beef carcasses, charred ginger and onions, the star anise and cloves giving a sweet aroma of warmth and comfort. The pot used to make the broth was nearly the size of the small old Vietnamese woman making it, the soup was constantly simmering, enveloping the kitchen. I sipped the salty broth, and tore bits of the basil, releasing their intense licorice like perfume, watched as the hot broth swallowed the herbs making them wilt and swirl in circles with the array of fixings. I passed her the hot sauce, knowing how much she liked it spicy and she passed the hoisin, knowing how much I liked it sweet.

“I haven’t seen Molly in days, do you know where she is?” I rolled my eyes inwardly in response to my coworker. It was the end of summer, going into my last year of high school, I spent the last months avoiding her. I was busy. There were other temptations that strung me away from her, I didn’t need her anymore as a crutch, and it was an implication we both understood. She quit track, I grew to love it, she dropped our friends, while I found new ones, she stopped trying, while I seemed to prosper. We continued to work at the Pho restaurant together, the only time we saw each other, the only time everything seemed to be okay with us. Always a different split meal because we were both too cheap, always a constant laugh because she was the funniest person I knew, and always a goodbye, see you next shift. “Heard from her mom she was in the hospital” my manager piped, my eyes grew wide, asking questions my manager didn’t know the answers too. I called, I sent messages, I reached out to her only other close friend. Nothing. I reassured myself, we both signed up for a class together, both of us secretly hoping this would bridge our gap, and I knew by the start of school she would be there. She wasn’t. A week, I hoped to see her in the faces of the crowded hallways.

It was Sunday, our usually shift, a whole week avoiding questions from my friends and teachers alike, trying to keep any semblance of normalcy. A simply message lit from my screen, “do you wanna come over?”, I held my anger, two weeks of silence from her, I felt slighted and unjustified. I drove over, and was greeted with an eerie silence rather than the usual business and crooning of her mother. I held in my hands a packed Chicken Pho, because I knew that this was her favorite. Her demure was soft, a sheepish smile on her face when I hugged her, she tried to ask me about school, but I wanted answers. She told me about the pills, so many she didn’t remember the amount, swallowed one night with a bottle of vodka. “Why?” I could only respond, and she told me she couldn’t see herself in the world anymore. I layed in bed with her all day, talking in circles to understand who she became, and what she wanted to become.

She didn’t need to tell me if she was happy or not over the phone. She was talking, she was laughing, she was living.

I was watching her tether herself back to world, falling back in love with herself. I was so sure of the world, sure of myself, I suppose I forgot how vast life was, how lost one could become. “Are you? You know happy?” Molly asked finally. Even from hundreds of miles away, she was still looking out for me. “Do they even have Pho over there?” She laughed.

photos by bennett mosseau // @bmosseau on insta — 37 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

The Indigo Bunting:

gallery by Makenzie Pelletier Contributing Photographer

If you enjoy going for walks or runs along roadsides, keep an eye out for these beautiful birds. They usually hang out around forest edges and can be found in power line clearings.

Fun fact: Though they look blue, indigo buntings are actually black. Similar to why we see a blue sky, blue light is reflected from tiny structures in their feathers making them appear indigo in color.

Shoutout to UNH Wildlife Specialist Matt Tarr for helping me get these close-ups!

You know what they say about a bird in the hand... — 38 —

Fall 2017 Main Street Magazine

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