Main Street Fall 2019 by Main Street Magazine

Main Street Fall 2019

Main Street Magazine

The Main Street Team

A note from the Edtior...

Nearly two months ago I was in this same seat with tears running down my face. No, I wasn’t upset -- I was just so beyond happy that Main Street Magazine 2019-2020 had just kicked off. Last semester for me was challenging finding my footing as Editor-in-Chief for this magazine. But thanks to my fellow editors and my diligent writers, we pulled it off. With some familair faces and some new ones, we have so far exceeded any expectations of mine. After U-Day we had almost two dozen people in the Newsroom for our meeting -I couldn’t believe my own eyes. It really is something beautiful to see that many eager, creative minds all in one place at the same time. We set some pretty high expectations for ourselves and to be honest, I thought for sure two weeks ago that I had bitten off more than I could chew. But, once again, I was wrong and the writers, fellow editors and even the artists stepped up. Big time. So here I am, two months later adding the finishing touches to the first edition of the year. I’m not crying, that might just be because I am exhausted and just want to go home but I wouldn’t change any of this for the world. I am so fucking proud of how this all came together and I surely hope that you get something out of this magazine. Thank you all so much, I don’t think anyone understands how much this all means to me. “So many things I’ve created, but this right here might be my favorite...” -Mac Miller, “Here We Go.”

Michael Fiacco | Contributing Artist Julia Gomes | Contributing Artist Marissa Massaro | Contributing Artist Bailey Schott | Contributing Artist We’d like to thank everyone at UNH Printing Services for all of their help in printing this and every other issue of Main Street. We wouldn’t be able to do what we do without their help. Our hearts are full of gratitude.

Cheers, Chad.

Find us!

Main Street Magazine meets Tuesday evenings at 7 pm in the newsroom (MUB 132). We love when new faces drop in, if you have any intrest whatsoever, please don’t hesitate to stop on by! If you have any further questions, you can reach us at: mainstmag.com mainstreetmagazine@gmail.com instagram: @mainstreetmag facebook.com/mainstreetmagazine 2

Music and Sports:

What’s inside? Travel:

Bow before the new rulers of rock pg. 4 Music for nervous young men pg. 6 Philisophical Clay; the sculpted sounds of Open Mike Eagle pg. 8 Landing the dismount on an unbalanced beam pg. 24 Lifestyle: Freshmen advice - take it from an upperclassmen pg. 14 FRESHMAN 15 pg. 17 We’re all doomed anyway pg. 28 Main Street Eats pg. 38 Features:

Traveling Europe for Dummies pg. 18 Learning to trust strangers pg. 20 Creative Works: Studies have shown... Bigfoot is real pg. 30 Doug’s piece... Don’t you mean the Abyss? pg. 32 Personal Narratives:

When a prestigious swimmer walks into a courtroom... pg. 26 No, this isn’t a heart attack pg. 34 Sunday Brunch with the “Java and Grub Club” pg. 36

Feelin the industry breakin’ and everybody shakin’ but they’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive pg. 11 From the White’s to the Wall -- A New Hampshire inspired clothing brand pg. 12

Staff Picks

Cookin’ up Something Good -- Our Go to Dishes to Make. Chad -- Eggplant & Chicken Parmesean -- molto bene.

Zach -- SPIDERS! the crunchier the better. Or... Brie and bread.

Caleb -- Grandma Lily’s sloppy joes.

Julia -- 10-Minute Pizza for Lazy Italians: Naan bread, Marinara, Mozerella, Spinach, Sausage

Anna -- Bruschetta (pronounced) brew-SKETTA

Sam (Brad Pitt with a work ethic) -- Roasted garlic Brussels sprouts Delaney -- Mama Mia! Chickpea Pasta, Mushrooms, Onions, and Spinach, tossed in in some marinara sauce. A gluten-friendly option, of course. 3

Pillow Queens Fuzz Rock Hard Words by Zach Lewis

he Button Factory doesn’t make music. They’re a music factory and their high-powered machinery melts faces. The faces being melted tonight are brought to you by Pillow Queens. This is an Indie Fuzz Dream Pop group that knows what they’re doing. What’s that you say? (It’s hard to hear you through the magazine pages or the series of tubes which is the internet). Speak up! What’s that? Who are the Pillow Queens? I just told you, but I’ll dig in deeper. Grab a shovel. Pillow Queens heil from Ireland. Breathe, that’s a lot of new information to swallow. Digest it and I’ll scoop you some more. Pillow Queens are from Dublin, Ireland. (Well, essentially. More on that later). Woah, quit with the geography lesson professor knowledge (is what you’re probably thinking or saying out loud to no one in particular at your local Starbucks.) Spoiler alert: They’re all ladies. The name is a tad tongue in cheek (most likely more than a tad, it’s definitely in there) and the music is just as fun as their name. Their guitar tone alone is worth spending an evening out with these girls. There’s a deep and crisp guitar tone, reminiscent of Graham Coxon in Blur, that slices like a hot knife through vegan butter. Every member is solid physically, elementally, and musically. 4

I stumbled, because of the cobblestone street, onto the premises after a quick music venue query online and saw the Temple Bar fixture. Temple Bar is where the college crowd celebrate, and the drinking crowd go to work. It’s like Adam’s Morgan in Washington D.C. or if Elm street, here in Manchester, New Hampshire, was more pedestrian friendly. Beer flowed from the tap into eager cups as the floor filled up with eager concert goers. This was a local band that was returning home from tour and the warm welcome was appreciated by the band. “I can’t believe how many people are here,” Pam said. Pam is the groovy lead singer and plays guitar as well. Sarah plays bass, Cathy is on lead guitar, and Rachel rounds it out on the drums. “It’s very nice to see a lot of friendly faces, isn’t it?” She continued as Sarah added, “I’m fuckin’ not really lookin’ at ya,” to which Pam replied, “All the same, it’s very nice.” There’s a pause. “We’ve had some dodgy banter,” Pam stated. It’s refreshing to hear a band that, not only is talented, but is having a fun time on stage. The band members actually seem to like each other. A couple of Smithwick’s red ales into the concert Pillow Queens decided to play their newest single. “It’s a song we released just before Christmas, and it’s called Gay Girls,” Pam said to the elation of the crowd. “Take it away Sarah,” Pam said. The song starts off saturating every fiber of the club in a dream mesh of chills. Cathy turns on the fuzz in a brilliant riff that rides on top of their wave of sound. The song also showcases Pam’s excellent voice and the beautiful harmonies of the entire group. At a certain point Sarah is concerned, and rightly so, at the prospect of being singled out, “a bass solo?” She asked. A proper concern and is a sign of a bassist that knows what they’re doing. This is not surprising for this band since they all know what they’re doing. Pillow Queens understand balance in sound that’s required to make a song sonically shine. This doesn’t shy them away from layering complexity into their craft though, and their tracks are just as bright and textured as they exist in the studio version. Prime examples of this are featured in “Favourite” and “Rats.” Both songs contain memorable melodies and razor-sharp hooks. The latter prompting Pam to ask, “We’d appreciate a little sing a - long.” A request this audience is happy to grant. My favorite song, and no pun intended, they performed was “Puppets.” One reason could be the fuzz-a-licious guitar solo at the end. Another is the structure of the song itself. Everything is in its right place. There’s no note out of order. Unfortunately, the show had to end. Every member wanted, “to thank everyone that’s been on this tour.” Pillow Queens were opening for a band called Soak. Soak is a great band, especially if you love electronic dream pop. This article isn’t about Soak though, so, check them out but do it on your own time. Fortunately, I was able to speak with Pam and Sarah at the end of the show. This is where I learn the band’s deepest and darkest secret. Apparently, Rachael is actually from Kildare and Cathy is from Wicklow. Counties nearby but not actually Dublin. I can’t stay mad though so we start talking about their penchant for Telecaster guitars. “When I think of Telecaster,” Pam said, “I think of Bruce Springsteen which is why I automatically like it.” Sarah added that “Cathy wants to play this goth SG. It’s a black Gibson that’s got like pointy little heads on it.” Think of Ozzy Osbourne or AC/DC and you’ll be able to picture it perfectly. Sarah had flirted with the idea of a Gibson but dropped that idea like an easily, droppable object. “I played a Gibson Les Paul Studio and it was too fucking heavy.” I inquired about their excellent guitar tone and I had truth bombs dropped from on high. “Big Muff, that’s Kathy’s domain so we’re speaking on behalf of her,” Pam said and qualified her statement by saying, “but yeah, she’s a Big Muff diver. There’s a story there.” Word on the street is that this is the term given to lovers of the Electro-Harmonix guitar pedal that is titled Big Muff. It creates a fuzz-tastic crunch that’s unmatched, but a lot of that is because of Cathy’s expert ability. Our interview is cut short as the bouncers start brooming out the trash and anyone that happens to be left inside. It might be the shouting of security and their menacing stares, but I have a suspicion that I’m being kicked out of the Button Factory. I ask the band and they agree. “Yeah, I think they are,” Pam replied. “Awkward,” said Sarah. 5

Teens of Denial: Music for Nervous Young Men

“It’s my personal interpretation that Teens of Denial is an album about broken people looking for redemption. It’s fair to say that at that point in my life, I was that person. But when I was at my most vulnerable – feeling like the remnants of a meteorite – Car Seat Headrest welcomed me with open arms: “Hello my friend, we’ve been waiting for you for a long time. We have reason to believe that your soul is just like ours.” This line in “Not What I Needed” gave me comfort, community and the reminder that I’m not the only one out there feeling alone.”

Words by Evan Ringle 6

life, I was that person. But when I was at my most vulnerable – feeling like the remnants of a meteorite – Car Seat Headrest welcomed me with open arms: “Hello my friend, we’ve been waiting for you for a long time. We have reason to believe that your soul is just like ours.” This line in “Not What I Needed” gave me comfort, community and the reminder that I’m not the only one out there feeling alone.

“It takes a village to raise a child.”

e don’t consider often enough how true that is. I was raised by my parents who clothed me, fed me, and drove me to school each day. I was raised by my friends who took me on day-long bike rides in the summer when we were 12. I was raised by my teachers who told me I had the strength to get through school and lead a fulfilling life. I was also raised by music.

I got to see them for a second time in the fall of 2018. They were playing at the Paradise Rock Club in Boston and I went with some friends who loved them as much as I did. A little more than a year later from when I indifferently saw them play at Boston Calling, here I was seeing them again, a different person from the last time, much to their credit. The energy they put out on stage turned into pure adrenaline once it spilled into the crowd, and every song I sang melted into the voices of the listeners around me. It wasn’t even music at that point.

My brain chemistry would have produced a completely different entity if I hadn’t heard The Beatles when I was four. I’d be unrecognizable if I hadn’t watched every live performance of Led Zeppelin on YouTube when I was 13, and my high school diploma would have said “Evan Ringle” on it, but it wouldn’t be the same Evan Ringle if I hadn’t relied on Tame Impala lyrics to get through nerves and high school heartbreak. These artists are responsible for the callouses on my fingertips and the shape of my prefrontal cortex. They were there for me when I needed them. But perhaps none of them helped raise me as much as Car Seat Headrest did. Car Seat Headrest’s music was not a love at first sight for me. The first time I had heard them was from a recommendation by my high school Latin teacher, who told me that the band’s songwriter, Will Toledo, reminded him of me. After listening to their album Teens of Style, I didn’t catch any similarity. They were sonically different from anything I’d listened to previously. The vocals were deep and incoherent in the mix, the guitars were piercing, and for some reason, songs with brash power chords and raucous drums shared living quarters with ethereal synthesizers. This was not my wheelhouse. I even saw them live when they played before Mac Demarco at Boston Calling in 2017. One year later, besides an interesting song or two, nothing called out to me.

After that show, I noticed in the weeks following that I wasn’t listening to them as much as I used to. They weren’t my first choice to listen to as I drove to school each morning and they weren’t even a consideration on my way home late from work. It’s hard to comprehend how such a powerful influence can dissipate so quickly for a person, but I think their dissolution from my life acted as a bookend for me. They were my guiding force for a year. They offered me help when I needed it, but I didn’t need it anymore. I had gotten better and had found a way out of the hole that they had kept me company in. In many ways, that show was my farewell to them. Car Seat Headrest changed me in irreversible ways. My voice, my songwriting, and the way I listen to music are forever different because of them. They gave me empathy, intensity, and hope when I needed it, and they inspired me to record and release my own music, no matter how limited the resources were. I continue to make music in the spirit of Car Seat Headrest, along with all the other artists who held my hand through the most important parts of my life.

They had just released a new album titled Teens of Denial, which I remember thinking sounded smug and annoying: “These guys think they’re really interesting.” About a month after seeing them perform, I heard the single off that album, which I must have seen them perform without knowing. It was called “Drunk Drivers / Killer Whales”. It was honest, soulful, and visceral: “It comes and goes in plateaus, one month later I’m a fu****g pro, my parents would be proud.” The singer’s lament of his inability to remain emotionally content took me in along with its jangling chord progression. It’s a transformation into a brawling, blistering symphony knocked me out with the continuous, pleading line, “It doesn’t have to be like this.” I had never heard catharsis like this in a song. Teens of Denial became so central to my psyche that I practically orbited it. Much of my attraction towards the music stemmed from the lyrical content of the songs. Lines like “I find it harder to speak when someone else is listening” in “Vincent” and “If you really want to know how kind you are, just ask yourself why you’re lying in bed alone” in “Cosmic Hero” made me wonder if Will Toledo had taken my pulse before he wrote this album. I’d blast the song ”1937 State Park” as loud as I could in my car, and when I sang the words “I didn’t want you to hear that shake in my voice, my pain is my own,” they felt like my own words. It’s my personal interpretation that Teens of Denial is an album about broken people looking for redemption. It’s fair to say that at that point in my

Music simply isn’t a good enough word to describe it.

A Unique, Per sonal Embarrassme nt

oda g a j b e l a c y words b hott by bailey sc art

erception, for what it’s worth, can be everything. While we can never fully understand the totality of somebody’s humanity, through tight-knit relationships - with their shared experiences, common bonds and intimate conversations - we are able to peel back the ornate onion of a select few and build well-rounded, two-way understandings. Conversely, I find myself all too often meeting somebody for a minute - or even bumping into them for a handful of seconds - and forming a negative opinion from that one run-in. While it sounds ignorant, we’ve all done it, judging someone’s entire character from a pebble of their existential mountain.

can lead to much more explosive and detrimental outcomes. This is where prejudice and acts of racism are rooted; where malicious acts of police brutality stem from; where a ghastly disregard for the homeless, the handicapped or the mentally disabled sprout. The common bond of humanity is inexorable: we are born, we live similar lives and we eventually die, moving onto a realm of existence that is either indiscernible or nonexistent. As musician Open Mike Eagle once rapped, “I feel a strange kinship to every man.” Yet, in between these bookends, we develop personalities as unique as snowflakes, growing and blossoming into autonomous individuals with multi-faceted lives of technicolor idiosyncrasy. We each comprise a kaleidoscope of different aspects, traits and proclivities, and this is what makes the human condition so unique. We’re not carbon copy, cookie-cutter beings, but ever-morphing

Perception, then, is based on our limited knowledge of whatever it is that we’re perceiving. Many of these situations seem to be extremely low-stakes, but these context-clue judgments

individuals that evolve with age and with every experience we undergo, every book we read, every conversation we have, disseminating throughout us in often subconscious ways. And this is something indie-rapper Open Mike Eagle understands as well as anybody. Eagle, a 38-year-old musician who coined the term “art rap,” divulges the inner workings of the human condition on nearly every release. On his 2017 underground masterpiece, Brick Body Kids Still Daydream, Eagle personifies the Chicago project building his aunt lived in, claiming in an abstract sense that he himself is the building. On “Brick Body Complex,” Eagle raps with urgency in his voice, again and again pleading with us to not simply chalk him up as a rapper, or more abhorrently, as a racial slur. Instead, he pleads the case that if he has to be any one thing, then let it be the 30,000 lives the Robert Taylor Homes of Chicago once housed, ranging from doctors to criminals to children and everything in between He raps with a rising intonation, “Stood here for ten million snows / Windchill is all in my bones / Indivisible, in divisible, kids and criminals young and old.” Open Mike Eagle can’t stress enough that a project building doesn’t house monsters with violence on their mind; it’s home to real, actual people who look, talk and think the same way we all do. A lack of financial stability and a differing culture shouldn’t disqualify someone from the ranks of humanity - doing so is inherently racist and inhuman. Mike Eagle is a person, with a varied and far-reaching identity constituting all that is his complex personage, and one who shouldn’t be reduced to merely a surface-level interpretation by those that come from a different walk of life. Eagle translates these thoughts more broadly into the beautiful, heartbreaking song “Very Much Money (Ice King Dream),” from his 2014 album Dark Comedy. Eagle harmonizes on the hook, “My friends are superheroes / None of us have very much money, though / They can fly, run fast, read Portuguese / None of us have very much money, though / They know judo and yoga, photography, politics / Some of them leap over buildings / Writers, magicians, comedians, astronauts / None of it mattered when n***** was hungry.” Eagle details the varied magic each of his friends carry within but explains they’re unable to reap any profit because of their disenfranchised position. “Very Much Money (Ice King Dream)” is equal parts light-hearted and soul-wrenching, and Eagle, while doing so with an embellished, cartoony flair (and a reference to “Adventure Time”), breaks down the dynamics of white privilege and what this means for those not afforded its luxury. Despite their beautiful individuality, his friends are unable to prosper; this in and of itself is an appalling systematic calamity. Listening to his music, you soon learn Eagle is exceedingly transparent about his emotions, resulting in vulnerable art that’s attracted a cult-like indie fanbase. With that being said, being vulnerable isn’t exactly how the American man is historically expected to act; we’re supposed to be the hardened burden-bearers, carrying secrets to our grave with our chin up and our chest out. Eagle shatters this typecasting, spilling his heart out onto countless songs about his fears and anxieties. On “Dive Bar Support Group,” Eagle raps in the first verse with a biting edge, “I’m my father’s son / I hold up the legacy / Macho, masculine all in my pedigree / Angry and cold / Bold and intense when you’re / Trying to not be so overly sensitive / Fail, fail, every day, damn.” Eagle rejects the role he’s given as an American man, and his confession of expressing his emotions is belted out with the strain of a lifetime being told to keep them suppressed. This strain can be felt throughout his latest offering, 2018’s What Happens When I Try to Relax. On the EP, Eagle grapples with many things: his status as an independent artist, having a primarily white fanbase, earning a middle-class income, struggling to reach more people of his own creed and feeling dissimilar to those around him. The latter manifests in the EP’s opening track, “Relatable,” where Eagle belts out his lyrics, vociferating over lightning-struck production as a means of catharsis; if he can convince himself he’s relatable, then maybe he can alleviate the daily anxieties that have left him vexed. The dichotomy Eagle presents in the song, of being uniquely relatable while feeling out of place, of being happy with himself and also dissatisfied, further displays the many faces he contorts in his music. His humanity is complicated; this comes with the territory of being an empathetic, emotionally-cognizant and introspective person. Open Mike Eagle’s eccentric and powerful music has held a tenacious grasp on my understanding of the human condition. Through many difficult, transitional times in my life, from being riddled with anxieties to maturing into young adulthood, Eagle’s music has been able to speak to me in ways almost nothing else has. His music is confrontational while being soft-spoken; thoughtful while being boastful; a comforting hug that comes with a prescient whisper acknowledging the pain you’ll continue to feel. Simply put, Open Mike Eagle gave me confidence in times of self-doubt. He showed me it was okay to be vulnerable and shed the phony shield of masculinity in order to be open with my emotions and heal. When he rapped on the exuberant “Legendary Iron Hood,” “My old self locked away, no key to the cell / They shooting spells at my head, it’s up to me to repel (yeah) / Ain’t nothing gonna stop me now,” I can’t tell you how many times tears welled up in my eyes as I hoped to keep trudging on through the difficult times, just as he seemed so determined to do. Humanity is an odd burden, but also an odd blessing - one that you can float through with less strain when you cast aside the negative thoughts, the judgmental cynicism, and aren’t afraid to laugh at yourself, cry with yourself and do the things you love sans apprehension. Maybe the best piece of advice Open Mike Eagle has ever shared comes from his song “Smiling (Quirky Race Doc),” where he rapped: “Just be a person / That’s the bottom line, be a person / And fuck the rhyme scheme, this time just be a person.” It’s simple, but sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of this shared kinship. As complex a person as we all are, as far-ranging and all-encompassing as our individuality is, sometimes we have to cast aside this beautiful minutia to realize our shared humanity. Fuck the rhyme scheme, this time, just be a person.

ri a P a n n A y Created b

Staying Alive in a Dying Industry: The New England Fishmongers Words by Julia Scorese Being a small local fisherman is not easy in today’s age. The dying industry is a shift in coastal America like never before: putting in place a system that leads to consolidation. If things can’t turn around for Capt. Tim Rider, the owner of the New England Fishmongers, he and his partners will be out of business by the end of the season. “We chose to go this route to survive,” said Rider. “Missing time with family. Shaving years off your life… It’s life or death every day and you can’t live that way indefinitely.” Rider says that raising awareness about his fresh-off-the-boat seafood is a big step towards changing current policy and helping more small-scale commercial fishermen succeed. This September, the team debuted their documentary, “Last Man Fishing” at Newburyport’s Annual Documentary Film Festival followed by screenings at both the Portsmouth and New Hampshires Film Festival. The documentary is based on the harsh reality of staying alive in this dying industry through revealing intimate footage of the challenges facing today’s commercial fishing environment in New England. The film shows the evolution of the Fishmongers, with an emphasis on how the policies they battle often go unrecognized with the idea that people aren’t convinced the industrial food model is the best for their communities. It’s ultimately threatening a part of cultural extinction. Rider said that the most heartbreaking part of the whole thing is that his son, Paxton, who is 7-years-old, will likely never have a shot at commercial fishing under the current mentality of “go rich, go big, or go home.” “We can’t beat these people alone,” said Capt. Rider. “The average person doesn’t believe this is right. After the ‘Last Man Fishing’ release, it’s not a surprise that people reach out and say, ‘How can we help?’ These are the people that can help make a change.” The New England Fishmongers are founded on the principles of supporting small scale fishermen with fair prices and providing chefs with high quality, fresh seafood. What makes this team unique is that they manage the entire process starting with catching the fish and ending with delivering it to chefs and consumers along the Seacoast, ensuring that their seafood is properly cared for from the boat, right to the dinner plate. They strive to flourish

a working relationship between producer and consumer to create a better understanding of this part of the food system and strengthen the voice in the fishing community. Working alongside researchers and non-profits, they are able to give back to the community through valuable data sharing, educational workshops and fundraisers as well as fresh fish donations to local food banks. The biggest economic hurdle for Rider, who still uses a rod and reel to bring in most of his fish, is catch shares. That’s when part of a share of a species of fish is allocated to individual fishermen or groups. In most cases, fishermen or groups can buy or sell or lease shares. “It’s a dirty business,” said Rider. “We pay a fee for every fish we catch. We have to buy the rights to catch those fish, and we have a landlord who takes 20 to 30 percent of what we make.” Government run systems make it hard for small business owners, especially fishermen to make a living. There are quotas for fish that are set, so only so much is allowed to be caught to maintain the stocks. “These guys are doing much more than being victims of a broken system,” said film director, JD Schuylar. “It’s about paying attention, and understanding the value. Consumers need to be more aware of the trend… If you look at it broadly, the seafood is fragmented and when you think of a company like them, it really restructures that.”

From the Whites Down to the Coast: Rhea.

Words by: Chad Ripley | Art by: Michael Fiacco

rowing up along the New Hampshire Seacoast, Michael Fiacco is no stranger to the inspiration that so many seem to draw upon from this special place. The concrete slabs of a winter swell that bring out only the most badass and dedicated surfers or the crowded sunny summer days where so many find their footing in surfing. Each in their own respect make this place so unique.

But Fiacco wasn’t always moved by the power of the ocean and the endless coastline to which he drove along almost every day. Like many other kids, he was completely enamored with the sports he played. Focusing his attention entirely on his love and passion surrounding basketball growing up, it wasn’t until he was 17 when he started to realize just how magical a place he’d been surrounded by his whole life. In the beginning of his junior year of high school in 2015, Fiacco was introduced to surfing. It wasn’t long before he fell in love with the sport and the community surrounding it, not only in his hometown of Hampton, but in the surrounding towns along the Seacoast. Skiing and an infatuation with the White Mountains shortly followed his introduction to surfing. It changed Fiacco in many ways, ways that would forever alter his life and how he chooses to spend it. With a natural artistic ability that he shied away from his whole life, Fiacco went to the drawing board and illustrated what he loved most about skiing in New Hampshire and surfing along the coast. Out of it, his clothing brand, Rhea. “Designing my own clothes was inspired by the art but Rhea was inspired by surfing and skiing,” Fiacco explained. “When I started Rhea, I started to do both, and I fell in love with the lifestyle. Out of that came the brand.” After working on designs for the summer and getting the brand together, in the fall of 2016 Rhea’s first order of apparel came to life thanks to the help of a local t-shirt printer in the Seacoast area. With her help and Fiacco’s designs, Rhea was born. And with Rhea, he finally found an outlet to express his creative ability. “It was doing alright in high school because honestly, the designs weren’t that good, and the quality of the clothes wasn’t great,” he said. “But as I started learning more, everything started to get better.” Going into his freshman year at the University of New Hampshire in the fall of 2017, the idea of his brand blossomed into a reality for Fiacco that he believed could amount to something. But even with the best intentions to put a lot of effort into the brand during his first year at school, like every new college student, the adjustments and craziness surrounding college life caught up to him. As a result, Rhea was put on the back burner.

“Going into college I was like ‘I am going to focus on this,’” he said. “I wasn’t and still haven’t been just because everything gets in the way. College certainly gets in the way, you get swallowed up by social life, classes and everything else.”

“I came out with the octopus design last year on a sweatshirt and it blew up,” he said. “So I decided to incorporate the octopus design within the Cinnamon Rainbows logo.” Although he isn’t sure whether the design will be printed, Fiacco has high hopes that this will be sold in the shop soon.

It’s not that the designs take all that long, according to Fiacco. As a matter of fact, he said that coming up with ideas is the most strenuous part, although bringing them to life isn’t all that taxing.

Through all the ups and downs of the past four years, Fiacco has made it clear that without the help and support of the people who have believed in his work, the brand wouldn’t be where it is today.

“Coming up with the ideas is the hardest part,” he said. “I open up Photoshop and just start drawing on there. They honestly don’t take me long to make; one morning I decide it’s time to design for the next order and it usually takes me a day.”

That support and popularity of the brand were evident when he released his newest designs on a sweatshirt last month that sold out in less than 24 hours.

Rather, it’s the struggle of learning how to balance Rhea with school, social life, work and the desire to get out on adventures and to create these lasting memories outside of Durham. And to top it off, the profit margins of clothes are tough; with most people in college on a budget, charging $60 for a sweatshirt just isn’t a plausible business plan, Fiacco explained.

“It’s wild, you know,” he said. “Like literally there isn’t a week that goes by when somebody asks me if they can buy something. And it sucks that I don’t have anything. People look at me and say, ‘that’s the Rhea kid.’ I think that’s kind of cool.” And while the brand has developed and evolved throughout these past few years, Fiacco’s new mission is to create a place where all the best skiers, surfers and creators can come together and unite to produce a brand bigger than designs on clothes.

Yet, Fiacco’s struggle hasn’t deterred him from the brand. Instead, pushing him to think outside the box for ways to improve and make Rhea more than just a clothing brand, without adding more stress to his already busy life.

“If I had it my way, I’d have the [Rhea] van and all the boys would hop into the van and do trips and adventures all throughout the country,” Fiacco said.

And what better way to think outside the box than his newest idea and endeavor: creating his own alcoholic seltzer, Wicked Hard Seltzer, presented by Rhea.

And while the van idea might be put on hold until after graduation, Fiacco is keeping it close to his chest, hoping – maybe – just maybe to see his wildest dreams for this brand come to life.

While the idea is just in its beginning stages, Fiacco’s plan to work alongside UNH graduate and grassroots brewer, Blake Wasson, is something they both hope will come to fruition. Fiacco has plans to contact local businesses along the Seacoast soon with the idea once the brewing begins.

“When I’m designing these clothes, it’s a friendly reminder to keep doing the stuff that you love,” Fiacco said. “I’m going to keep doing it because who knows what could happen? It’s fun.”

Regardless of the plan coming to life or not, Fiacco still plans on making clothing, while keeping a focus on doing things with the brand that keep it fun and fresh and not so much of a chore. Last year Fiacco approached the popular surf shop Cinnamon Rainbows in Hampton to see if they’d be willing to sell an order of t-shirts and hats that he had just recently designed with the brand’s most well-known design, the skeleton hand throwing up a shaka sign. Dave Cropper, owner of the popular surf shop, agreed, and the product flew out the door. Although he didn’t ask for any money in return, being involved with the brand and shop that helped inspire the brand was enough for Fiacco to feel satisfied and motivated to continue to work alongside some of the most influential people and businesses on the Seacoast. Fiacco’s relationship with Cinnamon Rainbows hasn’t stopped there. Fiacco has been working on a collaboration with the surf shop, designing a logo that incorporates the best of Rhea and Cinnamon Rainbows.

The Five Stages of the Freshman Fifteen: Words by Gianna Koning

“There’s no way the Freshman 15 is a real thing!” You leave for school doubtful that it will actually happen to you, but then you start to experience the five stages of grief.

1. Denial

When you arrive at school, you realize the actual definition of temptation: eating at the dining halls. You have never been surrounded by so many food options and you’re eager to try them all. However, you constantly gravitate towards the comfort foods you’re familiar with. The unlimited amount of pizza you’ve always dreamed of piling high on your plate is now a reality. No one is around anymore to force you to consume your greens or bicker with you about eating a balanced meal. Now, your vegetable of choice is whichever form of potato they serve that day and your everyday salad trades places with your once a week bowl of ice cream. But it’s okay, bikini season’s over anyway. Plus, with all of your long walks around campus, there’s no way you will gain that much weight.

2. Anger

You went home for the first time in over a month and you struggled to get on the skinny jeans that fit you like a glove just at the end of the summer. Did you really gain that much? All you've been wearing lately are hoodies because it's been so cold. Your parent's homemade meals make you realize you’re having your first meal in weeks that isn’t completely carbs and dairy. As you look hard into the mirror, you don’t see any difference, but you also wonder, “When was the last time I hit the gym?” You step on your scale and it’s only five pounds more than when you weighed yourself last; that’s easy weight to shed. You head back to school ready to regain your summer body, swearing off all junk food and committing to the 8 a.m. cycling class tomorrow. It’s time to get back into your gym routine because you will not be another victim of the Freshman 15.

3. Bargaining

It’s the weekend. All three dining halls are closed for the night, but you’re starving. All your friends are going out to get mozzarella sticks and nothing has ever sounded more appetizing. It’s been almost three weeks of eating healthy and working out, so you deserve to treat yourself. The next day, the dining hall has your favorite cookies, fresh and warm out of the oven. Ooh, that melted chocolate! You think about how you ate last night, but you also consider how diligent you’ve been these past few weeks. A few cookies won’t hurt; it will be a cheat weekend. You tell yourself you’ll do an extra set at the gym later to make up for the past few days, except you end up doing the same workout as you always do. As long as you don't eat too poorly, what's the harm in indulging a little?

4. Depression

You’re so busy with classes right now that you haven’t made it to the gym in weeks. While you struggle to find an hour to work out in your “hectic” schedule, you also spend almost all your free time watching Netflix in bed. You’re sick and tired of eating the same healthy meal every week and any other nutritious option available sounds so unappetizing. You debate if the walk over to the dining hall is even worth it. Eventually, you just make some instant ramen instead. The only thing you can focus on anymore is the home-cooked meals you can have when you leave for break. Oh, how you miss your family’s cooking. You just have to push through to the end of the semester.

5. Acceptance

Finals are quickly approaching and the stress is real. The last thing you want to worry about is what you're eating, and you fall into an effortless routine. In the morning, you shove two granola bars in your bag and buy a large iced coffee, extra sweet. At night, you alternate between having a bagel or cereal, with the occasional sandwich taking the place of one of them. Ordering Dominos to your room seems like the only viable option. You can’t possibly take a break from studying because of the frightening thought of failure; at this point eating healthy is irrelevant. When was the last time you tried on those skinny jeans? It must've been months ago because you haven't bothered to pick out a decent outfit since midterms, wearing sweats on the daily. Once you go home, you can get back into shape, but for now, you must accept that the Freshman 15 ate you. 17

ravel is the spice of life. It is indescribable happiness bottled up into a foreign city, new friends and unforgettable moments. Planning, time and money are factors that prevent people from becoming the nomad traveler they are at heart– but it’s easier (and cheaper) than you think! I studied abroad in Spring 2019 and between being frugal and prioritizing, I made the most out of my time there. Let me share with you some of the cities I think are worth a visit. LONDON – Biasly, I am going to name this city because I studied abroad there. But, it truly is one of the best cities to travel to. London is jam-packed with culture. No matter what time of year you go, I recommend saving some extra funds specifically for this worldly city. Some of my recommendations on what to do are obviously see the famous sites. You know what they are, so why not get out of tourist trapped sections? Noteworthy Things – Go to Notting Hill, Regents Park, Borough Market, Camden Town and a football game at Wembley stadium. Budget – Although this tends to be a more expensive city, museums are free and you can save money by taking the scenic route and walking through the city. Save some extra $$ for clubbing. VENICE – Let me preface this: anywhere you go in Italy WILL not disappoint. Italy is one of the most incredible places I have ever been to; between the food, culture, people and art, it is a breeding ground for beauty. I chose Venice because this is where I started my Italian adventure, and I recommend it because it’s actually sinking (so go now while you still have the chance). If you plan on going to other places in Italy, their train system is stellar and the ride between cities is very scenic (with lots of mountains, that I failed to know Italy had) and cheap. Noteworthy Things – Gondola ride, WINE, the off-beaten path (like any city, but getting away from the touristy areas in Venice is worth it) and a moped tour (if you venture further south into Italy). Budget – I would say you could ball on a budget in Italy, especially in Venice if you don’t stay on the island!

visited this city, many people rave about it! It’s one of the cheapest cities to travel to and it looks INTERLAKEN – Let’s talk about Interlaken. Adrenaline junkies are drawn to Switzerland to stunning. Things to do in the Hungary capital hike, ski, paraglide or whatever else sets their pulse past 100. Interlaken is the right place to include soaking in the thermal baths, admire Castle do that. Let me forewarn you about Switzerland. In general, it’s pricey, by far more expensive Hill (which is a Unesco World Heritage site) lit up than any other place I’ve been to. Nonetheless, Interlaken is a gorgeous town and there are at night, visit the famous Parliament building and always people paragliding in the midst of Jungfraujoch mountain. However, it is in the middle of indulge in the popular pub scene. nowhere and you will need to take a train from Geneva but the journey is breathtaking. Noteworthy Things – Castle Hill, Parliament Noteworthy Things – Harder Kulm (overlooks the entire city of Interlaken), paragliding, cycling Buildings, thermal baths! on the bike paths throughout the town (gorgeously scenic), FONDUE!! Budget – Luckily Budapest is fairly cheap now, but Budget – Prepare your wallets because the Francs hurt. it will only continue to get more expensive with the high influx of tourists! BUDAPEST – “My house in Budapest, my hidden treasure chest…” as the famous George Ezra’s lyrics flow, gives a small hint of what a magical city Budapest is. Although I have never EDINBURGH – What a wonderful little Scottish

Wo rds by N & Ph icol otogr e C aph otto s n

I never had the pleasure of going while abroad was Lisbon. Through other people, I heard this city is fairly cheap and full of culture and beauty. Lisbon is on my bucket list because of its bright colored buildings, a renowned tram system, cliffside location and it’s originality compared to other cities. Another place I would find myself going is Sintra, Portugal for similar architectural beauty. Noteworthy Things – Torre de Belém (a gorgeous tower), ride tram 28, all of the beaches and Basílica da Estrela!! Budget – Generally speaking, Lisbon is one of the most cost-efficient cities to go to in Europe! COPENHAGEN – One of the most underrated European cities. I went to this Scandanavian city with no expectations in mind. It was definitely a culture shock because the Danes are a little shy (but rowdy when drinking), and the language is insanely different from English, no indication of any words at all. However, it was a very scenic city and I would recommend going to pubs and walking along Nyhaven to see colored houses dotted along the marina. Copenhagen is stunning and a lot less touristy than many other European cities! Noteworthy Things – Nyhaven, Rosenborg Castle, Christiansborg Palace, the original Little Mermaid statue (or see the fake one in the airport, just as cool). Budget – On the pricier side, save some money for beer!

city! Edinburgh is a historically beautiful city at the foot of the highlands and a great starting place in Scotland. I recommend this city if you love Harry Potter (J.K. Rowling grew up in this city). I didn’t spend much time here, but I did I climb Arthurs Seat, an inactive volcano that overlooks the city. From here, my family and I took a three-day tour of the highlands, Inverness and a few other locations which were phenomenal (if you have extra funds, DO THIS). Noteworthy Things – Greyfriars Kirkyard (see the real Tom Riddle grave), Arthurs seat, Haggis (a traditional Scottish dish… look it up…) and Edinburgh Castle (gorgeous city views). Budget – There are a lot of cheap, free things to do in Edinburgh, but save some money for pubs and not-to-miss tourist sites. LISBON – A cheaper alternative to many other places! One place

I Get By With a Little Help From Strangers Words and Photographs by Caroline Beaton The unknown is scary. No, the unknown is terrifying. What hides in the dark is captivatingly fearful, stopping even the bravest from progressing without a light. Nobody knows what the future holds and even with the constant attempts to morph it under our control it still manages to escape our grip. And strangers, people we are unfamiliar with, make us uneasy.

stand a single word of the Spanish conversations whirring through the air, my ears searching for any familiar word or phrase, unsuccessfully. Tears welled in my eyes in the middle of the baggage claim. I felt pathetic and naive, desperately needing the aid of a stranger. In just my first 24 hours in Chile, I received more help from strangers than I had from anyone other than my parents before. I had to say “fuck it” to my parents’ and teachers’ warnings of stranger danger and fully embrace my helplessness,

I had always been scared of strangers. From a very young age, we have been warned of the much-feared “stranger danger.” Don’t ever get into a car with a stranger, parents threaten. Avoid eating food from a stranger, it’s probably been poisoned. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t trust strangers. Amidst a world full of horrific things like climate change, terrorism, war, food shortages, and systemic racism, just to name a few, strangers have always taken the lead as the number one public enemy. For most of my life, I had avoided interacting with strangers. I kept my headphones in on the subway and my head down while walking down the street, because god forbid I looked up and made accidental eye contact with a passerby and ended up decapitated in a dumpster. I politely exchanged small talk with the cashier at the coffee shop, but that was about as far as any of my interactions with people of the unknown went. We’ve already established that strangers are scary. So it can be assumed that strangers that speak a different language and are incomprehensible to you are even more frightening. And strangers that you encounter in a foreign country far away from home are downright unnerving. So one would think that a 20-yearold girl embarking on a journey to Chile alone for two months, where she knows not a single soul, would be scared. Trust me, I was. It was sophomore year of college. I was restless and desperate for a different experience. I knew nobody south of the equator and the only traveling experience I’d had was one school trip to Italy and a quick trip to Montreal to get drunk with friends. So when I discovered I could take a semester off and still graduate on time, I quickly filed my leave of absence forms and booked a plane ticket to Santiago, Chile. I made living and working arrangements with strangers over the internet just days before my departure and left with a backpack full of clothes, an empty journal, a few Spanish phrases, and a stomach full of butterflies.

completely relying on the kindness and patience of anyone who would stop and try to help this English speaking, out of place, American girl.

I had always considered myself to be an independent individual, proud of my do-it-myself attitude. But when I found myself in the Santiago airport jetlagged from a 12-hour flight with only a slight idea of where I was going and how to get there, I realized just how much I needed the help of others. Encompassed by rushing people everywhere I looked, I had never felt so alone. I couldn’t under-

After making it out onto the bustling unfamiliar streets I tried to flag down a bus to Plaza Echaurren, where I was staying. About to board the route 4A I realized, hey wait, I have no idea where the hell I’m supposed to go. I jolted back off the bottom step of the bus and ran away from the bewildered look the bus driver gave me. Finally spotting a paco (a policeman) on a street corner, I felt an urge 20

of relief and ran up to him frantically explaining my situation and pleading for help. He, along with the passers, stared at me with confusion. My gasping English made no sense to this Spanish speaking man. With utmost patience and kindness, he pulled out his phone, opened Google translate, typed out directions to where I was going, waved down my bus, paid for my bus fare, informed the bus driver of when to stop for me and topped it off with a friendly ‘chao’ and smiley wave. Scrambling up the bus steps, my enormous backpack and I toppled into the first open seat. Feeling a tapping on my shoulder from behind, I turned around, terrified, to see a wide-eyed, auburn-haired middle-aged woman named Anna peering curiously at me. She handed me her phone, Google translate opened with the words “Where are you going?” typed out. “Never tell a stranger where you are staying,” my mom’s voice said to me in my mind. But, I had no idea where I was going. This woman looks trustworthy, I validated to myself, desperate for help. I typed back where I was going, receiving an “ohhhh peligroso, muy peligroso (very dangerous)” in response. She then wrote back that she would go with me there. At that point, I was so terrified. Terrified that the place I was going was “muy peligroso” and that I was allowing a stranger to accompany me to where I was staying. Slowly passengers filed off at each stop. Eventually, Anna tapped me indicating that it was our time to disembark. I followed her off the bus, into a plaza bustling with crowds. With one arm linked she guided me through the calls of “gringa!” and uncomfortable stares. She waited with me for the people who I would be working with, who were also strangers. When they showed up, Anna took both my hands, stared me straight in the eyes and kissed my cheek, bidding me a heartfelt “buenas!” Just like that, a stranger had become my saving grace. Throughout my trip, I encountered more kindness from strangers with every passing day. I became more and more trusting. I shared meals and got drunk with strangers. I slept in bunk rooms and shared secrets with strangers. I hitchhiked my way through the desert in the Northern part of Chile. I relied on strangers, I became friends with strangers, I loved strangers and I even learned to leave my childhood fear of strangers behind.

Simone Biles: Breaking the Boundaries Words by Samantha Dow

you don’t know her name-it’s time for you to learn it. Simone Biles is an Olympic gymnast who is completely changing the face of competitive gymnastics. Many have considered Biles the best gymnast the world will ever see. I would amend that statement to say she is the best athlete the world will ever see. On Oct. 5, 2019, Biles performed two new skills that have never been attempted before in a major competition. Onlookers at the world championships in Stuttgart, Germany witnessed history being made when the American gymnast stuck her double tuck double twist dismount off the beam. Her flawless execution lands the skill a spot in the “Code of Points”, under the name “The Biles.” The code lists out all skills and their score values, along with the rules and regulations of the sport. Shortly after the meet, the Federation of International Gymnastics (FIG) approved the skill for induction into the code. Sadly, FIG is not giving the skill the ranking it deserves. FIG ranked the never-before-done move at 0.1 points more difficult than the common double tuck with one twist dismount performed by many gymnasts. Biles, who completely defies the norms of typical gymnasts, called the decision “bullshit” in a recent tweet from her personal account. Her dismount includes an entire extra twist, increasing the

difficulty tremendously, but performing the skill only allows her to earn 0.1 points more than if she played it safe and went with the more common dismount. FIG has defended their decision upon the reasoning that they want to put gymnasts’ safety first, and by lowering the rank value of the skill it will make other gymnasts less likely to attempt the skill in order to receive a higher score. In other words, they are trying to diminish the recklessness of other gymnasts who may attempt the skill. But since when has gymnastics been about playing it safe? Every new skill performed by a gymnast comes with a plethora of risks and it is up to the gymnast and their coach to decide when the risks are too high. The skill should be ranked at the highest level of difficulty, due to the fact that she is the only gymnast with the ability to do the move in competition. Yet again, the world’s most outstanding athlete- not just female athlete- is being punished for being too good. Biles has not been shy to point out the discrepancies in the decisions FIG has made surrounding the “protection of gymnasts.” Another recent tweet by Biles called out the hypocrisy of the organization, who will not allow an extra mat to be placed on the ground for a beam dismount performed by Jamaican gymnast Danusia Francis. Her dismount is performed

off the side of the beam, which has a narrower area of mats than the end of the beam, where dismounts are more commonly done. Francis cannot use an extra mat to avoid a fall on the hard floor, but The Biles dismount gets a lower ranking for safety reasons. All of this does not add up well to most, including Biles and her fans. FIG consistently represses gymnasts, whether it be by regulating the amount of makeup they can wear, restricting and deducting points for exposed undergarments and nail polish, or unfairly scoring the best athlete in the world under the guise of protecting the safety of other gymnasts. Biles’ journey from the Rio Olympics on to Tokyo 2020 (which she has qualified for) has not been without hardship and setbacks. She is all too familiar with big organizations in the athletic world letting her down. USA Gymnastics, the organization which she has won 25 Olympic and World Championship medals for, has historically failed her. In 2016, it came forward that USA team physician Larry Nassar had been sexually abusing gymnasts during treatments. Allegations against Nassar dated all the way back to 1992, and USA Gymnastics received complaints about his conduct months before disallowing him from treating gymnasts. During those months, multiple other women were abused. Simone was treated by Nassar, along with her other Fierce Five Olympic teammates. It shows her true mental strength that she can continue to compete for an organization that has not protected her or her peers.

Biles even had a huge role in shutting down the Karolyi Ranch, where gymnasts were overworked and abused during the training leading up to the Olympics for nearly 18 years, by simply stating she did not want to go back. The ranch has been under investigation with very little conclusion. In Aug. 2019, Biles was interviewed after competition about her feelings towards USA Gymnastics. In the interview, she said; “It’s hard coming here for an organization, having had them failed us so many times. We had one goal. We have done everything they asked us for, and they couldn’t do one damn job.”

It’s truly incredible to see a gymnast calling out such an enormous organization on national television in the way she has. And Biles is not alone- hundreds of women testified in court against Nassar, telling their truths with strength and dignity. Biles, and teammates like Aly Raisman, and the 156 other women who testified in that courtroom, are completely changing how female athletes, and women in general, are taught to behave. They are not allowing others to silence them.

Biles curses in her interviews and speaks the truth rather than give fabricated answers to journalists that won’t offend anyone. She will compete for USA Gymnastics because it is her dream, but she will not allow the organizations’ failures to be brushed under the rug. Simone Biles is truly the greatest of all time, yet she has been shamed for knowing so. Back in August, Biles wore a controversial leotard to the U.S Gymnastics Championship practice day. On the back in sparkly rhinestones was the phrase “GOAT” in big letters with her last name underneath. She received tremendous backlash online but was not shy in calling out the sexism among the haters. Biles defended her decision to own her status as the greatest of all time because men are often applauded for their confidence while women are shamed for it. People were also displeased with her name being on the leotard, but she argued that other sports allow for names on the uniforms of the players without issue, so why can’t she? There is a stigma that female athletes, especially gymnasts, have to be humble, soft-spoken and uncontroversial. Biles has broken these barriers and norms by showing her true personality and confidence in herself. After winning her fifth world championship title, making her the most decorated gymnast in history, Biles again went after those tearing her down for her confidence. She discussed the importance of promoting female athletes to own their greatness, saying “I’ve won five world titles and if I say ‘I’m the best gymnast there is,’ the reaction is ‘she’s cocky.’ No, the facts are literally on paper. I think it is important to teach that.”

While others are off being bothered by her poise and boldness, Biles will be off winning gold at the Tokyo Olympics in 2020. She will be competing “The Biles”, and the “Biles II” on the floor, and “The Biles” beam dismount, all the while winning meets by margins that are nearly unheard of.

When you consider great athletes such as Michael Jordan, Usain Bolt, and Tom Brady, make sure Simone Biles is at the top of your list. Not only does she excel far past other peers in her sport, but she breaks conventional norms for female athletes but is both an inspiration and role model for young athletes. Her legacy will far surpass just being the best athlete in the world; she will go down in history as a woman who changed the double standards for women in sports.

Does your Societal Power Diminish your Sexual Misconduct Records? Words By Delaney Ripley

Authors note: includes graphic descriptions of sexual assault. “Your honor, If it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly. You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.”

his is the opening statement to a more than 7,000-word victim impact statement read by 22-year-old Emily Doe, who in January of 2015 while visiting her sister and after a night partying, was found lying unconscious outside of a dumpster on the Stanford University campus. Two Swedish graduate students were biking around on the night of this incident and saw a suspicious man who looked to be forcing himself onto another individual underneath him. These two went up to the suspicious man, who attempted to run away, but the Swedes tackled him to the ground and waited for the police to arrive. Upon arrival, he was arrested for suspicion of attempted rape and penetration with a foreign object. Emily Doe awoke to the sight of her body being wheeled down the hallway of a hospital, dried blood plastered on the back of her hands and elbows, pine needles dispersed in her hair scratching the back of her neck. When she asked the deputy beside her where she was, his blank-face response was a hospital, you were assaulted. Plain and simple, as if his job was to recite the line over and over again to every sexual assault victim he met. No formal hello, no name introduction, no background details. Three words. You were assaulted. 24

Imagine this feeling of sheer fear; waking up with a foggy consciousness and the first thing you hear is that you were indeed assaulted. Wouldn’t you be fucking terrified if you woke up from an innocent night out partying with friends, only to be exposed to the fact that you’ve been violated, touched without consent and assaulted? Emily Doe underwent a sexual-assault kit at the hospital. Her clothes were taken and put in paper bags labeled with an identifying number for evidence. Flashes filled the room while pictures were taken of the various abrasions covering her body, rulers measuring these abrasions brushed her bare skin, swabs were inserted into her vagina and anus and a Nikon lens was even stuck between her legs for further documentation. Emily Doe left the hospital that day with the following information: “All that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don’t always show up immediately.” A few days later, Emily Doe was back in the world attempting to live a normal life, scrolling through her phone when she came upon an article. The words filling the page displayed the horrific details of her own assault. No one had contacted her with any new information. She learned the story of her assault for the first time looking through bright glass with illuminating letters outlining the details of her own assault, the assault that was never explained to her. “In it [the article], I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognize.” She kept reading. “In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive. I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.” This suspicious man was later identified as 19-year-old Brock Turner, a prestigious swimmer at Stanford University who was sitting on an academic scholarship and multiple offers from Olympic organizations. He was a really good swimmer. I mean, like, a really fucking good swimmer. A good enough swimmer to receive remorse from the judge who was assigned to his trial. Judge Aaron Persky pondered upon the thought that a long time in jail would hurt Turner’s reputation. Twelve jurors found Turner guilty on three felony accounts of sexual assault beyond reasonable doubt. Breaking it down; that’s twelve votes per count,

thirty-six “yeses” establishing that he was indeed guilty. These convictions held a potential 14-year sentence in prison. The prosecutors in the case recommended six years, his probation officers recommended an even shorter sentence in county jail. Ultimately, on June 2, 2016, Judge Aaron Persky sentenced Turner to six months in county jail. In three months, Turner walked out with nothing but his name plastered on a sex-offender list. Four years later, after hiding under the mask of “Emily Doe” in fear of attaching her real name to the label of unconscious woman who was raped behind a college frat dumpster, Doe made her debut and named herself as Chanel Miller. Upon the reveal of her name, Miller also announced the publication of her memoir Know my Name. This memoir stands as a way for Miller to take back the humanity she lost after four years of being nothing but ‘that strong girl that stood up against her perpetrator.’ “There is an instinct to lionize survivors of sexual assault who are brave enough to share their stories, to put their experiences up on a pedestal for the edification of the larger culture… But to turn a survivor into a symbol, a lesson, a one-dimensional inspirational quote, is to flatten them and deprive them of their humanity” said Emma Gray of HuffPost. Simply, Chanel Miller wants what was always rendered to Brock Turner: to be viewed as a human being. Her anonymity allowed the statements she made to feel universal, to prove that sexual assault is not an issue pertaining to one gender, age or sexual orientation. “The lady with the blue hair, the one with the nose ring. I was sixty-two, I was Latina, I was a man with a beard. How do you come after me, when it is all of us?” Dr. Christine Blasey Ford was perceived as a liar when she had the courage to speak up against pending Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh and how he sexually assaulted her in high school. Because she was reporting 30 years after the alleged incident, people laughed at her. Emma Sulkowicz, who identifies as non-binary, suffered trauma and backlash after reporting Paul Nungesser to Columbia University officials for choking and slapping them, holding their wrists down, and anally raping them, with no consent. Twenty-five individuals have accused President Donald Trump of sexual misconduct, yet the media takes this information and makes it into a meme: ‘“Grab ‘em by the pussy. You can do anything.” Why the fuck does society encourage this? I give Chanel Miller all of my respect for delivering message after message to change the way we talk about sexual assault survivors. She is a badass woman who refuses to let the worst thing to ever happen to her define her. She refuses to live only in the public sphere of ‘Emily Doe, Stanford assault rape victim found with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach.’ 25

Why You Shouldn’t Recycle Also, read as: We’re all doomed anyway.

Words by Abby Fisher 26

ave you ever noticed how difficult recycling is? I mean, first they’re asking me to walk past the trash can that is immediately on my way to class, take 20 seconds out of my day to walk to the already overflowing recycling bin, then take even more time to perfectly balance my empty coffee cup on top and for what? For it to fall out and get blown away in the wind?

easier and cheaper than figuring out what can and cannot be recycled (and living with the guilt of knowing it probably won’t be either way). Here are some that I’ve adopted and aren’t half bad:

Then, they try to be problem solvers. Provide an equal amount of recycling bins as they do trash cans. Now they want me to rinse out what I’m using? Hold the cleaned out container up to the light to try to find that little triangle with a number? Actually remember which numbers I’m allowed to recycle and which are destined for the other Far Away Place That Is Not To Be Mentioned?

Use literally anything but a single-use water bottle. A reusable water bottle, a mug you gave your dad eight years ago with a picture of you and your siblings’ faces on the side, a cleaned out salsa jar. Anything goes here. Use these at the hydration stations on campus or even on your next Dunkin’ run. In my quest to out-survive everyone still using plastic, I’ve discovered that Dunkin’ and Starbucks both discount your beverage of choice when using a refillable container. As if that wasn’t enough – you know how things taste better when they’re “mini”? They also taste better out of glass jars, 100 percent satisfaction guaranteed.

THEN, they introduce composting in Union Court? I’m sorry but if they need three whole posters AND these sustainability cheerleaders just to help us figure out what’s allowed to go where, how am I ever supposed to figure it out when they aren’t there? And what ever happened to freedom anyways? So much for live free or die. More like live green or they’ll come running after you.

Eat less meat. Ellen DeGeneres said it best when she said you don’t have to cut it out entirely, but just eat… less of it. Or if you can’t fathom that much, replacing beef and red meat with chicken tends to cut an individual’s carbon emissions in half. Not only that, but chicken is so much easier to chef up. Eat at the dining hall? All the other options are already right in front of you. There’s no easier time to be selective than now.

Besides, what’s with that Patagonia recycling video that went viral (“Recycling is Broken”) yelling about how nothing actually gets recycled and the constant reminder on the news of severe storms and entire forests on fire, let’s face it…

Stop buying new clothes. It takes time, malls are draining and that money should probably go to paying off loans anyways. Thrift! Exchange with friends! Ask for one of those iconic green shirts, I bet they’d give you one. The fashion industry accounts for more than eight percent of climate impacts, so save the money and the emotional energy of trying on another pair of jeans and just work what ya momma gave ya (or left in a bin in your attic for the past 12 years).

We’re all doomed anyway. One day the childhood story about the sky raining spaghetti and meatballs will become reality, but this time titled, “Hurricanes With A Chance of Those Old Plastic Water Bottles You Could Have Easily Avoided Using.” I mean, did you know that 83 percent of the water tested in major metropolitan areas around the world is already polluted with plastic micro-fibers? Or that major storms have increased intensity so that the level of storms we’d normally experience once every 100 years is now happening once every 16 years? Take those two facts and we literally get “Mega Storms With A Chance of Way Too Much Plastic To Survive.”

Basically, for the sake of yourself, stop recycling. It is easier to just buy the reusable water bottle or wash out that salsa jar. Be lazy and save money, it’s a win-win. Besides, if you do these things now when the hurricane comes you can blame everyone else. It’s the American Dream, baby.

I repeat: We’re all doomed anyway. Here’s the real kicker though: There’s no way of knowing how scarce resources will become or how hard the weather will hit us until it has passed the tipping point. That being said, I personally would like to prolong the arrival of that tipping point. Maybe we’ve already passed it. But those green shirt nature ambassadors claim there are other ways to be eco-conscious. Some of them even claim those other ways are more effective, 27

The Creature of College Woods The woods of New England are no stranger to the bizarre. Early English colonists recognized the true terrors that lurked in the thick forests of the region. Native mythology recognized the existence of these creatures. Pukwudgies, magical and mischievous creatures in the forest, coexist with other cryptids similar to the sasquatches of the Pacific Northwest. Stories such as Young Goodman Brown, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, place the devil himself in the New England woodlands. All of this evidence points to the reality of there being creatures beyond our understanding that dwell in our realm. Here, at UNH, we are no different. Under the guarantee of anonymity, some former and current students have been willing to comply with my investigation into the existence of such a creature in College Woods. Part Bigfoot, part devil, and 100% real.

On the day I agreed to meet the first person, I waited 30 minutes in DURHAM COFFEE SHOP NAME REDACTED before she showed up. I was

My investigation started as a curiosity. I am an expert (self-proclaimed, admittedly), ornithologist. I love birds, and after many hours listening and studying, I can confidently identify the bird calls of the Northeast. Do you hear that? It’s a Northern Cardinal. That’s how impressive I am. Anyway, as I was traversing the trails through the thicket of College Woods, my ears detected an unfamiliar sound. It was almost a whooping sound, like that of a great ape. I was, at first, suspicious. As you and I both know, sasquatches are most active at night. But then I heard it again, louder now. Closer, even. At this point, I knew I was getting stalked by a ‘squatch. I marked my GPS location on my phone so that I could come back later. “Legs, don’t fail me now,” I exclaimed, as I hustled out of there. I didn’t look back or catch my breath until I was back in the friendly confines of my dorm room. I knew that I had a story. The mysterious has always been fascinating to me, and since I seek it out, it always remains close. But this time, it found me without being sought after. It was time to investigate. I reached out to known sasquatch enthusiasts in the area, to see if they reported any activity in the days or about to leave when a nervous-looking woman walked in. Seeing weeks leading up to or following my encounter. me, she half-smiled and came over. As a matter of fact, there had been, one brave man informed me. He gave me the contact information of the people who contacted him. “Are you the Bigfoot guy?” she asked innocently. 28

“No,” I laughed, “I’m the truth guy.” That seemed to reassure her. After she got her coffee, she related to me her harrowing tale. Like me, she was enjoying the natural beauty of College Woods. On a solo run in the evening, she turned

England forests still possess the ability to frighten and awe, so she was soon overcome with fear. She thought she heard heavy footsteps somewhere around her, somewhere close. Using her phone flashlight, she shined the light wildly in an arc around her. Finding nothing, she continued. This process repeated itself a few times until she caught sight of something brown and hairy. She only got a second glance at it, because it quickly darted back into the trees. Luckily, she was close to the entrance of College Woods at this point, so she was able to make it out safely. The encounter bothered her sleep for weeks until she was able to relate her story to me. Sharing an experience is cathartic, so I’m happy to report that in follow-ups with her, she says that she feels much better. However, she will never go into the woods near nightfall again. Further internet searches on the subject yield very little information, which leads me to one question. Who is trying to hide this from us? The UNH website claims that the land gift of College Woods to UNH was one of the factors that relocated our university to Durham. This is a large and expensive move. Was the purpose of this move to study the cryptid megafauna that they knew dwelled in the donated woodland? It’s not a logical leap to see that all efforts to protect the pristine forest land has been done to protect the large, furry inhabitant. In fact, if you add an f and a g to the name of the original donator of the land, Benjamin Thompson, Jr, you can spell the word “bigfoot.” I’m not someone who overlooks such coincidences. I hope, dear editor, that you are as dedicated to the truth as I am. If that turns out to be the case, expect future correspondences from me about the mysterious and the bizarre happening right under our noses.

Published anonymously to protect further research.

around when she realized that it was getting dark. Unfortunately, it was very dark and she was still in the woods. Now, UNH is a very safe campus, so she wasn’t worried at first. However, the New 29

The Abyss Words by Doug Rodoski | Art by Michael Fiacco The dive and construction crew were a mixed lot. Their colorful personalities carried us through the grind of the hot workdays. The time that we spent in the water as commercial divers was the fun part; the topside duties could be dull. Nevertheless, they were important to the safety of the man in the water.

We were working on a barge moored on the upriver side of the Sarah Mildred Long Bridge, also known as the Route 1 Bypass Bridge. The unforgiving tides of the Piscataqua River required us to time our underwater work carefully. This summer we were making about two dives a day, setting up underwater blasting sites to clear an anchorage for a marina near Eliot on the Maine side. From the barge we could look downriver and see the Memorial Bridge connecting Portsmouth with Badger’s Island. In the other direction loomed the towering I-95 Bridge, with its steady flow of traffic. The August heat was a nuisance; I would count the minutes until we would be released at 4 p.m. each day. The dive supervisor, Wayne Richardson, had us in a motel in Kittery. The usual drill was for us to wind up at operations around 3:45 p.m., secure and clean the gear and take an old beat up van to the motel. After showers and a motel restaurant meal that usually wasn’t too bad, most of the crew would head to clubs and restaurants in Portsmouth. I usually excused myself to head back to my room to watch the Red Sox and check out early. I was over 40, after all. On this particular morning, a Friday, I

was being outfitted with the surface supply helmet, bail out bottle (for emergencies) and a harness. No wetsuit necessary in these summer waters; I wore jeans, a t-shirt and old sneakers. From the deck of the barge I surveyed the water and both shorelines.

My job on this day was to place PVC pipe in the holes that the construction crew had drilled in the river bed. This would keep the holes open until the lead diver could place sticks of nitro explosive in the holes, and wire them to detonate. The barge would then be moved, three long horns sounded and the water would erupt with rocks and debris a safe distance from the barge and the bridge. As I stood on the platform on the side of the barge, I attached myself to the down line and did a communications check. Rico, the young man of Mexican lineage who was a local, answered me back. The night before, he had passed out from heavy drinking at Margaritas, when he was making some progress with an interested young woman. The crew joked with him later that he had been doing fine, until he wasn’t able to talk anymore.

helped clean gear.

My dive tender checked my hookups and I got ready to enter the water. I had recently deployed to Iraq with the Army; although I could not claim to have been traumatized by anything, the dive work and camaraderie of my fellow workers had helped me to unwind. The underwater world always fascinated me, even when visibility was zero or close to it. It was fun work. I gave my tender a thumbs up and descended the ladder to the water line. Grasping the down line and hooking up to it, I made sure that my air hose stayed untangled. As I descended the daylight faded; it was almost completely dark when I hit bottom. A small fish, immune to the current, hovered about five inches from the faceplate of my Kirby Morgan Band mask. I fancied that he was amused by humans needing all of our equipment underwater. On the bottom I paused to orient myself. The current here was moderate and could be a problem if separated from the down line. I did a commo check that was confirmed by Rico’s heavy Latino accent. I found the pile of PVC pipe that had been lowered yesterday from the barge.

I smiled at the story, and glanced at the old guy, Howie. Nicknamed “Grizzly Adams” by me (he had a scraggly gray beard and long hair), he was apparently a homeless local. He There was a slight tilt to the river would come down to the river bank bed, and I swung my body around the to watch us work every day, in his deeper side of the work site to search old beat up pickup truck. I thought it for the drilled holes. As I did so, my was great that Wayne recruited him feet brushed something apparently as a deck hand; he gave Howie a few metal that was half exposed from the bucks each day plus food from our mud. Curious, I ran my hands along lunch coolers. In exchange, Howie was the object, and recognized the familiar affable and told stories about the river lines of a metal drum. Maybe four years ago; he also collected trash and feet long and two feet wide, if the 30

unexposed portions extended like I expected.

My Army training insisted I identify what it was and the contents. It would be catastrophic if we were working in a biohazard field, or near some unexploded ordnance. I told Rico what I was doing; I then pressed my faceplate against the metal drum near the top. In the darkness I could barely make out faded lettering on chipped orange painting on the drum. My hands and eyes then followed the contours of the object to the top; the round lid was cracked open. It was like it was rolled back, without coming off completely. Curiosity got the better of me as I bent it open the rest of the way. There was a grinding and creaking sound, muffled by the surrounding water. The first thing I saw was old clothing, frayed and faded with time. And as I shone the light down into the drum and poked around a little, I discovered a skeletal hand. To add to the surrealism of the moment, there were a couple of rings on the fingers. I had started to hyperventilate; I quickly brought my breathing under control. I remembered how I once had to inventory cadavers with a biometrics device in Iraq, when some insurgents were shot up by coalition forces. If I could manage that, I could deal with this.

The language, or at least accent barrier, was a bit of an obstacle. Rico was a little high strung. He did not seem to digest what I was reporting to him; I asked for Wayne to come on the radio. With a firm and clear, “What have you got?” Wayne helped me to settle down my nerves. I reported to him that I had found what appeared to be evidence of a crime; in fact, a weighted cadaver. Wayne would know what to do; he told me he had once worked as a recovery diver in Florida. He told me to stand by; perhaps he wanted us to coordinate a recovery right now. Then when he came back on comms, I could hear commotion in the background. While I waited for further instructions, I pondered how this poor victim had met their demise. Then a sudden thought sent cold currents through my bloodstream. Were there more drums surrounding me, just out of view? Had we unknowingly been working in the dumping ground of a serial killer? It was right then that my dive band mask, supplied by compressed air topside, chose this time to begin filing with water. There was a valve on the side that kept a steady stream of air across your face, defogging the faceplate and keeping water out. Now, however, the stream of air was reducing in strength. Not only that, it did not respond to my adjustments. I called topside again, to no avail. Something was wrong. Remembering the line pulls we had rehearsed for contingencies, I pulled hard on the air hose to get Mark’s attention. No response. I pulled hard two more

times, and on the second pull the air hose went slack. I pulled on it again and the last of my breathable air disappeared; at the very same time I observed the end of the air hose. Someone or something had sliced through the air hose.

and surface was revealed by surface illumination. Directly overhead I saw the barge. I decided now was the time to take a chance. I dropped my weight belt and swam up towards the dive platform. The current was not as strong near the bank and I was able to reach the dive platform.

My lungs felt like they were collapsing; I reached for the bailout bottle. With the aid of the small scuba apparatus, I was soon breathing again. However, I knew it to only be good for about five minutes. I had to make my way to the surface. I reached out for the down line; it wasn’t there. Frantically searching around with my dive light, I caught a glimpse of the down line curving off into the distance. It had suffered the same fate as the air hose.

The next thing I noticed was a law enforcement helicopter, zipping along the shoreline at about 30 feet of altitude. And I saw Wayne on his cell phone, gesturing to what looked like police officers on the shore.

I clung to the drum as the current nearly pulled me down river.

The deputies were surrounding Howie’s pickup truck; the windshield was shattered now, not like before.

I was no kid anymore; even when I was younger I could not count on a fast free swim to the surface. With the occasional tanker going up and down river, a panicked move like that could be disastrous.

Rico brought me a Coke out of the cooler; I thanked him. The rest of the crew surrounded me, and after making sure that I was okay, informed me what had happened.

As I spread my hands out for balance, my right hand fell on top of some sand bags used to weigh down the equipment we were using. My air was rapidly depleting - I would have to move fast. I separated two from the pile, one for each hand. I was then able to walk up the slope of the river bed, and not succumb to the currents.

Immediately upon my broadcast to Wayne about the gruesome discovery, Howie became very agitated. He then almost steamrolled Mark into the water before producing a knife from his clothing and slicing the air hose and down lines.

I had to make good time if I was able to make the river bank in time. I grinded away, trying to moderate my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t panic. Finally, the proximity of the shore

I clawed my way out of the water just as my air ran out. The first thing I saw was my dive tender with his back to me, peering toward the middle of the river. He then heard me, and with a relieved “Jesus Christ!” he disconnected the dive helmet and harness.

With the crew momentarily frozen in disbelief, and Wayne torn between communicating with me and dealing with this inconceivable circumstance, Howie had made an escape to the shoreline in the construction launch. And then, with the crew watching in horror, took a shotgun out of the cab

of his pickup, sat down with it in the front seat, and shot himself in the head. Wayne, myself and the rest of the crew were finishing interviews and statements with the State Police that same night. The others looked how I felt: stunned and exhausted. At about 9 p.m. a trooper brought us dinner from a nearby establishment. We gratefully indulged, having missed lunch. By 10 p.m. Trooper Cantrell called us all in to a conference room. Here he explained that Howard Jenkins had taken his own life, and law enforcement divers had recovered the remains of his spouse at our work site. Edna had gone missing in 1988; her disappearance had led to a deterioration in Howie’s mental and physical state. The end result was his homelessness. I pondered the tortured thoughts that must have gone through his mind, seeing us work at the site of where he deposited his murdered wife, decades ago. And our supervisor Wayne, acting as a good Samaritan, facilitated the tragic events of today. We all got back to the motel around midnight and gathered in Wayne’s room. We talked until dawn; everyone had a life experience that was stirred up by this. Wayne told us to rest up this weekend, we would hit up the work site on Monday.

A False Alarm Words by Julia Lajoie

art by Julia Gomes 32

he sound of the clock bounced back and forth, splitting the gentle silence of the library room. Keyboards clicked rapidly as I fidgeted in my wooden chair, attempting to focus on my paper. I typed new words and old ones over and over, deleting and rewriting them, but nothing seemed to sound right.

and hollow, no one understands, I don’t even understand. I felt alone in my own body. The thought of me disappearing forever fueled my legs to begin a fast pace toward my campus doctors office. The walk there blurred in front of me. My senses were dulled but heighted, slow but quick. Time doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

My eyes blurred into the blue lit screen and I yawned when suddenly a light sensation on the left side of my chest thump gently. The sensation grabs me for a moment, but I quickly reverted back to my work. You’re okay I reminded myself.

I approached the receptionist and she glanced up at me with tired eyes. “Walk in?” she asked with no fluctuation in her voice. “Yeah I’m having pains in my chest,” I began. I feel a gentle tug at my throat as my panicked eyes stared towards her.

I began pressing keys to form my first sentence. “It goes without saying-” I wrote when the dull pain, once again, clenched lightly in my chest. I looked up from my screen and watched the room blur around me. The tick tock sound fades as my ears ring and buzz. My heart thumped rapidly and I placed my right hand over my chest and felt my pulse bounce. My head felt light and empty as I continued to blink. I looked around the room at all the scrunched faces behind their bright screens, college students sweat over their next assignment. Our existence is temporary.

She clenched onto her peppered hair observing my demeanor, then adjusted her glasses “I’ll get someone,” she responded calmly, and raised from her desk chair. I took a seat in the waiting room and glanced down at my lock screen. The picture of my friends and I smiling felt so distant. It hurts knowing how happy I was then. I would have done anything to be in that moment, to feel at ease. Each minute passed slowly and everything around me blurred and broke like I was living in a twisted form of reality. Every object in the room softened around me. My lightheadedness worsened as my heart rate picked up.

I stood up, attempting to gasp for air as I made my way out of the library. Everything in my vision was fuzzy. The sounds around me continued to ring as I sped up my pace. I found a bench close by to rest. What is wrong with me? My hands tremble for my phone. I furiously googled chest pain and scrolled through the search results. “Coronary Artery Disease, heart attack, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy” I read the dark print on my phone and red text that appeared underneath each illness “warning medical emergency.” I began to shake uncontrollably as I frantically called my mom. “Hello?” she answered. I burst into tears about my chest pains and how if I don’t go to the doctors immediately, I could die. “You need to breathe” she responded calmly. “I’m serious,” I pleaded. I imagine this being my last phone call, the last clothes I wore, the last words I said. How scary the unknown is, how haunting it is to lose your mind when you’re dead, it’s even more haunting when you’re alive. I pressed the circular end button and rise from the bench. The tattered leaves swirled and crunched together, a guy in khaki pants strutted by, I faintly heard the beat blaring from his headphones. Everything was dull

A nurse with a short blond ponytail called my name out from a corner of the waiting room. I quickly paced towards her and a small room with a checkup table. I sat watching the blank walls around me as she bombarded me with questions. A machine tugged at my arm feeling for my pulse while another nurse listened to my heart rate and drew blood. This place felt foreign and dull. A place made for helping humans exist. People spend years studying physical bodies to help our mentalities. It’s comforting but frightening. Time passed and a tall doctor with a strange demeanor knocked quietly on the side of the door. “We ran a bunch of tests,” he told me. “An EKG, bloodwork and everything looks completely normal. Especially for a 19-year-old. I think what you might be experiencing is anxiety. Do you have a history of anxiety?” I nodded, and felt my stomach starting to lift at the idea that I’ll be okay. It sank down again, knowing that these episodes are bound to happen over and over. Panic after panic over the fear that my body will stop functioning. A ping of guilt knocked on my conscious, I think of my parents and how much distress I put them through. I need to fix this. My body is healthy but my mind is worried sick.

The Ghosted Ghostwriter... A Story of Necessary Rejection Written By Marlies Amberger

To be clear, the first meeting went great. The 30-minute drive to her office was a blur of heart palpitations and anxious thoughts. I could barely believe the situation I found myself in. This actress who I was going to meet wanted me, of all people, to write her autobiography: her story, but my name on the cover. She wasn’t super well known, not outside of New York at least, but she was still someone. Someone who saw the potential in a college freshman’s small portfolio of writing and decided to take a chance. She was my way into the writing world. I wouldn’t let this opportunity fall to the wayside. We met at her small office and nothing went amiss. It was a petite office with blue walls and minimal decorations except for a large analog clock directly behind her head. This woman meant business. She’d already tried to get her story written multiple times. An exhausted sigh foundering out when she said she wanted this story out fast, her tell-all displayed in the front of local Barnes and Nobles within a year. I assured her it could be done. After all, this was my big break; I was devoting my entire summer, maybe even the rest of the year to seeing this project through. It would be the only project I worked on, the only thing I thought of in every waking moment - I would become her and tell her story for the next 365 days. I took dubious notes and showed her my outline for her novel. A chapter here about your upbringing. A small detour for a verbatim interview with your parents. In the next installment, your big break and your rise to fame. Finally, we end on an anecdote about a recent event and leave the readers enraptured by the glamour of it all. She nodded vigorously and shook my hand. I trust you on this, she said. We were in this together. I gazed at the clock behind her, the seconds bleeding into the hour hand as it chimed noon. I left with joy overflowing. Shaking, I got into my car and blasted happy songs with the windows down on the way home, reveling in triumph. Finally, the moment I had been waiting for, which would jumpstart my writing career,

was here. I could practically see the cover of her book with my name ordaining the cover – in small letters, albeit, but it was there. All I needed was this opportunity to prove to myself and to the world that my writing had worth and I was capable. I went home that evening ready to, perhaps for the first time, commit to writing a novel. I kept my promise to the actress: the only thing on my mind was this book. Everything changed come Monday morning. That’s when I got the text. It read: “After thinking the book over I’ve decided I’m going to wait. I need to slow down and decide what I want. If I need a ghostwriter again in the future, I will contact you. Thanks!” It was a moment of utter shock. With 35 words, my dream shattered. Outlines were drawn, chapters were plotted, interviews were formulating, ideas were blossoming - but all of that was put on hold with a single text. I sat at my kitchen table, paralyzed, for an hour. Everything I had done to get to this point was a waste. I was upset, yes, but also terrified of the future. I felt as though I would have to wait years for another opportunity to come my way. And yet, summer still came and went. I got a summer job at a tiny restaurant in town. I wrote other small stories and dreamt of a writing internship for the following year. The actress went to shows across the state and held her events - and I didn’t hear from her again. Throughout the entire summer, I reflected on this journey. I let the idea run wild and free in my mind – the utopia of what could be. My imagination blurred the reality that this project was still in its beginning stages when it ended. This is so incredibly common in the writing and freelance industry, to start a project and never finish it with the client. I was naïve. I never thought it would happen to me. The truth of the matter is, I don’t know why she didn’t want to have her book written anymore. It could have been that she didn’t want to work with me as a young writer with no ghostwriting experience. Perhaps it was too much money to spend during this time in her career. Or, maybe she realized a book wasn’t what she wanted to spend her energy on. I try not to take it too personally, but it is entirely possible that I am the reason this didn’t work out. While I didn’t realize how blunt the writing industry truly was, I realized something equally valuable from this rejection. Even if I am the reason she didn’t want the book written, I cannot let that define my writing. I’m young, and my writing reflects that, but I will only grow with patience, practice and the cruelest of all, time. My skill does not need to be quantified by her. At least not right now. Any opportunity that is suddenly taken away stings, but there is still so much time. Passion does not grow overnight, nor does it die away with one disappointment. It may have been a setback, but it will not stop me from finding ways to improve or take a chance on an opportunity. Rejection stings, especially one of this magnitude. I was prepared to put my entire life on hold for this project. But some things, especially in this industry, don’t work out. And that’s alright with me. I just need to keep writing and hold tight to my passion.

Cabo in a Cup Class of 2017

words and photographs by Evan Edmonds

James & Evan Most likely to skip class for java run

â&#x20AC;&#x153;This specialty latte was my gateway drug into the wonderful world of caffeine addictionâ&#x20AC;? - Evan E.

Hannah D. Most eager to sip the bean nectar

Foam Sip Least likely to burn tongue

Jack Frost Life of the party Class heartthrob

James & Evan Most prepared Beverage department

hen I was a kid I never thought I’d like coffee. The concept was based on something so foreign; yet there it was, day after day, brewed in the kitchen every morning without fail. Even on the weekends when we would all sleep in, the coffee brewing ritual remained. I would ask to try it on occasion, just to see what all the fuss was about - and with each taste, it remained a mystery. Let’s be honest - coffee tastes gross. It’s not sweet or salty or anything, it’s just some bitter brown drink. Little did I know it would eventually play a big role in my life. The high school winters were brutal and dark in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. The ferocity of the ice-cold winter wind shotgunned off the face of Lake Winnipesaukee and would pierce right through even the thickest and warmest winter coat that money could buy. It seemed like days and weeks went by and the sun wouldn’t show itself even for a brief moment. In the darkness and the cold, there existed a shining light, a glorious savior, the warmth of a cozy fireplace right at your fingertips. That was it - it was everything. It was Jack Frost. Not the guy from those Christmas stories or whatever - it was the Jack Frost. I slowly but steadily grew a taste for it - and the taste grew to an obsession - this specialty latte was my gateway drug into the wonderful world of caffeine addiction.

On those harsh winter days with no sun and what seemed like an endless class schedule, the Jack Frost was the escape. The wondrous blend of espresso with slight hints of hazelnut and vanilla combine delightfully to give the lucky patron both the deliciousness of the flavor combo with a sassy punch of bitterness. The foam is like the comfiest pillow imaginable - but it’s warm and toasty as it melts away on the tongue. James was one of my best friends in high school. It was him who turned me on to this wintertime elixir, having discovered its wonders by himself on a random visit to the Downtown Grille and Cafe, a two-minute ride from school. When I tried it for the first time, I detected the bitterness I detested for such a long time as a child but saw something more. That lingering coffee bean taste that rusts on your tongue was invigorating, and at the tail end of those 24 ounces of delight, my nervous and reserved high school exterior was replaced with a more positive and talkative spirit - one that helped me to be more open when speaking to new people and even more active in the classroom, raising my hand often and participating with my own genuine opinions. Returning to school one day from a Jack Frost run, James and I took a moment to sit in the car and contemplate. “It’s like..summer. It’s just the sun,” he said. I agreed, in fact, I knew exactly what he was trying to say, but I took it even further. “It’s like..spring break. Cabo.” “Cabo…” we repeated in unison. That’s what it was like! Never having been to Cabo, or even being able to place it on the map, that’s what the Jack Frost was. It was paradise in a hand-warming cup that took us off our feet and swept us away from the cold wasteland that Wolfeboro proved to be. As we grew more fed up with school, the visits to Cabo became more frequent. What were once weekly trips downtown escalated to two, three, even four escapes a week. We’d go during our free blocks, during lunch and even on some occasions during classes (all depending on how much we needed a break from school). The money my dad would give me for going out to eat once a week or so with my friends was increasingly exhausted by Downtown Grille trips. Sometimes I would be out of money and dip into my own savings - and other times James would offer to cover me all in the name of enjoying a Jack Frost. Despite how many trips we made each week, it never offset the Sunday brunch ritual of “Java and Grub.” We sat at the lone table in the very front of the cafe where the door is. It had the best view of Main Street from inside and we could see people when they came in. Aside from the obvious order of the Jack Frost, we’d also indulge in the “grub” portion of the brunch ritual. This part wasn’t as set in stone as the Jack Frost, but often it resulted in a croissant sandwich with sausage. The flaky buttery goodness of the croissant complimented the fresh crisped sausage and the over-hard egg (just how we like it) perfectly. On occasion we’d switch it up, throwing in a chocolate chip muffin (grilled and buttered) or the occasional Belgian waffle. A larger group of us would get together on these Sundays sometimes too. We’d have to migrate from our usual spot to accommodate the six or seven of us. That’s where we took our cheesy group picture together, and where we hatched our ingenious plan to send it into the yearbook and pretend to be a real club. That was us - the “Java and Grub Club” - and that’s what we were doing missing those free blocks or those classes, or at those extra Sunday brunch meetings. Just breaking down barriers and being ourselves.

Main Street Eats Words by Olivia Potenziano & Leah Caracciolo

Rumors spread in Durham that a second location of the Big Bean was coming to town. Could it be true? If so it would be a dream come true. We have dined at the Big Bean Cafe in Newmarket several times and had never been let down. We’ve brought family and friends from all over to show off their incredible breakfast options that we can’t get enough of. Every college student knows or should know by now, if you want an inexpensive, delicious breakfast meal then you need to go to the Big Bean. And now the convenience of the cozy breakfast cafe is at our fingertips.

Running two businesses and having a family is undoubtedly a lot of work. “No one is overwhelmed,” as the couple laughs trying to figure out which artwork should be framed in the to-go bakery connected to the dining side.

October 8 marked the grand opening of The Big Bean Cafe in Durham, New Hampshire. The hipster breakfast and lunch cafe is known for its cozy vibes and incredible breakfast options. From eight different eggs benedict dishes to their signature breakfast dishes, they do not disappoint. The menu offers classic breakfast dishes like their Big Bean Breakfast to more intricate dishes like the Eggs benedict with salmon and chive cream cheese.

Although there is a bar and alcoholic beverages that may be served to celebrate birthdays or cure the necessary hangover, the Big Bean is still being advertised as a food-driven restaurant, said Jon Wells. The breakfast bar is still welcoming to parents and their families, and will not be seen as your “typical bar,” explained Jon.

The Well’s are incorporating their original dining style and menu in the main dining room with the added benefit of a full bar. The Durham location does have a full bar stocked with liquor, wine and beer to make Mimosas, Bloody Mary’s and Margaritas.

The to-go bakery and casual sit-down cafe is located where the old Spot used to be. The counter service bakery will have menu items The Big Bean has been serving intricate and incredible dishes for the catering to vegetarians, vegans and people sensitive to gluten. past three generations. Before the most recent owners, Jon and Arley Whether you’re going to your early morning class and want a quick Wells took over the hipster cafes in early 2018. The Big Bean has breakfast burrito to go or sit down in between classes and have a been around for roughly 30 years. Jon Wells says the previous owners smoothie or a piece of avocado toast; the Big Bean will have it all at of the cafe are the creative brains behind the delicious menu that a reasonable price. locals have come to know and love. But the menu is never completely finished. With new specials and tricks and treats up the sleeves of Jon and Arley wanted to incorporate a cozy and inviting feel to the the cooks, “the whole staff experiments with different ingredients, Durham location they feel is missing in the Newmarket location. everyone comes up with new stuff. That’s why the menu is the way it is,” said owner Jon Wells. “People have been coming to us for a long time now, so we want to treat them right,” said Jon. Whether that is customers sit and have Co-owners and married couple Jon and Arley Wells have had over 20 a little pick me up mimosa, dine in and enjoy the hardy, all-natural years of restaurant experience from your neighborhood bar and grill, breakfast, or grab a cappuccino to go on the way to class; the main night club, to a little taste of Italy. Working in the restaurant business priority is the customer and always has been for Jon and Arley. is different because of the variety of foods you can incorporate into your business, but overall they are all the same. Having been in the business for as long as this power couple has, their hopes and dreams do not seem too far out of reach. Five years “You’re here because you take pride in the foodservice industry,” Jon from now, Jon says he hopes the Durham location can have a steady said. “The atmosphere is all about dedication and being hands-on.” flow of business throughout the day welcoming regular morning customers to students grabbings a muffin before rushing off to their Owner Arley Wells, said they have a supportive staff at the Newmar- next class. ket location which allows them to continue the work that needs to be done in Durham. Either Jon or Arley make it to the Newmarket No matter what this couple takes on next, they know their business location at some point in the day, while the other is in the Durham will be nothing shy of exciting, creative and trendy. location. 39

As always, with love, Main Street