Main Street Spring 2020

Main Street Main Street Main Street

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Main Street Magazine Editorial Staff CHAD RIPLEY editor-in-chief CALEB JAGODA managing editor

Contributors CAROLINE BEATON contributing writer

DEUS BOERNER contributing writer

ANNA PARISI creative consultant

SADIE BURGESS contributing writer

ZACH LEWIS content editor

JACK BOUCHARD contributing writer

DELANEY RIPLEY content editor EVAN RINGLE content editor

LEAH CARACCIOLO contributing writer SAMMI DOW contributing writer

SAM EGGERT content editor

ARIANE FARO contributing writer

ALYSSA DOUST design editor

ABBY FISHER contributing writer ALEXA GAGNE contributing writer

Photographers and Artists JULIA GOMES contributing artist CATRINA MARR contributing artist BAILEY SCHOTT contributing artist JACK BOUCHARD contributing photographer MATTHEW TROISI contributing photographer

About the Cover

SHANE JOZITIS contributing writer JULIA LAJOIE contributing writer IAN LENAHAN contributing writer FIONA MACDONALD contributing writer OLIVIA POTENZIANO contributing writer ASHLEY REMICK contributing writer JOHN ROONEY contributing writer DOUG RODOSKI contributing writer DEVAN SACK contributing writer MEAGHAN SCOTTI contributing writer CALEDONIA SMITH contributing writer

Jack Bouchard’s photography has graced the pages of Main Street before, but this photo, which we’ve entitled sunflower boi, encapsulates the contemplative, often hazy nature of spring renewal.

“Tryna keep my mind at bay / Sunflower still grows at night” - “Sunflower” by Rex Orange County.

Grounds for the groove

We’re a think tank of creative expression; we’re quirky, thoughtful, creative and passionate. We’re interested in all types of art and creators, the expression of the college experience, in sharing the things we love. We are introspective and collaborative; inclusive and amiable; we love easy conversation, the easy-going exchanges of ideas; we possess a passion for slowing down and looking more deeply at the small things in a world full of quick consumption and hustle and bustle. In this way, we’re contrarians, but not in an aggressive or spiteful way; rather as a way to explore our creativity in a world that likes to crush it.

Art, photography, music, personal essays, poetry, short fiction, film, books, breweries, skating, surfing, fashion, sports, light politics, life itself and the passionate expression of so much more.

Come hangout with us Tuesday evenings at 7 in the Newsroom, MUB 132.

All are encouraged and welcome to indulge in our shared funkanomics.

Give us a shout: mainstreetmagazine@gmail.com Instagram: @mainstmag

big shout out to UNH Printing Services for all their help in printing each and every one of our editions!

Jawnz: page 6 | Girls like sex Page 8 | chelsea cutler is a sad boi Page 10 | Swimming in...

Barz: Page 12 | Rorschach Page 13 | 300 Likes...

Flotsam: page 14 | into the hemlock forest Page 16 | a hellscape and a sanctuary Page 18 | cancelled, i was

phone home: page 22 | spring awakening

The Break do

Page 24 | main street munchies Page 26 | The graduation interrogation Page 28 | the church atop the hill

the sage: page 30 | a note from italy page 32 | why vote?

A year ago, I was in this very same position, putting together the spring edition of this publication. Yet there is a stark difference between where I stand now and where I stood then. The energy surrounding this publication wasn’t where it is now - not even in the slightest-and I was undoubtedly in over my head in my new position as Editor-in-Chief. But with the help of some of the very same names you see in this magazine still to this day, we pulled it off then and I can say with the utmost confidence, we certainly pulled it off yet again — this time with a flair, a pop of color and a cohesive publication that flows like the “eternally flowing river, that disposes of complacency with its silk stomach of timeless wonder,” as Caleb so beautifully put in his piece, “time is eternal in the hemlock forest.”

But what lies between these pages, filled with some of the most beautiful pieces of writing, art and photography I’ve ever seen, is a struggle. But there is a beauty in this struggle. Let me explain.

And I’m sorry but actually not sorry for quoting Caleb yet again, but I just can’t help it. Nevertheless, lately, it feels like we’ve all been having a difficult relationship with time. It can begin to feel as if we have no control over the seconds, minutes, hours

k own

that fill our days. Like that “to-do list” is never-ending, leaving you to feel like you are stuck in the current of the ocean, pulling you further and further out until you are too far gone.

And if you think you are the only one feeling this way, you are mistaken. I along with the rest of us here at Main Street feel just the same.

And the winter can do that to you. The days are short, numbing and leaden — it’s a somber time here in the Northeast. It can leave many longing for the days where it feels like the sun won’t fade into the

horizon line and the dark of the night will never come. But as the snow becomes replaced with the first signs of Spring and the sun finds its way out from behind the curtain of winter, this once crippling feeling from the stresses of the season and one’s responsibilities turn into an optimistic, rejuvenation.

And this is what Main Street 2020 is all about. Remaining optimistic, feeling rejuvenated and more importantly, flexing this creative, funkadelic muscle again to produce something so much more than just a magazine. This creative outlet continues to prove to me that with the right, like-minded people around you, anything is possible.

As always, with love, Chad and the rest of the Main Street team. Cheers.

Like Se s l r i x Words by G Sadie Burgess

There is a secret that all women are expected to keep. But this secret plays a role in everyone’s life; this secret is the reason any of us are here. This secret is often assumed to be true, but should never be explicitly revealed.

This secret exists as a beautiful fantasy in the minds of many but transforms into a condemnable reality once it comes to fruition. This secret is one that men do not have to keep; for them, it is often quite the opposite of a secret.

This secret is meant to keep women contained and digestible.

But we are ready to stop keeping secrets—to be honest, we have been for a long time. As we all know, secrets don’t make friends. And thanks to women in the R&B industry today, the curtain has finally been drawn to reveal...

GIRLS LIKE SEX. The hip-hop/R&B industry has always been testosterone-heavy. As a result of this, women become the object of conversations in songs about sex, rather than the subject; in other words, we are the thing being acted upon, rather than an active participant. Over the past year, however, the scales have begun to balance and the conversation has shifted, as more and more women have found a home in the industry’s spotlight. And as a result of this, I have grown to feel more at home within my own skin—and sexuality.

The conversation-shift and the start of the awakening began in the fall 2018 when Summer Walker released her debut commercial mixtape, Last Day Summer. On “Girls Need Love,” the project’s second single and what many as Walker’s break-out, she shamelessly declares her sexual presence and out the repression of female sexuality.

of of cite calls

“I just need some dick,” Walker sang into my headphones as I listened to the break-out single for the first time. Goosebumps rose up from my skin. I had never heard these words spoken aloud, aside from private conversations with friends close enough to divulge our shared secret; and had certainly never heard them on a platform such as this. Before the end of the first verse, I knew that this song was the beginning of a long-overdue conversation. And then the chorus comes in: “Girls can't never say they want it / Girls can't never say how / Girls can't never say they need it / Girls can't never say now.”

These lyrics could serve as the thesis statement Women Have Been Sexually Repressed.” It would be not one but four examples. Women cannot say that how we want sex. We cannot say that we need sex. that in this moment, right now, we would like to

for an essay titled “How a strong thesis too, citing we want sex. We cannot say And we certainly cannot say have sex.

While Walker presented the opening argument, Ari Lennox wrote the body paragraphs. At the beginning of May 2019, Lennox dropped her debut studio album, Shea Butter Baby, a candid expression of the dichotomy that exists between being both a woman and a sexual being.

Lennox is raw and real; she writes about self-doubt and fear of judgment, 6

common side-effects of the female secret. On the album’s opening track, “Chicago Boy” (my personal favorite), Lennox asks “Is you gon’ judge me if I fuck you before I catch this flight?” Sitting at my desk, hearing Lennox sing these words for the first time, I felt my chest tighten and the corners of my eyes sting with the threat of tears. Not because her words upset me, but because they spoke directly to me and my insecurities.

I could not help but think about being 15 and relaxing on a Saturday, watching one of my favorite shows at the time, MTV’s “Girl Code.” The episode’s topic was sex, and a male comedian, Chris Distefano, shared his opinion on women and sex—the irony that I was unable to see then. I cannot remember his exact words, but I cannot forget their sentiment.

He equated the female body to a restaurant before presenting his full analogy.

Say you go to a restaurant, he begins, and you get all the food you want for free. You’d be so happy, he goes on, but when you leave, you’re going to think, “What’s wrong with that restaurant?” To Distefano, sexually-interested women are comparable to this shady restaurant, warranting judgment upon engaging in sex.

Maybe Ari saw the same episode. Maybe she too grew her fear of judgment from this seed. But the reality is, her question could have stemmed from any of the infinite instances in which women have been shamed for seeking pleasure.

Lennox’s suspicion that she may be judged for her unashamed sexuality can also be heard on the album’s third single, “Up Late.” She sings about a late-night hookup, which lasts so long that it becomes an early morning hook-up. The scrutiny she worries about doesn’t come from the man in her bed, however, but instead her neighbors. She believes “neighbors must be questioning [her] job” as a result of her nighttime activity.

These intrusive, nagging questions are not reserved for Lennox. Self-doubt rears its head on Summer Walker’s debut studio album, Over It, which dropped this past October. The first track, by the same name as the album, opens with Walker asking “Am I really that much to handle?” This lyric hit home for me, as I’m sure it did with many other women, who have been made to believe that they are simply too much—too loud, too confident, too sexual.

Walker doesn’t let this doubt marinate for long, however. She begins the second verse with “I need a [fella] who can handle me.”

Walker is unwilling to compromise any part of herself and is looking for someone who can accept all of her. This is the most important lesson that listeners can take away from Walker’s most recent project: there is no such thing as too much.

The secret is now a known reality, put on display for the world to digest. The format of the sentence has become malleable, leaving the door open for women to become the subject, the active participant. Ari Lennox and Summer Walker are owed eternal gratitude for bringing about these long overdue revelations. Plus, it’s about time women have some good, old fashioned sex songs from our point of view.

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Bedroom pop:

Chelsea Cutler is a bit of a sad boi

Chelsea Cutler is a leading artist who has helped to shape the tone of the genre through her intimate lyrics and style. Cutler has worked with artists like Kygo, Jeremy Zucker and Quinn XCII to create poppy sounds with melancholy lyrics. Like many fellow alternative and Bedroom Pop artists, Chelsea Cutler is a bit of a sad boi. There is vulnerability in the topics she talks about, focusing on her own experience with relationships, her struggles with mental health and the uncertainty of being a teen and twenty-something today.

She paints a lyrically-raw portrayal of what it’s like to deal with personal struggles like depression in a way that steps outside of the mainstream. In her song “Sometimes,” which she wrote with Jeremy Zucker, the delicate vocals, piano melody and minimal use of instruments takes the listener on a trip into the world of her inner thoughts and struggles.

“God only knows why it comes and it goes / Cuz I love you but sometimes I’d rather die / Than have to feel this way inside / This weight on my neck makes it hard to connect and I’m staring at my feet again / I don’t think they know it / How bad I’m broken / The colors you see have become lost on me and I can’t find the root of the bleed” “Sometimes” by Chelsea Cutler and Jeremy Zucker

The honesty in her songwriting extends beyond the way she writes about her struggles with depression and into other aspects of her life, like her relationships. Songs like “I Was In Heaven” and “nj” (which totally wrecked me the first time I listened to it) off of her newest album How To Be Human, puts words to indescribable emotions. She’s speaking about herself, but with an accessibility listeners can relate to.

On-par with the carefree and rebellious attitudes of most Bedroom Pop artists, Cutler’s candid style goes beyond her music; her causal sounds are accompanied by clothes that are expressive and nonconformist, uniquely fitting the spirit of the music. She physically represents the casual intimacy existing in the genre in the way she presents herself. In most performances and interviews, the singer is dressed in graphic tees or sweatshirts, sneakers and has her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, as if she’s sitting comfortably in her bedroom, inviting you into her most personal space. I can imagine it’s what she was wearing when she sat down to write her songs.

As a Bedroom Pop musician, Chelsea Cutler embodies the authenticity the genre is built on, and in doing so, has shaped the genre to be what it is today. In her own words, “I don’t want to make music for having a hit.

At the end of the day writing is kind of a selfish thing. It’s my mode of creativity.” And that’s why the genre is so refreshing and compelling; it’s full of artists like Chelsea Cutler who create music for the sake of creating, regardless of industry expectations.

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Main Street’s top bedroom pop picks: Clairo Still Woozy Gus Dapperton Beabadoobee Cuco Joji boy pablo Yellow Days Rex Orange County Phum Viphurit Dominic Fike Her’s Peach Pit Dayglow Goth Babe

photos by jack bouchard

words by meaghan scotti

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Swimming in Circles Swimming in Circles Swimming in Circles

words by Shane jozitis

If there’s one thing I remember vividly from this past January, it’s the morning I woke up to the release of Mac Miller’s posthumous album Circles.

Dazed and confused from my slumber, yet ecstatic and smiling from ear to ear like a kid on Christmas Day, I grabbed my headphones and absorbed what I had been anticipating for what felt like a lifetime.

As intimate lyrics and melancholy instrumentals swirled in my head, I began to feel let down. Before you turn the page and call me a hater, you should know that I was not let down by the production quality, or more importantly, the substance of Mac’s work. Rather, I wasn’t ready to hear the message Mac delivers on Circles. I was hoping for the punctuation at the end of Mac’s sentence to be a jubilant exclamation point, reminiscent of the happy-go-lucky rapper from older tracks like “Senior Skip Day.” I was hoping for the selfless undertones that encompassed GOOD A.M., the album that let the world know that he was coming to terms with himself.

But Circles is not that. Rather, it is the last stop on a journey that few artists come to experience; it is the culmination of a beautiful yet bittersweet evolution.

Mac Miller’s music was not composed for the passive listener. I first discovered Mac at a point in my life where I felt detached from the world around me; I found myself completely entranced by the zany, honest, intricate version of himself Mac indulges in his music. I never felt like I was just listening to Mac Miller; I was getting to know him.

Above all, Circles is an album that is meant to be taken bluntly for what it is. It presents itself with complete vulnerability and clarity, and sets the stage for Mac to truly unwrap and identify the emotions that battled relentlessly within him. It’s about self realization and the gut wrenching pain that it’s accompanied by. However, Mac’s approach to the subject comes from a place of peace and acceptance. The album’s opener highlights this beautifully with the comforting plucks of a gloomy guitar, ethereal keys and a haunting whisper saying “I can keep you safe, I can keep you safe / Do not be afraid, do not be afraid / You’re feeling sorry, I’m feeling fine / Don’t you put any more stress on yourself, it’s one day at a time.”

Circles aims to reassure fans that Mac’s passing wasn’t the end of his legacy as an artist; the feelings he diligently unwraps on this project are ones that we shouldn’t feel sorry for. Much like taking things one day at a time, Mac takes the full span of this album to vocalize his demons, all the while reminding listeners that they should do the same. “It’s one day at a time” is something that most can latch onto and apply to their own lives. Moreover, he urges listeners to take a similar approach to their personal battles, most notably on the album’s closer “Once a Day.” Mac’s voice floats over a muted synth’s chord progression, saying, “Don’t keep it all in your head / The only place that you know nobody can ever see.” Everything from the dream-like instrumentals to the notes of self reassurance make Circles therapeutic in nature.

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Art by Bailey Schott Though Circles is composed of contradicting ideas, specifically the personal narrative of a down-on-his-luck blues artist with an unusual amount of optimism, these concepts dance with each other, making for a tender, personal experience like no other. This concept is at the forefront of the track “Blue World,” where Mac paints the picture of the devil at his doorstep. Here he drives home the message that no matter what you’re going through, there’s always something positive to focus on. “Think I lost my mind / Reality’s so hard to find / When the devil tryna call your line / But shit, I always shine/ Even when the light dim.” This sentiment is akin to a quote from the late Stanley Kubrick, who said “However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.” This concept stretches itself across Circles as Mac retreats into his mind only to leap into the open in an instant. I think this is a battle that everyone fights on a daily basis, even if we’re uncomfortable with admitting it. Circles tackles this fight head on, and more importantly, tells us that it’s a fight worth having.

It’s okay to feel emotions on both ends of the spectrum; it’s just part of being human.

As a companion album to his 2018 project Swimming, Circles brings equilibrium to many of Swimming’s main ideas. Swimming was about finding solace in the abyss, and Circles shows Mac’s plan to find his way out. It serves as a capstone to Mac’s evolution as an artist. The album veers from Mac’s usual approach to songwriting, particularly his affinity for dropping insane bars on albums like Blue Slide Park, and more realized works like the jazz-influenced The Divine Feminine. However, Circles incorporates far more singing, mainly to enhance the emotional factor, but is representative of Mac’s evolution.

Similar to previous works, Mac still utilizes the technique of stumbling through bars to build tension – and resolving them with finesse – leaving each track feeling serene. This approach on Circles resembles the process of spring cleaning: he combs through his mind with intent, removing the clutter, and leaving his true values on the shelf. Above all, Swimming and Circles are projects that are produced with the ideals that Mac wanted, rather than what fans wanted to hear. Yet, these albums are some of Mac’s most fully realized projects, and truly allowed him to clear his mind and resolve his feelings.

Getting to know Mac Miller through his music over the years was an absolute pleasure, and I can say whole heartedly that watching him evolve was never predictable. From the bomb-dropping kid on Blue Slide Park, to the abstract, drug-influenced enigma trapped inside of Faces, to the somber and personal figure on Circles, Mac had one hell of a ride. Though Circles was not what I had hoped for, it was the perfect resolution to an artist that I hold near and dear to my heart.

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Rorschach

By Deus Boerner Something abstract, immaterial assumption bursting breathing in color.

Rainbow eyes.

Wicked psyche and the curvature of ink blots.

Associative breath in the ether makes a murderer of you or I or some passersby on a street corner.

Breathe me into essence or some feint vestige of reality.

Whisper the world to sleep.

Inhale lest you asphyxiate.

Unsteady hand of a jitterbug.

Jitter jitter and fritter away all that time you made.

Damn we’ve got a great gig going.

And that eternal eclipse mutes the sky and rainbow eyes.

I see the vague portrait of a butterfly up here in the ink awry.

1942 and they decided to lobotomize me for it.

Ain’t that crazy.

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300 likes & 30 comments

By Julia Lajoie We already lost this unbearable race.

Overanalyzed and unverified numbers chased us through twisted tinted mazes, painted eyes melt into blue lights destroying our shape from headto toe.

Self-rejected flaws fall insight.

We search—we beg for meaning In the shallow depths of a glass lens.

Frozen like statues— Heads titled – bodies twisted Hollow games— Lonely friends and monuments.

We’re perfectly aesthetic social butterflies. Through empty rooms we fluttered, electronic connections— barely touched Anything.

Refreshed feed never felt complete.

300 likes and 30 comments fill our hollow gaps. scasCASCACSASCASC

art by julia gomes

Time is eternal in the hemlock forest words by caleb jagoda Art by Catrina Marr Lately, I’ve been having a difficult relationship with time. It feels as if time is some foreign czar with an iron fist and an oddly-attentively-groomed moustache who’s brought along his whole regime with him. Not only that (although his moustache is exponentially important), but he’s changing and restructuring everything. Putting everything into a box. A square peg in a round hole. All that. And the clock is his empty-minded muscle. Think the enforcer in any mob movie: the big guy with the block body and an unchanging expression. Clocks have this pragmatic blank face—a death march of austere fist sandwiches. And the thing is, all they want to do is tell you how to live. I wish I never had to look at those two clenched hands and that paper face again, but everything I do throughout the day is dictated by exactly that. I have to be here, then. I have to be there, when? I have to do this, now. It’s frustratingly silly that we’ve convinced ourselves as a “self-governing” people that we should rush around like that, spinning around in circles so much it makes us dizzy. I mean, what’s the point in that?

If I ever muster up the courage, I’m planning to cast away every clock into a cranium of clouds. Just pull the whole fluffy lid back on the bunch of them and ~ p l o p ~ away they go, forever. We would all be better off. We could wander off into the forest without worry of the wolf snatching us away—and that’s all anybody wants, really. But time is shorter than an ant—and filled with much more malice, constantly muttering a malediction at the top of every inconsequentially-forceful hour.

“Up there where the air thinner / The mountaineer keep a sharper pair of shears with him / Clip a clear path to the endless / Stack up a meal ticket, hands sticky / The tar shiny, black time—you can’t buy it back / Please don’t throw me to the briar-patch, got his ass / I’m back home and I gotta laugh / The siren song got me out a jam / And in a, and in a flash, climbing in a bath, damn” - Thebe Kgositsile But enough about the bad things. It’s time to silence the inner critic. When I can manage to shake time’s ice-cold grip, it’s amazing how glistening the whole world is.

How everything dances: the frozen branches struggling to balance the weight of a crusty snow blanket; the eternally flowing river, that disposes of complacency with its silk stomach of timeless wonder; the words on the page of the book, how they turn into a liquid soothesaying elixir that heal the angry wounds inflicted by the world’s occupants. To be able to slow down and breathe these things in through my nose and out through my toes, letting them flow through my entire body without a worry or wrinkle in the world, is the truest gift. It feels the way I imagine a worm must think. And worms are rather lucky, wriggling and rolling and wiggling in a rigmarole of watercolor brown mud, dancing a palepink string dance completely naïve of the rolling, deteriorating surf of time, their dewy sunrise jig welcoming spring in open arms. I’m sure their tiny brains and many hearts are brimming with world takeover schemes, and plots and plights and wits, but they instead cast them aside and play in the mud with every of their five-thousand seven-hundred and eighty-four hearts.

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The difference lies in cherishing the smaller things: The whispered whistle floating from the tiny needles of the hemlock tree when given a fair shake; the noncomplacency of the wind, and the many secrets that float along its ceiling stream; the transparent and shining ice laden with broken branches reflecting back February sonnets and the many answers to life’s hardest riddles that have left you vexed time and time again. This difference is the same that creates such an aperture between 100 smiling bronze pennies and one crumpled, crinkled, angry dollar.

We have to come to the conclusion that our minds aren’t constructed to digest the eternal.

Everything around us that we can grasp is temporary. Each lithe, shining day dies and gives way to frigid, black canvas night. Every smile, splayed across our faces like peanut butter and strawberry jelly spread over two pages of Daisy white bread, eventually gives way to the crumbling constructs of the frown. Each of our physical bodies will one day fail, an imperfect machine boxing our flailing spirit for each fragile day that natural law allows. The great thing is that this theory is reversible; each of these travesties succumb to their inverse, just as the cosmic composition left from an explosive star-death once again recycles into the soul of a new shining sky mosaic. This, in all its effect and defect, is what makes us human. And this in and of itself is beautiful, and beautifully flawed.

Lately, I’ve been having a difficult relationship with time. It’s true. But yet, this had led me to a subsequent fixation on the eternal, and those things that exist within the eternal. The stained, deeply-imbued blue of the unframed sky will forever stare down at whatever inhabits its vast basement floor. The mud will forever envelop whatever dances within its watercolor brown happiness. My own mind will forever battle between the productivity of vanilla to-do lists and leaving it all behind to dance in the forest, spending the time carelessly as I carefully learn the name of each and every tree.

Listening to their umber-ringed tales is all they ask for, and all I can offer, with my humble ears and tumbling heart.

For now, I’ll have to settle for getting lost in a small room, for letting my mind off its leash to construct a universe of universal relief, and for daydreaming of the day when I can run off into the forest and become one of its eternal inhabitants. Each lost life gives way to a subsequent life; hope minuets among the cracking tree branches and soon-toblossom buds and tessellates the weighted, uncaring sky with azure splotches of knowledge that there is a life beyond the one coursing through my river-blue veins as I type this.

I’m not sure if we can ever achieve eternal. But one can only try, just as the mountaineer does: Armed with a sharper pair of shears, attempting to clip a clear path to the endless.

Community College: A Hellscape and a Sanctuary, All at Once Words by Evan Ringle This is only my second semester at the University of New Hampshire. That would be fine and dandy if I was 18 years old and fresh out of the public high school meat grinder, but unfortunately for me, that’s not the case. I graduated in 2016 and turned 22 last week. So the question arises, “Um… what the fuck are you doin here bud?”

My academic experience is much different from what most students at UNH probably share. I didn’t live in a dorm with a stranger when I was a freshman. I don’t have an embarrassing college romance story. I never joined a shitty fraternity. For the first three years after I graduated high school, I went to a community college.

Community college is a vast hellscape with dim lighting and a shitty vending machine. It’s also anything but a community. My senior year of high school, there was a sentence I constantly heard as loud as police sirens coming from the mouths of my teachers, guidance counselors and parents: “You’re really going to find your people once you start college.” Well, I’m fairly sure that in order to find your “people” at a school, there has to be fuckin people there. Community college is not a bustling metropolis of a campus the same way UNH is. Community college students come to campus with one objective: Get in, then get the fuck out. Commuters aren’t interested in making friends because trying to make friends inside a community college is like trying to have water cooler talk in a gulag. It’s not going to work, and you’re probably going to face some form of public execution for trying it.

I was a student at Nashua Community College for two reasons: I was offensively unprepared for a four-year school. So when I graduated myself a two-year buffer and enrolled at NCC with the hope that my Emerson College was enough for me to buckle down and actually take

poor, and I was high school, I gave goal of transferring to school seriously.

So I did just that and poured myself into my courses, which at first, I genuinely enjoyed.

My professors were accomplished academics and taught their classes with the passion and sincerity I bet you’d find in any respectable public or private college. I took a class that studied the historical context of film, a class detailing the history of the United States from post-WWII to the modern day and I took a screenwriting class that helped me get so many of the stories I had in my head onto paper. I finished my first year at NCC thriving, mostly because I was finally learning about topics that I always had addictive interest in.

When the second year came around, those vibrations of optimism and avid curiosity shifted and were replaced with an uncontrollable feeling of claustrophobia. The hallways of the campus began to shrink; the lights were low enough that I could’ve collided with some unknowing pedestrian on the other side of the hall. I was looking out the window much more than I used to. Faces I recognized in the previous year disappeared and it felt empty all over again. The only thing I held onto was the fact that I’d be transferring in the fall.

I was at the end of my fall semester in my second year at NCC when advisor to register for my last semester of courses at the school. myself into a chair from across her desk and tried my best to stay had sucked every tangible feeling of hope and wonder out of me. My

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I met with my I haphazardly dropped lucid. This institution blood felt like

molasses and my skin was a dark shade of purple. Help me, help me get the fuck out of here.

“So it looks like your current graduation date is Spring 2019, that sound right?” I heard gunshots; the sounds of galloping horses ridden by bandits hoisting me up to take me hostage.

“Um, no. I’m supposed to graduate next semester. Spring 2018.”

“Yes, yes, you were originally supposed to. But you changed your major.”

“What do you mean? I’m in the Liberal Arts program.”

“Yes you are. But it looks like in the beginning of this semester, you focused it to Liberal Arts within Communications.”

“I was told that was the right thing to do, should I not have done that?”

“No, it’s good you did. However, it means you have another year of material to cover before you receive your degree.”

Here I was, sitting in this room, absolutely jonesing for the day I could never come back to this school which had made me physically ill just from attendance. The fact that I had to be here another year? This was the work of god damn el diablo.

During every class that year, a thought persisted in my head: “You should be a junior now. You should be at Emerson. You fucked up your plan, and you look like a joke.” These thoughts I had speak to a very serious stigma involving community college: It’s a place for burnouts and dumb kids. And if it was a place for burnouts and dumb kids, what did it mean about me if I was there a year longer than everyone else? I could see what my graduating class was doing. I had friends at Ivy leagues, studying abroad and some even getting ready to graduate early. My ex-girlfriend was a film student at fucking New York University, and I was still in the shame chamber of Nashua Community College and working at a supermarket when I wasn’t there.

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This was a very devastating period in my life where I seriously felt like I had lost a lot of my potential and worth. I felt as though the person I should have become was long gone, because he would’ve been studying journalism at Emerson College by now. And it took a very long time for me to understand how toxic this behavior was.

We are placed with such high expectations concerning our futures when we’re in high school. We’re conditioned to believe that if you go to a four-year school, it means you’re a hard worker and have intellectual potential. And if you go to a community college, you fucked up and you’ve got work to do. No one said it outright. But it’s laughably dishonest to pretend like that mentality doesn’t exist in the periphery.

And I was a victim of it. I allowed myself to think my best life was over before it even started. Why? Because I didn’t go to a nice private school? Because I didn’t live in a shiny city or a village in Italy? Fuck that. If studying art with privileged rich kids in a dirty city was what I thought I needed to become who I “needed” to be, then I’m glad I’m not that person. Because I’ve met a lot of those people, and they’re really fucking boring.

By the end of my three years at NCC, I was better prepared to take on my academic responsibilities and had a decent framework for what I wanted to do with my program.

But I was still poor. So I forfeited my dream school, Emerson College, for UNH. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but at this point I can say I made the right one. Nashua Community College may have been a vapid hellscape with dim lighting and walls painted with ugly earth tones. But that campus gave me a space for the intellectual and emotional growth that I needed to take on the rest of my life. It untethered me from the idea that I needed to adhere to a specific set of expectations, and if I didn’t, then I had lost something important. That’s absolutely not the case.

Right now I’m a junior at the University of New Hampshire, I’m 22 years-old and I’m doing what I should have done from the beginning: I’m living for myself, prepared to destroy anything that gets in the way of that.

Cancelled, I was.

words byfi Fiona MacDonald

Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter is, essentially, a story of a woman being cancelled—poor Hester Prynne was subjected to endless suffering by her Puritan neighbors. That shouldn’t come as a surprise, really; Puritans aren’t exactly remembered for their ability to move on. These days, however, it would generally be frowned upon to force someone to wear a bright red “A” for “Adulterer” on all their outfits.

That’s not to say our urge to label people has gone away. Think about it—if a person transgresses in some way, mightn’t you want an easy way for everyone to know to shun them? In place of a scarlet letter, mightn’t you reply to one of their tweets with a little red “x” emoji? Mightn’t you send them a flurry of insults, asking why they are so intent on depriving the world of joy? Honestly, if someone is responsible for a really heinous crime – for example, getting Baby Yoda suspended from Twitter – what else would you do?

I should explain. It all started with my hatred for Lin-Manuel Miranda, which is insatiable. If I see a tweet about him, I report it, just because I can. One day in mid-December, I did just that, and promptly forgot about it.

But Twitter didn’t forget. A couple days later, on December 14, 2019, I was notified that the account I reported had been suspended. I clicked to see who I had murdered and was confronted with the username @BabyYodaBaby and the number of followers the account had once boasted: 150,000.

I laughed, obviously. I didn’t think the account had broken any of Twitter’s official rules – only one of my personal ones – so it didn’t seem like this could really be my fault. That wouldn’t stop me from taking advantage of the situation, though. I slapped a few screenshots in a tweet and captioned them, “i got baby yoda suspended for tweeting about lin manuel miranda” (all lower-case because I’m cool) and sent it out to my own measly 150 followers.

I felt like one of those evil rich people who shoots a giraffe and then poses for a picture with the animal’s dead body—except with my actions not being morally bankrupt.

Baby Yoda Twitter disagreed. Bereft of the only source of joy in their lives, they lashed out and flooded my feed with insults and outrage—how could I be so soulless as to take away their joy? Like any normal person upon being thrust into the spotlight, my first instinct was to put the best replies together in iMovie and play the Cantina Band song (of Star Wars: A New Hope fame) in the background. My video ended with a short statement letting the outraged parties know that I really didn’t think it was my fault, and even if it was, I wasn’t sorry. After all, if these people wanted to look at pictures of Baby Yoda so badly, they could just Google him.

My new friends didn’t appreciate my hard work, and got mad at me again, this time following up their angry tweets by blocking me. Their replies all 18

asked the same question: Did I get the attention I wanted? I thought it was nice of them to ask, because if they hadn’t, I could have let them know. But my appetite had indeed been slaked, so most of us moved on with our lives. Little did we know, the best was yet to come.

The red “x” emoji didn’t appear in my notifications until nearly two months later. When I was born, my mom had wanted to name me after Hester Prynne. Now, even without her name, I was fulfilling her legacy. Several other notifications accompanied my personal scarlet letter, each from another mourner of Baby Yoda.

I hadn’t been aware of any new developments in my story, but I knew something must have happened to inspire my latest assailants.

It only took a bit of investigation to find out what: Insider had published an article called “A Baby Yoda Meme Page Was Mysteriously Banned, and its Community of Fans is Asking Why Twitter Took Their Fun Away.” The article includes a direct link to my Twitter and names me a suspect, but ultimately lays blame on Twitter rules that prevent one person from operating multiple accounts that interact with each other, which apparently the owner of @BabyYodaBaby had been doing.

Exhilarated by this acknowledgement from a Real News Site, I set out on a more in-depth search. I discovered an Esquire article titled “How an Unofficial Baby Yoda Twitter Account Managed to Find the Light Side of Twitter,” which calls my behavior “villainous” and my video “deeply strange.” Honestly, things were only getting better for me. Esquire also provided the pièce de résistance of my new collection: a Buzzfeedstyle list boasting to contain “The

Most Tantalizing, Ridiculous, and Unfortunate Celebrity Feuds of 2019.”

Tantalizing! Celebrity! My Twitter account, @postsbyfiona, is last on the list, only after Taylor Swift, Kim Kardashian and the entire Boomer generation are named.

When I said I’d already received enough attention, what I really meant was that I wasn’t going to explicitly ask for more. But these B-list news sites were offering me attention on a silver platter. I couldn’t deny them.

So, I told everyone I knew that I was famous. When they didn’t believe me, I showed them the list—then they couldn’t argue. I did eventually run out of people to tell, though, and those who had already heard grew tired of the story. So, my fame sputtered out, gone as quickly as it came.

Maybe story should have a moral, like, “People on the internet are crazy,” or, “Cancel culture has gone too far,” or even, “Our standards for what qualifies as news are way too low.” Those are probably all true, but they’d be disingenuous coming from me, since I enjoyed my brief and second-rate fame so much. Maybe the moral is that it’s just not that deep; if your only joy comes from a little green baby invented by Disney to make money, it might be time to reevaluate.

Just one final thought: Esquire’s Adrienne Westenfield gave me a piece of advice, and I’d like to return the favor. She wrote, “Of all the sparring partners in the world, don’t pick a universally beloved green baby. Baby Yoda is gone from Twitter, yet all the Nazis remain.” Well, Adrienne, if you get the Nazis to tweet about Lin-Manuel Miranda, I’ll see what I can do.

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Catching up with Sweet Caroline words by Ian Lenahan Neil Diamond’s famous song “Sweet Caroline,” which celebrated its 50th anniversary in August 2019, has transcended through the generations with its easy-breezy melody and ability to bring out immense camaraderie amongst its audience. The song has become a monumental aspect to the Fenway Park experience, with fans rising on their feet to sway and sing the song in the middle of the eighth inning before the Red Sox come to bat. Most commonly associated with the team, oftentimes baseball fans, Bostonians and curious minds alike have wondered why Diamond’s song is automatically synonymous with the thought of the Red Sox and “America’s Most Beloved Ballpark.”

Where it began? To begin to know, you must start in the Fenway Park music department during the 1999 Boston Red Sox season.

The story of “Sweet Caroline” as a staple of the Boston Red Sox franchise is most often linked to former music department employee Amy Tobey. In numerous reports that have tried to tackle the legend of “Sweet Caroline,” Tobey is the name that comes up the most frequently. In many different accounts, she is named as the employee that requested for “Sweet Caroline” to be played in the few seasons before Boston’s long-awaited World Series championship in 2004. Legend has it that Tobey enjoyed the song and had it played when the Red Sox were ahead late in games and the energy from

the crowd seemed to be positively contagious.

At the root of it all stands a clear reason why Diamond’s power ballad has become a rallying cry for anyone who has ever been sucked into the charming allure of Red Sox Nation. In December 1998, now-former Red Sox music department employee Billy Fitzpatrick and his wife gave birth to a daughter.

That baby girl, Caroline, was honored with “Sweet Caroline” the following season, a tribute to her name and the love for her within the Fenway Park community.

No longer the Red Sox’ baby girl, Caroline Fitzpatrick, a 21-year-old junior with a psychology and dance dual major at the University of New Hampshire, has come to fully embrace her truth as an integral chapter of Red Sox lore.

“When I was little I didn’t support it at all. I was such a shy kid. I always hated bringing it up when I was little,” she told me recently. “I definitely have grown to embrace it a lot more with age, I guess.”

The publicity that Fitzpatrick has received, though relatively minimal comparative to her immense Red Sox royalty, proves the facts. Along with old newspaper clippings from her town’s local newspaper and a brief alluding to in former Red Sox manager Terry Francona’s book, she was once asked to be on a New England Sports Network (NESN) Red Sox DVD special reprising her role amongst the Fenway

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faithful as “Sweet Caroline.”

“My mom would play the DVD and I would run into the other room,” she said.

Better yet, in a video created by the Boston Red Sox’ official YouTube account in April 2019, former Red Sox Executive Vice President Dr. Charles Steinberg confirmed the truth; though Tobey brought about its popularity by continuing to play it around the turn of the millennium, it was initially played as a congratulatory tribute to the Fitzpatrick family on the welcoming of their baby girl.

In an “Ask Me Anything” session that Neil Diamond did online with Reddit in 2014, Fitzpatrick’s cousin told Diamond of their family’s connection to the song because of Caroline’s father’s former employment with the team and Caroline’s birth. Diamond wrote that he “felt a connection with a higher force” as he was writing the song at a “low point” in his career. In turn, he wrote that he feels people love it because it connects them to something intangible, yet emotionally moving. “…I think that’s why people are attracted to it and love it in a way, because it connects them to that higher spiritual force, and it’s been used as a good luck song for teams all over the world, cricket players in Hong Kong, it’s the official closing song of Oktoberfest in Germany, Penn State plays it at their football games, and of course, the Red Sox play it in the 8th Inning at home games... I love that, I love it,” Diamond wrote in response to Fitzpatrick’s cousin.

Although she’s admittedly not a huge sports fan, Fitzpatrick understands the rich history of the organization and its home at Fenway—the oldest ballpark in Major League Baseball. With that, she has come to absorb what the playing

of “Sweet Caroline” in the eighth inning of every home game means to the faithful fans. Whether played in recent championship seasons (2004, 2007, 2013 and 2018) or in disappointing last-place seasons, “Sweet Caroline” serves a sole purpose: To keep the togetherness flowing and the spirit of Red Sox Nation alive.

“I think it’s awesome, cause it’s something that’s so chance. It could’ve really been anyone. I’m kind of part of something so big,” Fitzpatrick said.

Funny enough, Fitzpatrick isn’t even much of a fan of the song itself, saying that there’s some “goofy energy” in the song that doesn’t exactly resonate with her. However, even though she hasn’t been to a game since she was 12, one of her favorite aspects of the Fenway Park experience is the eighth inning tradition of standing up to sing the song before the Red Sox come to bat.

“I don’t exactly like the song, but I like the legacy,” she said. “I feel like it really unifies Boston.”

Though she used to feel as if she was leading a stressful “Hannah Montana”-esque double life, the days of innocently shying away from her unique identity are long gone. No longer running away from the truth, Fitzpatrick has embraced the story, her place within Boston Red Sox culture and has used it to her advantage as she’s come of age, even admitting that she has used the story and her baseball royalty as a pickup line in the past.

She’s the unknown queen of the eighth inning, a necessary yet underappreciated aspect of the Red Sox experience. She’s Caroline Fitzpatrick: An everlasting legacy within the thunderous pulse of Red Sox Nation.

What could be sweeter than that?

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Left Behind: Looking Back on Spring Awakening There I was, crawling around on the floor backstage in the Hennessy Theatre, desperately attempting to pick all of my Words by drumsticks up without missing my cue for the next song. The Ariane Faro glint of my two antennae-like stand lights, far up on my music stand, was all that illuminated my way. As I scrambled to collect my sticks and mallets, organizing them as best as I could with my limited time and light, I silently slithered back onto the drum stool and grabbed the glockenspiel off of the stand. Flipping a page ahead in my music, I flicked on my mini light, snatched up my mallets and was ready when our music director, Lauren Craven, raised her hands to cue us in for the song.

Sound like a lot? That’s the life of a pit musician—at least during a show.

Although usually your instruments are right by your side and don’t fall all over the floor during a performance, there’s still a lot to keep track of.

But there’s nothing like the high of performing and the energy you get after hearing the audience clapping and cheering in response to something that you were a part of—even if you played just a very small part.

On the weekend of February 13-15, I played drums and percussion in the pit for Spring Awakening, a show put on by UNH’s Mask and Dagger Society. Senior Rachel Bergeron was the director and choreographer with senior Janais Axelrod serving as the assistant director. Both individuals brought an incredible shared vision to life and made a musical about 19th century Germany feel relevant in modernday America. There were six members of the pit in total, including freshman Wyatt Garrett on piano, sophomore Sam Graff on guitar, junior Juliana Good on viola, senior Lucy Kirby on cello and junior Lauren Craven, our music director.

I’ve been in several pits before this, and that one single moment of adrenaline in the show consistently reoccurs show after show, completely unmatched from the rest of the musical and rarely found in everyday life. That one moment fuels you, feeds you with energy, leaving you completely exhausted yet satisfied—like when you’ve just gone for a long run or sang your heart out for three hours at a concert for your favorite band. In Spring Awakening, that moment for me was the song “Totally Fucked” in Act II. For context, in this song, the male lead Melchior (Matt Soucy) is being questioned by his schoolteachers; they found an inappropriate essay that they believed

photo by matthew troisi 22 Photograph by

Matthew Troisi

he wrote (spoiler alert: he did).

Melchior realizes that he has no way of getting out of this, no matter what he says or does. The song that ensues, “Totally Fucked,” describes this realization of being completely stuck without “an inch more room to self-destruct.” For me, this song was the best part of the show, the mountain peak, the vanilla icing on the chocolate cake. It’s a fast-paced ensemble number featuring Rachel’s impressive, upbeat choreography, and I could tell the cast loved it as much as the pit did. At every show, without fail, the cast and pit’s energy mutually fueled each other, which sparked the audience’s engagement, which only inspired more energy and excitement in the cast.

That three-way loop of energy felt endless and incredible, something you don’t always get to experience.

Whenever this song was over, my heart was always pounding a million miles a minute—in a good way.

Though “Totally Fucked” was my personal favorite, each pit member had different moments that they enjoyed the most. Lauren loved “Don’t Do Sadness/Blue Wind,” which everyone agreed was a favorite.

Juliana referenced the final song of the show, “Song of Purple Summer,” a wistful ballad that looks to the future while still reflecting on all that had occurred. “I think ‘Left Behind’ is where we peak as a pit,” Wyatt noted, citing a particularly emotionally-charged moment that required all six of us to lock in even more tightly with each other and the actors to ensure that we were on the same page rhythmically, tonally and dynamically.

Even though all of us pit members had our favorite moments in Spring Awakening, just like the actors and audience members did, being in a pit is incredibly different from acting in a show, and even more different than being in the audience. Yes, you

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get to watch pieces of an amazing show, but you never get to see the entire finished product; you can’t exactly watch the choreography and play your part at the same time. You get to hear how the instrumentals and the vocals blend together, but you don’t get to sit in the audience and see how everything blends together— the dialogue, choreography, lighting, set design.

But don’t get me wrong, the pit is still one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.

Our music director, Lauren, recounted working with the cast from the very beginning as being incredibly rewarding, especially “starting from scratch… [where] no one knows anything yet, and then building it all together, layering and layering, until we get to this point, and you can see it all happen.” In fact, as we neared the last day, all of us realized what a journey we’d been on and how we were going to miss the energy that came with performing Spring together in Hennessy every night.

“I’m probably going to cry,” Lauren said as we realized we only had two shows left. “It’s going to happen.” The rest of us chimed in our agreement. “I’m just in a constant state of emotion for this week,” Juliana agreed, “and then it’ll be over after today.” Most of us had already cried at least once, and most likely would again, both because of the show’s emotional content and the realization that this incredible journey was over.

But such is the life of a pit musician: a little chaotic, exhausting and emotional, but incredibly rewarding and energizing.

Main Street Munchies: Dining hall dice roll

our managing editor Caleb decided to tackle the “BIBIMBAP�

this was the result

words by caledonia smith 24

Dining hall fatigue—you know it, I know it.

At the beginning of the year, you enter HoCo or Philly every day hungry and ready to dig into the seemingly infinite array of food laid out in front of you. By the end of the month, though, the stainless steel starts to lose its shine. It feels like you’ve had every menu item a thousand times. You don’t want to buy food elsewhere and waste that expensive meal plan, but you can only eat so many waffles in a week. That’s where a little bit of creativity comes in handy.

obviously, but it’s a nice way to spice up that Mongolian grill bar. Get some rice in a bowl, add a meat of your choice, throw in whatever elements you like from the salad bar (for me, it’s edamame beans, shredded carrots, shredded cucumbers, shallots, parsley, bean sprouts and lime), drizzle with your preferred mix of the sweet sauces and get the breakfast bar to make you an egg sunny-side up to plop on top. Add some sriracha, mix it all up and you’ve got a fun new dinner!

Nearly everyone I’ve talked to has their own go-to creation, ranging from a simple unconventional combination to something approaching actual cooking. The tips and recipes below have been collected from others’ and my own experiments, and are of course only a small jumping-off point for those of you itching for something new and willing to put in the little bit of extra effort to spice up your next trip to the cafeteria. I am not a chef, but I do have an uncle who’s a chef, so I can speak with full authority when I say: when it comes to food, just do whatever. Find what you like.

Go wild. Nobody can stop you (unless you contaminate the waffle-maker, of course).

LATE-NIGHT BREAKFAST BURGER - There’s no two ways about it: the burgers at Philly late night are not good. You can add a little extra by stepping it up to a Breakfast Burger.

Get a plain burger. Get an egg fried over medium or over easy from the breakfast bar, have them fry some bacon as well and put them on the burger. While you’re there, you could have them fry up some onions, peppers or whatever else you’d like from their section. Add whatever other breakfasty stuff you want.

I would recommend taking the extra minute to throw the buns in the toaster for a second while the egg is cooking, so they’re warm and crisp when you eat.

RECIPES TUNA MELT - Tired of tuna salad sandwiches?

It only takes a couple minutes to make a decent tuna melt. Here are the steps I use.

Get some peasant bread from the sandwich or breakfast station, butter one side of each slice with butter from breakfast station.

Put two slices of swiss cheese on the unbuttered side of each piece, then tuna salad (get a good amount), and a few slices of tomato. This is the time for pickles/ peppers/etc. if you want it.

GENERAL TIPS USE THE SPICES - They’re there for a reason.

There is a veritable cornucopia of flavor nestled in those little shelves you pass by every day, don’t let them go to waste. Many of my complaints about dining hall food boil down to underseasoning, which makes sense given the wide range of pallets that the food has to serve. If that sounds familiar to you, I would absolutely recommend taking a couple minutes to add some depth of flavor with a sprinkle of paprika or herbs.

Put the assembled sandwich in the panini press and leave it in for about a minute.

Flip it and leave for another minute, then remove.

Add in any lettuce or other produce that you want to have crisp in the sandwich, as they would get soggy if cooked in the sandwich.

Enjoy!

ROOT BEER FLOAT - This is pretty selfexplanatory. Put some vanilla frozen yogurt in a cup, add the soda of your choice, boom.

BIBIMBAP BOWL - This isn’t super authentic

MIX AND MATCH - Don’t stay in one section!

Never let the 10 feet between the sections stop you from expanding your options. This seems like common sense, but I’ve had a thousand times when I lamented the lack of variety in sandwich ingredients, even while I walked right past the salad bar that had exactly what I wanted. If your salad is stale, grab some tuna salad from the sandwich bar and make yourself a nicoise. Go on a scavenger hunt for the right additions.

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The Graduation Interrogation Words by Abby Fisher

So it’s spring semester. UNH Instagram has reminded us every chance they get that graduation is approaching. Your family began asking questions long ago about what your post-grad plans were, but they’ve become so frequent that you might as well just tattoo your elevator speech on your forehead. Hopefully you’ve applied for graduation by now; if not, I’m pretty sure you accidentally extended your stay here another semester. Either way you probably feel an anxiety-inducing slew of sadness, fear, nostalgia and excitement on the daily. Here’s how to work through those feelings and, more or less, survive.

1. Absolute optimism. Misery loves company and a lot of people have happened into a life they don’t necessarily want. They’ve been manipulated into valuing certain things that aren’t actually what they as individuals value. But here’s the thing: just because something is true of someone else’s life, doesn’t mean it will be for yours. If you don’t want an office job, don’t apply for any! If you need one to move away from home and that’s what you feel is best, take what you can and run with it.

Create and seek out opportunities for yourself that push you and place you in situations for growth and appreciation. That being said, don’t wait to be in those spaces to practice blind optimism. Practice this with abandon.

I noticed at a recent family

function that the negativity – others’ and my own – will not subside until I force it to by insisting on the opposite.

“Aren’t you nervous about not having a career-focused job out of graduation?”

Not as long as I’m making enough money to survive. I have 50 years left to work and figure it out, I’m in no rush.

“What about living with your parents, you won’t hate that?”

No, I love hanging out with my parents. Plus, the whole not pouring my life into a job only to afford basic necessities. On top of no longer living in a box. Also, Trivia Tuesdays with my parents and their friends. Yeah, no I’m pumped.

The questions will go on for a bit, but then they will slow and eventually cease. Giving in to the negativity will serve as a comfort to others at the expense of your own comfort. Avoid at all costs.

Even if you are actually very worried about the things they’re asking about… fake it till you make it. So long as you nurse the idea that you’re dreading everything about post-grad, people will continue asking about it because it’s an easy, often relatable topic. When you write it off as a positive thing, it will become that in your mind and in theirs.

Having a difficult time committing

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to optimism and the questions have already gotten to you? Sending you over the edge into a pit of self-despair? Honestly same, dude, we’ve all been there. Here’s what you’ll find me doing while curled up on the floor in the corner of the room at the family reunion: rationing with my irrational mind. When your heart is heavy thinking about something or all of the things you will miss at UNH, write them down. Go through that list and hone in on what exactly you will miss about those things. What will you crave?

Then next to each one, write how you can satisfy that craving beyond the boundaries of campus.

Example: I’ll miss being so close to my friends all the time. Treat it like you would a long-distance relationship, because that’s exactly what it is. Make sure to always have a plan for when you’ll see each other next. Schedule out a whole weekend to make sure the time is high quality.

Facetime. Call. Send platonic love letters through carrier pigeons and Morse code. The time you have together can be so much more appreciated and of such greater quality than your 37th night in a far-too-swampy bar basement. Yeah that’s right, I said it.

Example: I’ll miss having stimulating conversations with professors and peers. Join a book club or discussion group. Attend public talks at a college closer to home. Ask your grandparents or neighbors or strangers about their lives! Everyone has some knowledge to bestow upon you, not just the ones you pay money to learn from. Welcome the new (free) resources that are at your disposal.

Reframe. Back to the optimism. I know, annoying at first but trust me. I’ll walk you through this one. You will probably never have this much freedom in choice again. You definitely will never have this much life ahead of you. That’s so exciting… you can literally pursue one career, then do a 180 and choose a different one.

You might end up hating it and switch it up again. We’ve been so restricted to a strict schedule and being told what to do and when to show up where.

Graduating college, all of that falls to the wayside. If that means you have to work a temp job to save up money? Whaddup, I’m with you. If what you’re saving up for is a large vehicle to deck out and drive far, far away from that very job in a year? Hey, I’m still with you. My point is, what decision you make right now is yours and that’s really fucking cool. Choose with enthusiasm and change it up if you must.

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When the hum becomes the Hymnal

words by caroline Beaton There’s something about the car ride to Newmarket from Durham that never fails to feel magical. It makes no sense -there is literally nothing special about this 13 minute drive, yet it always manages to move my soul in some sort of funky way. Upon rolling down Main Street in Newmarket there is the typical debate about which side street we’re supposed to take. But once the car begins audibly struggling to chug up the steep hill we know that we’re close to the Stone Church.

Excitement builds as the slams of our car doors are mutilated by the escaped sounds of bands warming up from inside the building. Winning free tickets to the show makes this night even better, something I thought wasn’t possible. A $5 admission fee may seem like no big deal, but this is simply representative of the night. It feels like everything in the universe wants me to be right here, right now.

The Stone Church is a not-so-secret hidden gem, tucked away up the hill in Newmarket. While the beers may be significantly more expensive than at Scorps, it is worth the extra few dollars to listen to groovy live music in a place that doesn’t have an inch of spilled drinks on the floor and no dancing room. And if you’re on a budget I promise the $2 PBRs really do taste better at the Stone Church.

Upon entering, I see friends, familiar faces from classes, that person I had coffee with two years ago, people I used to work with, the list goes on. It’s like everyone who’s ever been a part of my time at UNH is present; a giant melting pot of people from all aspects of my life joining in on this one

special night. Bonded by a shared love of music and a desire to dance the night away, we have all found our way into these four walls tonight. I have never felt so comfortable and genuinely in the right place. Some things in life just make so much sense it makes me wonder why I’ve ever felt lost.

Sneaky Miles covers “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros in some of my favorite minutes of the whole night. Not only because this is one of my favorites to sing along to in the car, and not even because it is already decidedly going to be my wedding song, but because the lyrics floating around the tongues of the people in the church ring true. You can feel the love in the guitarist’s eyes as he serenades the keyboardist, convincing the crowd that he truly would “jump out that window” right after him. To sum it up in the words of my dear friend and our beloved leader and editor-in-chief, “That church atop the hill sure does feel like home.”

In the midst of big changes I am able to find stillness in the beautiful commotion of the Stone Church. This year has been anything but calm. Hectic, stressful, wild, boisterous, late nights, early mornings. Peaceful is one of the last words I would use when talking about my senior year at UNH. Yet, in the midst of all the chaos, on the middle of the dance floor, head banging and singing along with the wrong words I find my zen. The vibrating bass penetrates my heart, captivating it in a way that forces me to focus only on the music, only on this moment right now. The smiles spreading throughout the room are infectious and I can’t help but believe the rest of the crowd is experiencing this same bliss I am.

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Photos by chad Ripley

At a time when there are so many horrible and thought consuming events occurring in our world, this group of people are simply listening. Sometimes it is the loudest things that drown out the noise of our lives and quiet the mind.

Experiencing live music is the antidote to the constantly felt pressures of the world we live in. With each strum, drum and belted lyric we are able to let go just a little more, lightening the loads that we carry.

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the native tongue Words by Alex Gagne I had the privilege of traveling to Italy during January 2020. I spent the majority of my time in Rome and made some stops in places like Pompeii and Gaeta before returning to the United States. Once I was settled back into the New Hampshire lifestyle after having been immersed in Italian culture for almost two weeks, I had a chance to reflect on this life-changing experience.

Before this trip, I had never been abroad. My vacations growing up were spent at Disney World, so I did not consider myself cultured in the slightest. But, going into this abroad experience, I did have one skill that truly enhanced my time in Italy that many of my traveling companions did not: the ability to speak Italian.

I’m not 100% fluent, but I’m almost finished with the intermediate level of Italian language courses through UNH’s Italian Department. That being said, the Italian Department deserves a major shout out, because the faculty that comprises it teaches in such a way that I fell in love with the language.

I chose Italian for my language requirement because I knew it was similar to Spanish, which I had a background in already. And quite honestly, it just sounded cool. Most kids go into their language requirement just wanting to get it over with, but after the required classes were completed, I felt a sense of disappointment. I then found out I could pursue a minor in Italian. Choosing to further my knowledge in Italian was one of the best decisions I ever made. The intermediate classes were so much different than the beginner classes in the sense that everyone actually wanted to learn. It was an intimate learning environment where a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who pretty much never left the East coast could feel like she had been enriched with knowledge about an incredible new culture.

My trip to Italy couldn’t come soon enough. The fall semester dragged on for what felt like years. I regularly checked the countdown app on my phone to see how many days were left until I went abroad, or as I labeled it on my phone, “Roma!” Eventually, finals ended, the holidays whizzed by and I woke up one cold day in January with zero days left on my countdown app. I’ll skip all the details about the traveling simply because I don’t want to put you through what I had to endure: a nine-hour night-time plane ride with 30 minutes of sleep and a six-hour time difference once we arrived at our final destination. But it was so worth it.

My travel companion and I groggily loaded into a taxi and were catapulted into Italian culture. Our taxi driver barely spoke English. “Dove?” he said to us, and we kind of just looked at each other like, “Wow, we’re actually here—thankfully, we’re both Italian students.”

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We managed to overcome our first language barrier obstacle after that 30-minute taxi ride. I just kept thinking to myself how much more intimidated I would have been if I didn’t know that “Dove” means “Where?”

Also, might I add that Italians drive incredibly fast—especially Italian taxi drivers.

Our familiarity with the Italian language served us well in so many ways, and it became clearer to me every day. At first, I just felt cool because I could understand the waiter while most of my friends couldn’t, but I quickly realized it meant so much more than that; seeing a native’s facial expression change when they hear their language come out of your mouth is so satisfying. And what’s more, they tend to elongate their conversation with you if they can speak their native tongue, rather than the super complicated language that is English.

The thing is, Italians pretty much all know some English, so that leaves many tourists with no incentive to try and learn Italian. That would be a giant waste of time if they already know English, right? Not at all.

Imagine if you were working somewhere centrally located in America where you interact with many different people. Imagine how exhausting it would be to speak a second language for hours on end. Even if those people happened to be interested in your culture, you might not think so, due to their seeming lack of effort to relate with you. It could even be pretty offensive to you.

That’s how I imagine Italians feel when Americans travel to their country solely with the knowledge that Italy has wine, pizza, pasta and beautiful geography. The big takeaway I got is that the experience would’ve felt so much less enriching if I didn’t learn the language before visiting Italy.

And I’m not saying people need to go on Duolingo and take a course before traveling to a non-English speaking country (although I’m not discouraging that); I’m saying you should Google a list of phrases you should know before visiting a country whose primary language isn’t English, like “Where is...?” or “Hello!” or “Thank you!” for starters. My ability to communicate with natives made me feel like I could connect to Italy on a much deeper level, and it made my time there that much more memorable and meaningful.

Communication is such a deep and primitive form of human connection.

Imagine the people you’ll touch if you speak to them in their native tongue—I can say firsthand that there’s no feeling like it.

Bothered by a bubble: why vote? words by ashley remick Realization flooded over me as my body slammed into a wall of my own idiocy.

The polls were 100 feet away, and my license was laid in my top desk drawer, back in my dorm. My teeth clenched and my face felt warm as I rolled my eyes and turned around. I knew damn well the two older ladies that were speed walking past me eyed me; they even recognized my pure stupidity. Who forgets their license on their way to vote? I began the trek back to my dorm with slumped shoulders and furrowed brows. The gentle, cold breeze of the day accelerated to whip me in the face and taunt me with arctic ferocity. Why should I even make this walk again? Why even waste more time to turn back around and fill a pointless bubble in? It’s only the primaries anyways. I slammed my feet into the asphalt and the bland neighborhood around me faded from my attention as I became lost in my own mind.

Why vote when politics don’t even affect me? I crossed my arms and scoffed.

I paused and took a deep breath. I’m just frustrated. I uncrossed my arms, sighed and continued my cold walk to my dorm. Okay, so politics are the reason I’m on this horrible walk, but where will I be in four years? The administration we choose now determines college debt policies, tax policies, health insurance policies and tons of issues that impact me directly in just a few years. Anybody who gets married, buys property, starts paying for their own health insurance or gets their first job and begins to realize the extent of their college debt will experience the impacts of political issues. I spotted a plastic Dunkin’ cup on the ground, grabbed it off the newly-exposed grass and thought about the environmental policies that determine the future of our beautiful planet. I tossed the cup in a recycling bin sitting in front of the next house I passed and continued on.

What if I just don’t care about politics? What if I just don’t want to vote? I toyed with the thought, fishing for any reason to not turn back when I waltzed through the door of my warm dorm. Voting is a privilege, not a requirement after all. Devine Hall lay in sight; I hastened my step and sped past a handicapped parking space before racing up the stairs. I grabbed my student ID, opened the door, stepped into my warm hall—and the word privilege struck me. I have the privilege to choose not to vote, some people don’t have a choice at all.

If I’m not going to vote for myself, I should vote for the Americans with disabilities who can’t make it to the polling place because of an inability to drive or a lack of accessibility. I should vote for convicted felons who were stripped of their vote, which includes a disproportionate amount of Black and Latino populations. I should vote for those who avoid the polls because they don’t want to state their birth name and gender, or for those hard-working Americans who work double-shifts and can’t escape work while the polls are open. Even if I choose not to care about politics, I should care about others.

Voting for LGBTQ+ rights, the equal rights of Americans with disabilities and expanding the right to vote helps my neighbors, my friends and thousands of

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Americans. I should vote for them, but I should vote for myself too. Nobody else is going to vote in my interest, only I can. I grabbed my license out of my top drawer and turned to the door.

I stood behind the red and blue curtain and gripped the marker in my hand, staring at the Democratic Primary Ballot. I filled in the bubble next to Bernie Sanders. I took my ballot and pulled the curtain aside to go place my ballot in the box that made my little bubble an official vote.

That night, I sat in a hall lounge with my friends as the final results danced across our screens and we saw how the youth swayed the vote.

Fifty-one percent of NH youth voters supported Bernie Sanders, while Pete Buttigieg only gained 20 percent of the younger population’s vote. This difference gave Sanders a huge lead. Sanders’ support was much lower among New Hampshire’s older voters, proving just how much power my generation really held in the election. My vote mattered. I smirked as I remembered my walk back to the dorm for my ID and that vital decision to return to the polls.

I sauntered into Oyster River High School following the signs for same-day registration. With no line to wait in, I approached a table and fell into a seat. I took my license out of my wallet and my student ID along with it.

The older women facilitating my paperwork picked up both IDs and turned to the woman she was training.

“Her driver’s license proves her identity and age,” she said. “If she didn’t have it, and only had her student ID, then we would just have her fill out an affidavit swearing that she is 18 or older like the one she will fill out for citizenship.” She looked down at the papers in front of her to choose one for me. The familiar rush of realization overcame my senses; I never even needed my license to go to the polls, the student ID in my pocket could have carried me that last 100 feet.

Photo by Zach Lewis

words by john rooney

bigger than basketball: remembering Kobe bryant

I hated him as a player.

Growing up I always held resentment toward the Los Angeles Lakers. Even before I became a real basketball fan, I was aware of the infamous rivalry. East Coast vs. West Coast, Bird vs. Magic. One thing about growing up in New England: there is no avoiding the passionate fan base. It wasn’t until 2008, when I was 8 years old, that I really paid attention to NBA basketball and had a vested interest in it. By basketball I really just mean the Celtics—my fandom did not reach much further than that. I worshiped the original “Big 3” in Paul Pierce, Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett To this day, it’s my favorite Celtics team, and the best one I’ve seen play.

I remember watching them run through that season up until the Finals, where they met Kobe Bryant. I obviously knew who Kobe was and that he was one of the best scorers in the league. I yelled Kobe’s name every time I threw something in the garbage, like everyone else. It wasn’t until the 2008 Finals that I really understood why people did that. The guy was a walking bucket. The Celtics took the Finals in seven in a fantastic series that had me on the edge of my seat. That series planted the seed of my distaste for Kobe. It grew the next year when Kobe and company went on to easily take down the Magic in five games. And again in 2010, when the Celtics and Lakers faced off again. I remember hoping Kobe would forget how to play the game of

basketball and brick every shot of the series. Obviously, that did not happen; in another seven game series, the Lakers took down the C’s, giving Kobe his fifth ring and second Finals MVP Award. It was crushing to watch, having followed the Celtics all year and making it that far, just for Kobe to come out on top.

On the court Kobe was relentless, ruthless and an unapologetic champion.

Off the court, Kobe was a mentor, coach and father. The stories in the media that came out about Kobe after his death were far more personal and heart melting than not flinching at a ball fake. Everybody that had a personal relationship with Kobe said that he was a caring and compassionate father. He was the coach of his daughter, Gianna’s basketball team, who also passed away in the crash.

Everybody knows that Kobe is a legend in every sense of the word. As if losing a man who had changed the game forever wasn’t enough, the way that it had happened made it all the worse. A helicopter crash accompanied by his daughter and her teammates. It is very easy to get caught up in the sports world and think that it is everything.

In a sense, it is everything. It gave Kobe Bryant a platform. Five NBA championships, two Olympic gold medals, one Academy Award and countless memories later, it is easy to say that Kobe will always be remembered for what he did on as well as off of the basketball court.

California Love words by Melanie tymn

Before discussing Kobe Bryant’s career and what he accomplished on and off the court, I want to bring light to his sexual assault accusation back in 2003 involving a 19-year-old woman. I think it is important to recognize this case and think of the victim in the wake of Bryant’s death. It is easy to get caught up in the thousands of headlines depicting Bryant’s accomplishments without a mention of the victim and the impact this experience must have had on her. The case was later dismissed when Kobe issued a public apology explaining how he thought the encounter was consensual. He continued on with his famous career while the victim was left to make sense of this life-altering experience. One can write about Bryant’s accomplishments, but at the same time it is just as important to acknowledge what the victim must have gone through as a result.

I have never been a diehard basketball fan, but I try my best to keep up with my team from my hometown, the Golden State Warriors. Usually, I’ll watch a few games here and there, but in no way do I deserve the title of a true dedicated fan.

However, for me, supporting the Warriors has been a way for me to get in touch with my local roots whenever I’m feeling a little homesick.

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When I heard about the passing of Kobe Bryant I truly didn’t believe it at first, a feeling that I think was similar across the nation and even across the world. I was surprised at my own reaction because I knew of Kobe and his career, but beyond surface level, that was the extent of my knowledge.

I found myself feeling an overwhelming sadness when I found out about his death along with his daughter and the seven others on the helicopter. In the proceeding days and weeks, many celebrities, family members, professional athletes and really everyone who had been impacted by Kobe expressed how saddened they were to hear about his death.

Beyond his 20 years with the Lakers, five NBA titles and an Oscar for his film “Dear Basketball,” Kobe’s compassion was given back to the community after his retirement.

Back in 2018, Bryant opened the Mamba Sports Academy, a training facility for amateur and professional athletes. This is where he coached his daughter Gianna’s youth basketball team. Bryant was hugely involved in supporting his daughter and helping other youths in achieving their future goals.

One way that Kobe has inspired others was with his friendship with Sabrina Ionescu, point guard on the women’s basketball team at the University of Oregon. Ionescu is from the town next to mine and would compete in games against my high school.

She is currently known for her impressive record of the NCAA all-time leader in career

triple-doubles and the Pac-12 Conference all-time leader in assists. She has also been a top prospect for the upcoming WNBA draft, but announced she will be staying at University of Oregon for her senior year.

Kobe and Gianna would attend Ionescu’s games at Oregon and she would visit Mamba Sports Academy to help coach Gianna’s youth team.

Kobe took notice of Ionescu’s talent a couple of years back and the two struck up a friendship. Ionescu spoke at the service for Bryant and Gianna on February 24. In her speech she said, “I wanted to be a part of the generation that changed basketball for Gigi and her teammates, where being born female didn’t mean being born behind, where greatness wasn’t divided by gender.” That night Ionescu flew to the Bay Area from the service in Los Angeles to play Stanford where she made college basketball history.

After the game she said, “That one was for him. To do it on 2/24/20 is huge… he’s looking down and he is really proud of me.”

Whether you’re from the East Coast, the West Coast or anywhere in between, Kobe Byrant left his imprint on many across the world.

Aside from the rivalries, his iconic NBA career and his legacy after retirement, he will be remembered for generations to come.

The legend of Kobe Bryant will never die.

May his legacy continue to inspire millions more in future generations. Mamba Forever.

I visited Tenney Mountain this past February on a day where most other resorts would have a lift line to the parking lot. But instead, I strapped on my boots, clicked into my bindings and slid onto an open chair. The lift appeared to have me by a few years, but the 10 minute or so ride up made for some extremely long runs down.

This winter has been disappointing for the ski industry to say the least. There have been very few storms and most of the ski mountains in New Hampshire are coated in classic northeastern hardpack ice.

But, Tenney didn’t seem to have one patch of ice and I didn’t ski around a single other person. There was snow to carve on and winding trails with no ropes stopping skiers from going down them. It seemed the ski area had been stuck in time since the 80s. It was a change of pace from the crowded slopes of Loon or Sunday River and it certainly had better conditions.

Skiing without a map is sometimes the best way to explore a mountain. Just following your gut and turning where feels right can lead to all-time runs.

At Tenney, the runs are narrow, winding trails, with soft snow the whole way down. Carving down empty trails in New England is unheard of, and apparently a common occurrence at Tenney.

Tenney isn’t a mountain you’d just stumble upon and there are no signs leading you to the base. The “locals only” vibe was strong, but at the same time fellow skiers and riders were friendly and happy to share their powder

stashes. Just as we were pulling in, a gentleman was leaving with his family who were here for vacation week. He said how he had skied all over New England his whole life and called Tenney the “hidden gem of New England.”

Earlier that week I spoke with someone over the phone saying I would interview Mike Bouchard about the new mountain.

I was expecting to meet a lift worker and hear about the daily processes of the mountain, but instead I met with engineer and general manager of the mountain, Sir Michael Bouchard. Although I have not met other ski area managers, I think he may be different than most, learning to ski just last year.

I also spoke with Alessandro Insolia, the managing partner of the family-owned company, who said his family is excited to develop the 900 acres that surround the ski mountain. At the moment they plan to develop a hotel, residential units and senior housing, but could also go beyond that.

One of the main differences on the mountain is the snow. The snow was softer and more abundant than what Cannon or Loon had that weekend. Yes, there were less people, but Bouchard has applied his engineering mind to create better snow. Tenney tests the snow on the slopes every night and adjusts their groomers accordingly. This makes it so the snow doesn’t become so hard and turn into ice like most New England ski areas. He also makes his snow differently, heating his water before shooting it onto the slopes – resulting in noticeably softer and deeper trails.

Tenney is what it would be like if a group of passionate, down to earth skiers got together and opened a mountain. There is no one telling you what to do or when to do it and the responsibility is in the skiers’ hands.

The price to ski for college students who show proof of enrollment is only $20 on weekdays and $25 on weekends.

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words by Devan Sack

The Hidden Gem of New England

New Hampshire has a long history with skiing and in its heyday was the epicenter of skiing in America.

Small ski areas popped up all over New Hampshire’s glacial carved notches, but few last to this day. Tenney Mountain is a rare survivor and a secret to everyone but the few hundred folks that regularly ski there.

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What was it like to win an X Games gold medal?

by jack bouchard words and photo

zeb powell

“It’s definitely surreal considering I haven’t made it to a huge competition circuit yet. It was a different type of pressure being in front of a screen on tv with all big dawgs and stuff. It was crazy. Everything up until the competition was wild. I was nervous and stuff. Then once I started competing I was having a blast and it was fine.”

What is your First memory of snowboarding?

“My first memory of snowboarding was actually kind of bad. It was a holiday and my family took us up to go skiing at our local mountain, before I even got introduced to snowboarding. They set me up riding regular stance and I had this really mean teacher who was all aggravated that I couldn’t ride regular. I was just not having fun. I remember I must have had a little sense of style because they gave me these colorful overalls and I was like no I don’t want to wear this. Then I got an all black kit, I looked good, I remember.”

Ferdinand Magellan. Vasco de Gama. Sir Francis Drake. Leif Erickson.

These are all names of so-called explorers whose exploits will seem like meagre trifles compared to my greatest accomplishment. My correspondences, dear editor, have been sparse over these cold winter months. It is not from some hardship, but from a desire to present to you hard evidence that a ‘squatch stalks among the silent sentries of College Woods. This mild winter has been both a blessing and a curse for a truth seeker such as myself. The lack of snow has made my more frequent trips to the woods more palatable. However, the lack of snow has made it difficult for me to effectively track the beast’s movements. And since that fateful night passed in the woods, my quarry has eluded me.

The Crea of Colle Woods II

It started, as most interesting stories seem to, at the stroke of midnight. At the twelfth toll of the twelfth hour, my companions and I became aware that something else was among us. We sat silently behind a large rock with an adequate view of what seemed like a natural game path. The original eye-witness, who I will now call “Jane” for short, was in her typical good spirits, however naïve she was considering the magnitude of what we were about to see. My other companions and seasoned cryptozoological investigators, Ben and Bob, were behaving in their usual fashion as well. By that, I mean of course blissfully unaware of what was going on. So, out of the four people present, I was the only one truly prepared.

I took a large bite out of a Crunchy Peanut Butter Clif Bar at the same moment I heard the rustling. Was this what I was waiting for, or my mind confusing the sound of my delicious snack for something else.

I stopped chewing and leaned closer to the path. Not hearing anything further, I continued with my snack. Just as I was about to swallow, a shape peered out from behind a wide tree. My tasty treat caught in the back of my throat, stifling a gasp. As I choked on the Clif Bar, my eyes gained extra focus. Crossing the path, briefly, to another area of thicket, there he was: my elusive, bewhiskered antithesis who had been ceaselessly dancing within the confines of my mind. Six feet of hair and muscle, 20 feet from me. My oxygen deprived brain was struggling to relay my next move. My companions were looking at their phones. I fumbled with my camera and dropped it. The sound startled the beast and it loped off, deeper into the woods.

ature ege II

I missed my best opportunity. With the help of some water, I dislodged my snack and finally said to my companions: “Did you see THAT?�

They looked up from their Instagram accounts, and shook their heads incredulously. I collapsed in exasperation. But, inspiration struck!

The footprint on the trail! I ran over, disregarding the obvious danger from having such a powerful predator nearby. I got to the place where the animal crossed the game trail and sunk sadly to my knees.

The frozen ground had not yielded. There was no footprint to be found.

I have spent so many sleepless nights ruing such a missed opportunity.

I have been back into the woods during many fits of insomnia and subsequent frigid days trying to find the hairy Houdini Hercules once more, but to no avail. All I can produce for you, dear editor, are the drawings that I myself have made regarding the incident. I cannot thank you enough for publishing these tales and getting the word to the people on what lives so close. My only hope, now, is that these words can inspire others to search for the same. I will find the proof that you so desperately need. You may think my opening was premature, but have a little faith. The beast has been spotted twice by me. I will not miss him a third time.

Written anonymously to protect further research

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Main Street Magazine