Paddlefish 2021-2022

MOUNT MARTY UNIVERSITY

PADDLEFISH

— STUDENT LITERARY AND ART JOURNAL —

2021-2022 1

Editor Jim Reese Associate Editor Dana DeWitt Review Editor Jamie Sullivan Copy Editor Dana DeWitt Arts Editor David Kahle Editorial Assistant Elliot Burns Cover Art David Kahle Paddlefish Under Ponte Vecchio Bridge, Firenze Italy, 2020 quill tip pen and ink Book Design & Layout Ashley Bargstadt Advisory Board S. Cynthia Binder Dana DeWitt S. Marielle Frigge Jamie Sullivan

Thank you to the Mount Marty University Gregorian Club for their generous donation & support.

Copyright © 2022 by Paddlefish All poems and prose are used with permission of the authors, and they retain all rights to their work published herein.

Except for brief quotations in reviews and books, no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law.

The views expressed in Paddlefish are not necessarily those of Mount Marty University.

Paddlefish Snagging good literature one line at a time.

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PADDLEFISH 2021-2022

— STUDENT LITERARY AND ART JOURNAL —

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Table of Contents 6 8 11 14 16 19 20 22 28

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47 49 51

Jessica Warnke • To Hold from a Distance [Winner of the 2021 Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry] Oakley Jandreau • White World [Winner of the 2021 Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction] Noah Cagle • Ice Legacies [Winner of the 2021 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Prose] Stephanie Faulhaber • Mother Jerome Schmitt Presidential Scholarship Speech Jeff Wanner • Spirit of Benedict Award Essay Betsy Crumly • Growing Up With Guns John Sibley Williams • A Letter to MMU Students A’shinee George • Structural Racism Influences Racism Today in America Kassondra Gooley • Sweet Nothings • Droplet of an Ocean • Untouchable Shelf Dreams • These are the People McKenna Cooley • Generations • The Mall of America • 10 Things I Learned Living in Yankton, South Dakota • Smile • Rebel With(out) a Cause Justin Paddack • The Man in the Hat Abigail Thomas • Today’s Fascination with Crime Brynn Dilly • Learning to Think • Mental Health 4

Table of Contents 57

61 63 68 75 76 77

83 86 87 90 101

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Jessica Warnke • Surrealism • The Statistics of an Open Life • Tied Together Bella Diaz-Short • A Because Letter Brooklyn Eisenhauer • Basketball as Life • Packing Cattle for the Nebraska State Fair Tianna Bumbaca-Kuehl • What They Do Not Tell Us about Wildfires • Beneath the Redwoods Brooke Skutnik • America the Quiescent Elita Eastman • Matthew 21:1-11 Rita Woodraska • Waiting • Old Friends • Oceans on the Mid Plains Calli Davis • The Change in Me: Understanding Yourself Ally DeLange • Creative Moments Kiah Trainor • The Modern Gravity of Technological Addiction Bede Art Gallery: Student Art Book Reviews McKenna Cooley • I Have a Poem the Size of the Moon by Matt Mason • Best of Brevity • So You Want to Publish a Book?

• Craft in the Real World, Rethinking Fiction Writing and Workshopping Kassondra Gooley • Words Like Honey: Reviewing Murmur of the Bees Al Tennant • Happiness - A TED Talk Reflection Contributors

5

To Hold from a Distance

by Jessica Warnke You never were a kind man.

Kind is too strong a word, Too willing to bend over backward, Like waves of grass, Each blade moving in sync with others beside it.

No, you grew up sturdy, With feet digging into the soil like roots, Like a tree never moving.

And you let softness die with age, Your bark becoming hard and thick, As we both grew older, You let go of moments, Like branches to leaves in autumn.

I missed those whiskered bedtime kisses, The whisper, “Night-night, sweet dreams,” The first time you never came, I yelled for you for what seemed like hours, And cried myself to sleep.

There’s something unnatural about you.

The way you hold yourself so far away, Touch becoming something so rare, 6

Winner of the 2021 Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry

The distance grew between us, Without any actual movement.

And you like it that way.

My arms reach out for an embrace, Because yours don’t.

I don’t know why yours Stay planted by your sides, Because all other trees I know Let their branches sway in the breeze.

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White World

by Oakley Jandreau

Winner of the 2021 Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction

My Dad, Fay Jandreau Jr. grew up on the Lower Brule Indian Reservation in central South Dakota. He lived with many members of his extended family, which is not uncommon in the native culture; blood or not, all are welcomed. My Dad’s cousins lived with them for a couple years meaning his bed was the couch and his brother’s was the floor. When my dad was a young boy, his Great Grandma also lived with them, in their two-bedroom house. Being born in 1883, she carried with her a presence that controlled the room. You could say, the Lakota culture was wide and deep in my dad’s childhood home. The Lakota language and traditions were commonplace. Yet my Grandpa, who she raised as a son, realized that he wanted his boys to be set up for success and to do so he would need to show them more of the ‘white world’. This started with my Dad’s brother Marty. He transferred as a young boy from Lower Brule School to Lyman School; it was more of a traditional white school experience.

The next thing Grandpa changed in their lives was the speaking of Lakota in the house. It was discouraged and would not be done anymore, a challenge for my Great-Great-Grandma to say the least.

My uncle once asked my Grandpa, “Dad are we cowboys, or are we Indians?” he then replied with, “I am Indian through and through, but I am also a realist and being a cowboy is my living.”

Ever since those times, he and my Dad have had the mindset of embracing their culture and having a great appreciation for it, but also realizing that to be truly successful and provide for their family, they needed to join the ‘white world.’ “It’s just economics”, my dad says; “the opportunities just weren’t there and your Grandpa knew it.”

My Dad continued to go to the Lyman school all throughout high school and then eventually graduated. You could say my Dad wasn’t the most studious kid, he wasn’t overly dedicated to his studies as he had other things to worry about. He was focused on ranching, living his life to the absolute fullest and helping take care of his family. One thing that automatically comes with being Native is that you give; you are always giving, no matter your age or wealth.

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Marty is my Dad’s only brother, eight years older than him and very dedicated to rodeo and riding broncs. His dream was to make it to the National Finals Rodeo. That was his main priority and for those who know, that is not an easy goal. Only the top 15 in the world make it to the NFR. One year, early in my uncle’s career he was struggling. My uncle was broke and didn’t have the money to pre-enter the upcoming rodeos.

Without the money to pay those entry fees, his year and most likely his career was over. My Dad, at twelve years old realized this and took the money from selling his cattle early that year to give to his brother. All of my Dad’s savings went to his brother. Natives are giving people, no matter what situation. They always want to give to others. Oh, and if you are wondering, Marty made it to the NFR in 1985.

In the Native world, money does not matter like it does in the white world. That is one thing everyone could learn from this culture. Money is not a trophy; it is just a tool. There is no “Keeping up with the Jones’” on reservations. You don’t worry about the materialistic things in life you just enjoy the ride.

After graduating from high school my dad decided to attend college, something that isn’t a common for a lot of Indians. But he went, he struggled at first; but eventually he realized he needed to start creating his own life. His own identity. He went to college at BHSU, DSU, and then back into the workforce for a year and a half. After that, he attended MTI for the rest of his schooling. He continued to get an education in telecommunications, leading him to be one of the first five to get an associate degree from MTI. Armed with an education, he started from the bottom and worked his way up. Growing successful and respected in the work force, he was awarded the opportunity to give the commencement speech at MTI’s 50th graduation. Something I think he is very proud of.

My dad has created a very prosperous life for himself and for our family in the ‘white world.’ Something that has been very difficult for him and for our family to grasp.

Leaving the reservation may seem so easy to some but it is not. You risk losing your culture when you leave, you risk losing your family and your traditions. You become a bit of a traitor. Don’t get me wrong my native family is proud of my dad and what he has accomplished but it is difficult for them to realize why he left them and created a new life. We are very close with my family; they all live on reservations and we see them constantly and spend much of our time in Lower Brule. Every Sunday is spent at church there and then to the Casino after for lunch. It is difficult though to not be looked at as an ‘apple’ by our Oyate, our family. An apple, red on the outside but white on the inside. Something we have been called and kind of wear with pride.

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My family still carries the native tradition with us, it is something that we are very proud of. At my high school graduation on August 9th, 2020, this carried through. I had my cap beaded, which I did, and the bottom of my graduation gown with ribbons on it as if it was a ribbon skirt. A traditional skirt that our ancestors used to wear to important ceremonies. My cap took hours upon hours to bead with a pink purple and blue pattern that matched the elegant silk ribbons on my gown. I also had the traditional eagle feather hanging on my cap with a medicine wheel.

Something that I will hold very closely to me about this day was before the graduation ceremony even began. My Grandma Jandreau came early to see me and give me my gift. The honorable graduation gift from natives is a star quilt. My sisters both got one from my grandparents and my two cousins on that side of the family did as well. This is a moment that stands out because as we finished lunch my Grandma set a gift bag on the table for me to open. I knew exactly what it was. As I opened it, she began to cry, as did my entire family. We didn’t cry because the blanket was so breathtakingly beautiful, although it was. We cried because this was the first star quilt that my Grandpa had not been alive to give to his grandchild. We knew he was watching me open it with a smile on his face; if only he could have been there to hold it up with us. The colors the same as his burial star quilt letting him be with me on the day of my graduation, guiding me into the new journey I would soon be taking.

My Grandpa died on October 30, 2018, a very hard day for my family and me. He was strong, he was a leader. He knew how to raise my dad on a reservation to be successful yet never left his culture. Lakota culture is something that can sometimes be very hard for people to grasp. When someone passes away in the culture you have a very traditional ceremony and burial. His burial is something I will never forget. You see, in our culture you go to the cemetery and you say your goodbyes, yet your final goodbye is always the hardest physically and emotionally. You do not ever leave someone who is being buried above the ground. You bring dirt in and bury them yourselves. My Dad made sure to tell all of my family to wait to start the burial until my uncle began the process with my Dad finishing. My sisters and I helped throw dirt, the hardest thing that I have ever had to do and experience. So, on and on our lives go one foot in the white world and one foot firmly planted onto the reservation soil.

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Ice Legacies

by Noah Cagle

Winner of the 2021 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Prose

When people think of Minnesota the first thing they think of is the cold winters. I get “How could you possibly live in a place that gets so cold?” I always reply with the same thing, “We just get used to it.” But that is not the full answer, we never give them the full answer because they never fully understand.

Growing up in Northern Minnesota, the outdoors is everything to us.

Summers are filled with fishing trips and bonfires on the lake as we listen to the frogs and crickets sing. As the leaves change from the green, they have worn all summer, to the orange, yellow, and red that set the northland ablaze with color the lake days and bonfires quickly turn into duck blinds and deer stands. The blaze of color quickly gives way to the cold November winds and flurries of snow and ice. We are taught from a young age not to fear mother nature, but respect her. The trouble starts when you believe that nothing can take you out. The ice and snow show no mercy to anyone. But where the elements are the least forgiving, is where we forge our legacies.

Hockey is by far the most popular sport in Minnesota. Minnesota is the land of 10,000 lakes and every single one of those lakes serves as a hockey rink. Drive through any Minnesota town on a Friday night in December and it is almost guaranteed that you will see people of all ages out on the ice. It is much more than just a game for us. Even if you do not play, it influences our state and our way of life. One of my favorite things is skating with the boys on a crisp Friday night in December. A colorful hodgepodge of any jerseys that we could get our hands on from the Minnesota Gophers to the Mighty Ducks. NHL hall of famers to local legends who won the Stanley Cup to members of the 1980 Miracle on Ice team. For a moment we forget that we are just kids in small towns of Minnesota.

We entertain a fantasy of our childhood to try to conserve what youth we have left. The game’s in our blood and our blood’s in the game. The loud ping of a puck striking the iron post rings like a bell on brisk winter nights.

The crack of a slapshot is quickly followed by cheers of your teammates as you retreat to your side of the ice. Your breath hangs in the air as if being 11

dangled by some unseen string from the heavens. You all skate back up to the warming shack to steal and beg for whatever snacks and water was brought that night.

Ten minutes later you are all back on the ice. The small-town tradition of picking teams is forever alive. The sounds of sticks being thrown to one side or another as your blindfolded teammate is crawling on the ice to try to find the last stick in the pile to throw to one side. As we skate to our respective sides, longtime friends and teammates become the opposition.

The sweat and blood is spattered on the ice and snow, like a Jackson Pollock painting. We battle for nothing more than bragging rights that will last for less than a day.

But it does not matter, we play with the same passion and aggression as if we were playing the Soviets in the 1980 Olympics. The sweat on our backs evaporates and rises creating a dream like fog over our heads.

The old wooden boards that surround the rink flex, and creak like an old floor in a house far past its prime, as two bodies collide in the corner. As darkness falls like a blanket, the lights of the rink and gleam of our skates become the only light around. Like a lighthouse in the distance calling ships home after a long and tough trip to sea. Snow begins to fall on us like a snow globe that a child shakes on Christmas morning.

The puck sails around the rink. Each move is calculated and exact as if the puck and players are both involved in a precise dance. The sound of players colliding on open ice is followed by cheers on both sides. Getting hit is part of the game and we accept it. Our bodies become bloody and bruised as we play into the night. No pads mean no protection from anything. Faces are cut and bruised from high sticks. Our legs are covered in goose eggs from shots we got a little too close to. Our wrists and arms are ten different shades of black and blue from slashes across the hands. The cold numbs the pain away better than any drug could. There are nights where we do not stop playing till one or two in the morning.

Microwaved leftovers and late-night pizza outings become the norm for us. Our skates sculpt the ice with every leap and time freezes as our adrenaline pumps.

We are sent home by the sudden darkness of the lights going out. As we unlace our skates, we talk about anything and everything. From the events that just happened on the ice minutes before, to stories about what the old timers like to say was, “The Golden Age of Hockey.” The age of Lemieux, Orr and Gretkzy. The North Stars and the Nordiques. Back when the Broad Street Bullies ran the town day in and day out. And like them, it is one for all and all for one on our ice. We do not drop the gloves often but when we do everybody better get out of the way because it is going to be a full out brawl. You may get a few shots in on us, but we can guarantee that you are going to be in a lot worse shape than us.

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The old timers sit on the back of pickup trucks and in lawn chairs on the snowbanks, drinking beer as cold as the rink ice. It is truly a hockey town with a drinking problem with the respect for the ones who came before us. The championship banners hang high not only in the rafters of the barn, but also over the town. We take pride in the fact that we know we are a special breed of people in this country. That we are the lucky ones because we get to do what we love day in and day out. We get to be apart of a culture that no one else gets to truly experience like we do. We forge our legacies in the snow and ice. And like the water it is made from, it may melt, but it never truly leaves us. And when we do finally hang up the skates and place the old stick in the corner, all we leave behind us is a legacy forged in blood, sweat, and tears that is stamped in the ice we made it on.

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Mother Jerome Schmitt Presidential Scholarship Dinner Speech

by Stephanie Faulhaber Hello, my name is Stephanie Faulhaber and I am the 2020 Mother Jerome Schmitt Scholarship recipient, which means I have the honor of gracing you all with a speech here tonight. First off, I would like to tell you a little bit about who Mother Jerome Schmitt was and who she is to me. When applying for the Mother Jerome Scholarship, I wanted to know who Mother Jerome really was as a person, so, I did as a normal nursing student has been trained to do and did some evidence-based research.

I went to an expert, Sister Rosemarie Maly, who is a member of the Sacred Heart Monastery and the Assistant Director of the Catholic Leadership program here on campus. She presented me with a book about the life of Mother Jerome Schmitt. In this book, I learned that Mother Jerome Schmitt was the youngest prioress the Sacred Heart Monastery has ever had. I read about all of her accomplishments with the monastery. One which included finishing the beloved Bishop Martin Marty chapel, in the middle of the Great Depression. Mother Jerome Schmitt was a pioneer and a leader. She was compassionate and dedicated to her work, and amidst the impossible she helped to create something awe strikingly wonderful.

As I reflected on these qualities of Mother Jerome, I saw her in myself. I am very compassionate about nursing and caring for others. I love to lead people and teach them new perspectives. I and the rest of the students here at Mount Marty University are receiving our education amidst the impossible and difficult time of COVID-19. During this time of COVID-19, I’ve adapted my education style, I’ve lost someone I loved dearly, and I’ve trained harder than I ever have for the sport I love, track. I want to believe that all of this will contribute to the kind of nurse I am becoming, and will turn into an awe strikingly wonderful diploma when I walk across that stage in May, but what comes after?

This is the part of my speech where I give advice to the lower classmen on how to survive the next how many years you have in school, but I don’t want to leave everyone else out that are joining us this evening.

Alumni, when is the last time someone motivated you or gave you advice, especially someone that was younger than you are? You see here at Mount 14

Marty, as many of you know or remember, we are life-long learners. My advice and lesson to you all is that we are all like a bunch of rocks. Now, just hear me out.

A rock is created when it breaks off of its original foundation much like we are created when we are born and separated from our mothers.

When that rock first breaks off it is jagged and rough, but over time when water hits the rock, it starts to become a little bit smoother. In life, we are constantly faced with situations that make us become smoother. Whether it be starting a new job, learning from a mistake, dealing with the loss of a loved one, COVID-19, or any other difficult situation. It always seems to hit us, hard. After the hit though, we have a chance to recoup or adapt before the next wave hits us. That is what life is and what we have to look forward to, adaptation. Life after college is not about who is the most talented or who had the best grades, it’s about who is willing to become the most adaptable. Who handles and adapts to getting hit by the waves the best?

I refuse to accept that I will ever be done learning. I work on the Intensive Care Unit at Avera McKennan in Sioux Falls, South Dakota as a Patient Care Technician. During my time there, I have seen nurses who have worked in their field for years who have become burned out, and now just get through their day going through the motions. My question to you alumni is have you? Are you comfortable where you are at? You do your job to an adequate level and you live the same life day in and day out. When do you wake up and remember the reason why you chose your profession in the first place? Do you remember being so excited to graduate and start your future? All the big things you were going to do? Well there is still time for you to do them.

Look at each day as an opportunity to do something great. Learn from someone else. Seek out new learning opportunities you are interested in.

Learn to become adaptable. Mount Marty has taught me to live every day learning from the community around me. It has brought to my realization that I don’t just want to teach the generation after me, but I have a desire to inspire those who go before me. We all need new light and hope in our life, especially during times like these. Mount Marty has given all of us the ability to do that for others, so, let’s do it. There needs to be more people like Mother Jerome Schmitt in this world, who face the impossible, and come out inspiring others and creating something great. You are all something awe-strikingly wonderful and have the ability to inspire so many in this world. Don’t be afraid to take that wave head on and become just a little bit smoother. Thank you.

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Spirit of Benedict Award

by Jeff Wanner Throughout my four years at Mount Marty, I have been able to see those around me, the campus, and myself, grow. The great thing about all of this is that it has all come from God Himself. God has blessed me with my education, my relationships, my experiences, and my time at Mount Marty.

I can more easily recognize where God is working in my life because of my Benedictine education. I was taught early on at Mount Marty that we need to take the time to observe and reflect. This has enabled me to have the ability to understand more clearly where I am being called.

The Ten Benedictine Hallmarks (love, prayer, stability, conversation, obedience, discipline, humility, stewardship, hospitality, and community) help students to discern that calling. Personally, the Benedictine Hallmark which has had the greatest impact on my life, as a student, is prayer.

The Impact of Prayer Prayer has had the greatest impact on my life as a student because it has deepened my relationship with Christ. Through time spent in prayer and liturgy, I have been able to recognize where God is calling me in life.

I am also more aware of when I fall away from the path He has set for me. Whether it be through an essay for class, the patients I work with in clinical, or the way I interact with friends, every part of my life is guided by God. Spending time in prayer allows God to clearly reach out to me and gives me the strength to follow Him. Additionally, prayer has gotten me through my most difficult times at Mount Marty. There were many days where I felt like such a huge load was bearing down on me, however, when I sat in the chapel, everything seemed to fade away. The more I spent time with God in the chapel the easier it became to stay longer, and the easier it became to make it through each day. Because of my faithfulness to prayer, I was able to be more productive in my studies, have a better attitude around others, and be a better example.

Since I began my education at Mount Marty, over three years ago, I cannot imagine what my life would look like now without having prayer as a part of my daily life. Mount Marty has taught me each of the Ten 16

Benedictine Hallmarks, but I can say the Benedictine Hallmark of Prayer has changed the way I see the world; what I think about day to day; and the actions I take in life.

The Benedictine Hallmarks After Graduation After graduation, in only a short couple of months, I know for a fact, I will continue to live my life seeking to exemplify the Benedictine Hallmarks. The Hallmarks are not just something to study and then be done with, they are tools — very useful and efficient tools. The Hallmarks will help me to be a disciple of Christ in my personal and professional life. Although I know I will integrate all ten of the Hallmarks, I want to emphasize three: stability, discipline, and humility.

Stability is described as a commitment to engaging with others. As noted in the excerpt, Education within the Benedictine Wisdom Tradition, “Stability is the sharing of our talents and abilities so that together we grow, rather than individually.” Looking at my academic career at Mount Marty I have been able to see where I have grown in stability. At the beginning of my freshman year, I simply wanted to learn for myself, achieve my degree, and move on to the next step of my life. However, over time, I have learned what truly brings me joy — helping those around me to learn and to grow. I enjoy helping my classmates, teammates, and friends, whether that is in understanding cardiac rhythms in nursing class, the beliefs of the Catholic Church, or how a relationship with God can impact our lives.

In my career as a nurse, I know I will continue pursuing the Hallmark of Stability in order to cultivate strong relationships with my coworkers. I will place importance on pursuing a shared understanding above my own individual ends. In doing this, I believe I can create a working environment that will encourage the development of those around me.

The second Benedictine Hallmark I would like to discuss is Discipline.

Discipline means to direct your life towards what matters. Prayer, work, and relationships -- these are some of the areas described in a monastic way of life that take upmost importance. Practicing discipline is a goal of a Benedictine Education, a goal which (ideally) all people strive for throughout life. I know Mount Marty has helped me to develop in this practice. To truly desire God, desire His way of life, requires discipline.

Therefore, discipline is one of the ten Hallmarks which I know I will focus on after graduation. I understand how much practicing discipline asks of me, but I clearly see the abundant rewards which are reaped from doing so.

Lastly, humility is the third Hallmark which I want to emphasize.

Humility is the recognition that each of our own gifts, and those of others, are gifts given to us by God. We must use them for the benefit of others, 17

not just ourselves. I want to help others to grow, which in turn helps me to grow, rather than always seeking to compete against those around me.

My Future After Mount Marty Finally, I want to conclude by saying that without the Benedictine Hallmarks I would not know God the way I do. Through prayer I have gained a stronger relationship with God, one which I desire to continue building. Furthermore, prayer has given me a greater awareness of God’s plan for me. The Benedictine Hallmarks have shown me the way to organize my life in accordance with God. The relationship I have with Christ today has a significant impact on my life and I cannot imagine where I would be had I attended another university without an emphasis on St. Benedict’s teachings. As I go forward after graduation this May, I will strive to incorporate the Ten Benedictine Hallmarks of Education into my personal and professional life by allowing these teachings to help me be the best disciple of Christ I can be.

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Growing up with Guns

by Betsy Crumly I have been around guns as long as I can remember. Even before we had the farm, when my dad had grown up, guns were a part of his life. As a result, my brothers and I grew up with them too; we all knew how to hunt by the age of six. When you climb in the pickup, it is common practice to have to safely move the rifle that resides there in order to sit down. There is a safe in my house with more ammunition, pistols, shotguns, and rifles than I can count. I received a pink BB gun for my seventh birthday, I shot at blue-rocks from an age where the gun was bigger than I was, and I’ve hunted deer since I was old enough to have a permit (and before then, rode along with my dad as he searched for the perfect buck to hang on the wall). Now, having the farm, firearms are a necessity to keep the coons out of the silos. Keep the foxes out of the bird pen. Keep the coyotes away from the calves. Guns are normal to my lifestyle. When I think of guns, I don’t immediately think danger or violence; I think ordinary, I think necessity.

That is not to say that I am ignorant to the threat that they pose.

I absolutely, one hundred percent, without a doubt, understand the opposing narrative. The danger, the murder, the mass shootings - they sicken me. It breaks my heart to know that, according to The New York Times, there have been “147 mass shootings [in 2021 alone] as of April 16” (Victor and Taylor). I’m not blind to it; I can see guns in this light too; it’s just not my first instinct. This is not the connotation that I was raised with. I was taught gun safety and necessity. When I look at a gun that is used to protect my family and preserve our livelihood, I never even consider it as the same, sinister weapon that people use to end that of others.

Works Cited Victor, Daniel, and Derrick Bryson Taylor. “A Partial List of Mass Shootings in the United States in 2021.” The New York Times, The New York Times. 16 Apr. 2021. Accessed 19 April 19 2021.

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A Letter to MMU Students

by John Sibley Williams Dear Friends, Thank you deeply and sincerely for your insightful letters! I am impressed by your curiosity, reflection, and desire to forge personal connections and in-depth conversations with my poems, and I am honored and humbled that you read (and perhaps even enjoyed) my books.

Poetry is foreign to many of you, as it was to me when I entered college.

At first, I couldn’t quite connect with poetry, perhaps due to my high school’s focus on canonical poets such as Shakespeare, as well as formal structures such as haiku and sonnet. Instead, we all need to experience verse that speaks to our unique sense of self, our struggles, our loves and fears before we can really appreciate the emotional complexities of poetry.

And poetry is still often viewed as the pursuit of educated, privileged people in collegiate ivory towers. But I promise you, friends, this is not the case. And your responses helped prove it!

There’s emotional accessibility in poetry once you stop asking what it all means and start allowing it to sink in on a more intuitive level. Sometimes only individual lines speak to you. Sometimes only a single image. And that is a reason to celebrate, not wonder why the rest didn’t resonate.

I was touched by how certain themes in “Advice Picked Up Along the Way”, “Star Count”, “Killing Lesson”, and other poems spoke directly to your own struggles, regrets, traumas, and attempts to heal. We all share our ghosts. We suffer together. We are kept up at night for the same reasons. And so many of you forged very intimate connections with my own experiences. That you picked up a book written in a form you’re unfamiliar with, dove deep into its themes, and discovered new ways of perceiving yourselves is inspiring.

I would love for my work to be one of those touchstones that motivates you to read more poetry. And perhaps even more important than reading it, to put pen to paper and paint your struggles, uncertainties, and loves in verse.

There’s a reason “keep writing, keep reading” has become clichéd 20

advice; it’s absolutely true. You need to study as many books as possible from authors of various genres and from various cultures. Listen to their voices. Watch how they manipulate and celebrate language. Delve deep into their themes and structures and take notes on the stylistic and linguistic tools they employ. And never, ever stop writing. Write every free moment you have. Bring a notebook and pen everywhere you go (and I mean everywhere). It’s okay if you’re only taking notes. Notes are critical.

And it’s okay if your first poems aren’t all that great. It took me years to write even semi-decent poetry! Remember, you have a lifetime to grow as a writer.

But don’t take my word for it. Here is a short piece from renowned poet Sean Thomas Dougherty that says more than I ever could.

Why Bother?

Because right now there is someone Out there with a wound in the exact shape of your words.

Let’s write together, my new friends. The world needs your voices. Let’s make sure the world hears us.

With eternal gratitude and love, John Sibley Williams

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Structural Racism Influences Racism Today in America

by A’shinee George Throughout American history, freedom and opportunity have been the hallmark of our country. America prides itself on being the “United States”, when in fact America has never been united. America has failed to live up to this image that it portrays so effortlessly. As defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, racism is a belief that a race is a fundamental determinant of human traits and capacities, that produce an inherent superiority of a particular race. In other words, racism is the act of discrimination or prejudice towards someone of a different race including the idea or belief that one race is superior to the other. It is very discouraging and frustrating for me to see that racism is not just something we hear or read about in books or in history class; it’s reality.

It is extremely difficult when I come from the two most diverse racial groups in America. Being half Native American and African American is strenuous in so many ways. It becomes exhausting having to tolerate ignorance from both sides. Thankfully, I have yet to be in a situation directly affected by the ignorance of some people. That does not dismiss the fact that it does not affect me when I see people like me, of color, treated inhumanly. It also does not dismiss the notion that I go out into the public without any hesitation or fear that I might be the next discriminated against. As a society we need to be reminded that we are all human, regardless of the color of our skin, religion, gender, political affiliation, or sexual orientation. We need to stop with the judgement and prejudice thoughts. As it is stated in the Pledge of Allegiance, “We are one nation, under God.” Racism can be exhibited through beliefs, politics, attitudes, and actions.

It can result from the actions of individuals or institutions and can reveal itself in ways that are both intentional and unintentional. Today, minorities experience racism in forms of hate crimes, discrimination, scapegoating, and harassment. However, the concern is that racism is still apparent today and seems to only be getting worse. Along with the concern that America will always remain divided and the generations to follow will have to endure this sort of suffering. Racial oppression will continue to outlive our own lives and we all may not live to see the day that the “land 22

of the free” will be peaceful, and equality will prevail. This could be a result of structural racism. According to Cambridge-English Dictionary, structural racism can be defined as “laws, rules, or policies in a society that result in and support a continued unfair advantage to some people and unfair or harmful treatment of others based on race”. This relates to America’s multifaceted historical and cultural background involving the great leaders and their way of thought about people of color. Evidently it is the fundamental problem of American democracy. In addition, there is a concern that systemic racism also plays a role as well, particularly within the criminal justice system.

People of color struggle the most with harassment in all types of settings. For many decades African Americans have dealt with racism dating back to the era of slavery, the civil rights movements, now to the killing of George Floyd that initiated worldwide protests behind the #BlackLivesMatter Movement calling for justice and an end to systemic racism. In recent years, the nation has seen countless unarmed black men, women, and children killed at the hands of white officers and white men. Systemic racism plays a role in many of these cases, whereas the police officers or personnel involved receive little or no punishment for their role in murderous crimes. Throughout history and even now our white political leaders, have embedded this belief that their race is superior to all races and for some reason people of color owe something to them. This is also an issue because a lot of times, those who are involved in the case whether it be the person who pulled the trigger or the person who has the power to create justice, cannot have integrity and acknowledge the truth.

In the 1940s, Japanese Americans and Asian Americans, were scapegoated following the unfortunate events of the Pearl Harbor Attack and now Asian-Americans are facing the same type of harassment concerning the outbreak of Covid-19. Since the outbreak of the pandemic, people of Asian backgrounds have been targets of; hate crimes, derogatory terms immensely used in the media and by “trusted” political affiliates, and so many other people. Asian-owned businesses have been ransacked, vandalized, robbed, and in some cases Asian-owners or descendants have been killed, yet again, at the hands of a white person. For example, March 16th, a white man went on a mass shooting spree to three different Asianowned massage parlors and spas killing 6 of 8 victims that were of Asian descent in Atlanta, Georgia, sparking the #stopasianhate movement, that has been shared and used worldwide.

The assimilation and cultural deprivation of Native Americans in the 19th and 20th centuries has generated acts of racial discrimination and hate to all ages today. In 2016, there were reports of Native Americans living in the Dakotas that experienced harassment and were victims as 23

they protested peacefully to end the construction that would destroy parts of their reservation to the Dakota Access Pipeline. Following instances likes this, Native Americans fall victim to verbal harassment and repression. For example, a journalist reported about a man who was chaperoning Native students to see a Rapid City Rush ice hockey game in South Dakota. It was alleged that while enjoying the game, two of his students were approached by a white man who had poured beer on them and called them racial slurs (Goodluck). In addition, a survey completed in 2017, states that: In the context of individual forms of discrimination, more than onethird of Native Americans say they have personally experienced racial or ethnic slurs (35%) and people making insensitive or offensive comments about their race or ethnicity (39%). Similarly, more than one-third of Native Americans report they or a family member have experienced violence (38%) or threats or non-sexual harassment (34%) because they are Native American. Nearly a quarter (23%) report that they or a family member have experienced sexual harassment. (NPR, et al.)

Muslims and Muslim Americans also experience acts of harassment and scapegoating following the events such as the terrorist attacks of 9/11 or the mass shooting in San Bernardino back in 2015. Nonetheless, the innocent people that are of Muslim descent, who are only trying to make a living, are those who receive the backlash from the events that they are not responsible for. In March 2021, a cell phone video captured a young Muslim girl being physically assaulted in a school cafeteria by another girl who was white. The White girl repeatedly hit the Muslim girl knocking off her hijab, which is a head covering worn in public by Muslim women.

All the while, school officials and teachers ignored this act until a Black girl stepped in to defend her fellow Muslim classmate. It is at that point when the teachers finally stepped in to stop this incident because those two ended up getting in a physical altercation. This is highly unacceptable.

These girls seemed to be in middle school, but that is what the world has come to. That is why many people are bringing awareness to the reality that people of color endure. Young people are being taught that hatred and violence is the solution.

Lastly, people of Hispanic and Latino origin have also been discriminated against. In a journal article it states that “four-in-ten Latinos say they have experienced discrimination in the past year, such as being criticized for speaking Spanish or being told to go back to their home country. These experiences are more likely among those who say others see them as Latino, black or another non-white group than among Latinos who say others see them as white. At the same time, just as many Latinos say someone in the past year had expressed support for them because 24

they are Latino.” (Hugo-Lopez, et al). There has been a spike in cases of this partly due to the racial and derogatory comments made by the former president Donald Trump since being elected to office and times before that.

This sparks a lot of frustration within a lot of minorities including me due to the reason that there is such a lack of representation and responsibility by those who assured they would create safe and prejudice free atmospheres. Being half Black and Native American evokes a lot of fear in me just as it does with everyone else. Fear of going out, doing normal activities, and not coming home safely. Black men cannot hold cell phones in their hands or a cigarette without police officers mistaking it as a gun. Muslims cannot practice their beliefs without being harassed. Asian Americans cannot make a living for themselves without being discriminated against. The same for the Latino and Hispanics in our country, who come here to escape the harsh realities back home.

Americans who fear people of color, and white supremacists need to take a step back before they claim America as the “great nation” and “land of freedom and opportunity” when it is not. Political leaders and the criminal justice system must take the necessary actions to eliminate these sort of acts. They must stop ignoring that fact that these acts are unjust and are criminal acts and stop encouraging them. If not, racial oppression and the divide in America will continue.

As seen throughout this paper, those individuals who were in key positions, dating all back to the founding of this country, have made it acceptable to degrade and belittle people of color. We can no longer allow this to be. We need to continue to teach and spread acceptance, love, and positivity. We must be reminded that not all white people are “racists”, not all Muslims are “terrorists”, not all black people are “thugs”, not all Asian people are “diseases”, and not all Native Americans are “low-life’s”. We need to stop relying on and using these labels that society uses. Two great quotes that have resonated with me for a long time by the inspirational, courageous heroes Nelson Mandela, who was the first black president of South Africa, “No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.” and “It is not our diversity which divides us; it is not our ethnicity, or religion or culture that divides us. Since we have achieved our freedom, there can only be one division amongst us: between those who cherish democracy and those who do not.”

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We should use words such as these to remind us that we must put a stop to racism and hatred once and for all. Let words like this be the hallmark and start of a new nation. To do that we must all acknowledge that white supremacy and racial discrimination exist. Predominantly, political leaders and officials that are in higher positions need to come to a consensus that this is a problem. They need to educate themselves about the reality of the world they serve, that they are creating for the people of this country. The youth need to be educated about loving and kindness rather than hatred and violence. And, if we witness something, we need to speak up, before it becomes too late. And, for those of us who are educated and aware, we must continue to fight, speak up and stand out. We must continue to educate and spread awareness; our voices will be heard. Let us not be intimidated by those who are stuck in their default setting. Lastly, I think laws that are racist and discriminatory should be abolished. We all need to stop letting our history define who we are and what we do today. We all need to protect ourselves and others from structural racism.

Works Cited Cambridge-English Dictionary. “Structural Racism.” STRUCTURAL RACISM | Definition in the Cambridge English Dictionary, dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/structural-racism.

Findling, Mary G., et al. “Discrimination in the United States: Experiences of Native Americans.” Wiley Online Library, John Wiley & Sons, Ltd, 27 Oct. 2019, onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/1475-6773.13224.

Goodluck, Kalen. “Native American Athletes and Fans Face Ongoing Racism.” High Country News - Know the West, 10 Apr. 2019, www.hcn.org/issues/51.7/tribal-affairs-native-american-athletesand-fans-face-ongoing-racism.

Hugo-Lopez, Mark, et al. “Latinos’ Experiences with Discrimination.”

Pew Research Center’s Hispanic Trends Project, Pew Research Center, 27 Aug. 2020, www.pewresearch.org/hispanic/2018/10/25/ latinos-and-discrimination/.

Mandela, Nelson. “15 Nelson Mandela Quotes.” Encyclopedia Britannica, Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc., www.britannica.com/ list/nelson-mandela-quotes.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary. “Racism.” Merriam-Webster, MerriamWebster, www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/racism.

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National Public Radio, et al. “Dicrimination in America: Experience and Views of Native Americans.” Legacy.npr.org, Nov. 2017, legacy.npr.org/documents/2017/nov/NPR-discrimination-nativeamericans-final.pdf Paybarah, Azi, and Maria Cramer. “First Atlanta, Then Boulder: Two Mass Shootings in a Week.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 23 Mar. 2021, www.nytimes.com/2021/03/22/us/atlantaboulder-mass-shootings.html?auth=linked-google.

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Sweet Nothings

by Kassondra Gooley Mom once spoke of sweet nothings and how I’d want them someday.

But truth be told, I don’t.

I don’t want sweet nothings.

I want sweet somethings.

If a man speaks sweetly, may he also speak true.

I don’t want a love to be remembered by faraway people from faraway places.

No, I want love brought to a boil by reuniting at the door.

Hearts: beating molecules; faster, closer.

Love’s boiling point.

I want silence that speaks louder than voices ever could.

I long for a union of souls: fabric of His breath, sewn by His spirit.

Love, self-sacrificing will.

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So no, please don’t give me sweet nothings.

Must you love me, love me true.

Must you hold me, do so gently, slowly.

And must you speak, with heart and mind whisper something sweet.

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Droplet of an Ocean

by Kassondra Gooley Have you ever felt the weight of the world drop on your shoulders?

Cancer, Corona, anemia, anxiety, depression, insomnia, marital issues, heart break, PTSD, abuse, love, loneliness, and all the things we try to hide? Have you ever been the one who people go to in crisis because they know you pray? I mean really pray, not just say that you do. The weight of the world grinds me against the asphalt until I am dust carried by wind on the road to heaven. (At least, that’s where I hope I have been running to.) I pray almost constantly, and yet I feel as though I haven’t done enough; and the more I pray the more the need pops up. I love Godtuition: knowing someone needs prayers before they tell you. Sometimes even knowing why. It is my greatest gift. I treasure being a silent beacon for those looking for a miracle worker. I’m no miracle worker, but I know one. If you’ve got a request, I’ll send it. After that it’s out of my hands. All I can do is love you and offer it up. I live for those moments. I live for reading my bible and hearing God speak, praying over a friend in anguish, for being Christ’s hands and feet. I fail; I fail all the time. I can be mean. I can be cruel. I can let anxiety get the best of me and I can be too sensitive. I am human, created in the divine’s image, but not divine myself. He does the great deed; I am just the tool.

Lately, I’ve just been overwhelmed. My heart bursts with pain and my mind with thoughts of people, some of whom I barely know, all coming to me bearing disheartening tidings. I know no other way to help than to stop and just love them. I know no other way to love than serve and pray. Their petitions, their pain, and my unworthiness chip at me like a jackhammer: constant and with blunt force. My soul twists and turns in anguish, only resting when I give up these things in prayer. My sin drags me to the bottom of the ocean like cinder blocks chained to my ankles.

Dauntless, bold to speak to God expecting He cares. How gutsy to assume this role. You are unclean. You are unworthy. And yet, I know in my heart this is where He wants me right now. Holding rosaries, listening to the disheartened, furiously studying, hosting live streamed masses, and praying constantly.

I long for Eucharist, but there is none-- no spiritual sustenance. I miss visiting my beloved, dressing up and praying in His house with our family.

I miss feeling His presence as I partake His sacrifice more than two thousand years later. Seeing a church, a steeple, a sign for a church my heart leaps forlornly because it longs to enter and knows it cannot. I long to feel His arms as I collapse in front of the tabernacle, recounting each doubt, fear, frustration, joy, and tear. I long to strain to pay attention as the 30

priest homilizes and the kiddos tug at my arm, my neck, my head desperately attempting to get my attention. I want to go home, but I’m torn because there’s no one place I call home. I long to be with those I love and those who love me. My heart is spread across continents, broken by borders. Kazakhstan, Omaha, Arizona, Colorado, Hartford, Mitchell, Yankton, and church. Marty Chapel, Mount Marty: home.

I desire to see God’s people, my family. It sounds weird coming from an introvert, but I’ve realized the Christian life cannot be quarantined.

I’ve known for a while it’s corporate, integrated, and public but it’s taken countless hours, numerous books, and too much writing and thinking to begin to fathom just how communal the faith is-- just how communal love is.

Love and Catholicism are the foundation of community. They welcome the unwelcome and value them at an unprecedented price. They share unconditionally and forgive unconditionally. They are not naïve. To love and forgive is not to agree with and validate every choice. To forgive and to love does not mean to live unguarded and without caution. Rather, to live in forgiveness and love is to enact just, merciful charity (love because God loves). To do this is a constant act of the will. These values must guide my decisions and the way I choose to live. Hence, I become a drop in the ocean of God. While I am my own droplet, my identity can never be fully separate from the ocean to which I belong. The only way to escape the fatal force of this tide is to allow it to flow, trusting and holding fast to God through each moment of waxing and waning.

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Untouchable Shelf Dreams

by Kassondra Gooley Ever since I was a young girl, I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to hear typewriter keys make that plastic thundering as I put a new letter on the page. I relished the feeling of the pencil in my hand, the wood splintering off. I admired the way a pen can glide so gracefully across the paper.

Pen can only be perverted by those who use it; smearing it as we drag it through the mud. As I grew older, however, my dreams became trophies on a shelf that I would never earn. Most of them became hobbies, lofty ideas, and I only chose to pursue the somewhat safe and realistic ones.

For example, when I was a girl I wanted to be a teacher who was also an author and performed on Broadway. Of course, there was a time when I wanted to be a vampire. There was a time when I dreamed of being magical. There was that brief flirtation with marine biology, God be praised I didn’t follow that wild hair because I am proficient at science— proficient only. Writing became another one of the untouchable shelf dreams. For a while I stopped writing because life was too busy and something had to give. I would still be writing papers for classes, so that was something.

When my sophomore year of college hit, my passion for writing got rekindled. I am not sure why; I think maybe it had to do with being overwhelmed by all of the events going on in my life and all of my past that I had to process. Words poured out like water from sprinklers: seemingly random and gushing. There were definitely pieces that were not great, but there were also pieces that weren’t the worst things I had ever read. (I have read some pretty boring stuff. Seriously, read the colonial letters.) I felt better when I wrote, so I kept writing. Second semester I needed to take an English elective for my English major so I took Creative Writing. I know I said writing had become an untouchable shelf dream, so you may be confused by the fact that I am an English major. Well, to clear things up I still loved literature and writing, but I was also passionate about education. Education was a semi-safe dream if you count out paying for college and making it into and through post secondary education; so I chose to be a Secondary English Education double major with a theatre and theology minor. How we got there is another story for another time.

Back to creative writing! When I stepped foot in the door I was the first one there. No instructor was present, but I already knew what he looked like: gray hair, icy blue eyes, and that adult male haircut that says, “I’m still trying to be cool and professional.” The lights were yellow, the tile had little flecks of gray and minuscule dots of teal and maroon. The board had traces of Spongebob characters etched into it from the night before.

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Someone may have tried to erase them, I’m not sure; but if they did they failed miserably. He was hard, not necessarily in a cruel way but more in an arrogant way. I was frustrated, but I knew there had to be more than what I was seeing.

People just don’t act like that for no reason, so I decided to do my best to like him.

He was hard on my compositions, harder than anyone had ever been. There was rarely positive feedback (three times in an entire semester), but I have never been one to shy away from a challenge. Complain, yes, but back down, no. So, I wrote extra. For every no I got he got twenty pages extra to read. If he wouldn’t give me something I could learn from then I would force it out of him by overwhelming him with page after page of amateur writing. One day he said, “I know I am hard on your work. But if I had to bet, I think you could make it. I mean, of all my students of course, you’re one of few who could make it.” That comment stuck with me. That comment made me want to write again. Suddenly, I found myself happily frustrated with each criticism. I wanted to be the best I could and if he was willing to help me get there I would take it. He is a published author, I had only had two poems published my senior year of high school and I guarantee no one has read them. They were published in Scholastic’s Rising Stars 2018 and in some American Legion affiliate’s journal or magazine. But his faith made me realize writing might be more than a never-earned-trophy dream. It could be something, if I really wanted it. I do want it— more than anyone could possibly know. I only hope I have the courage to pursue it.

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These are the People

by Kassondra Gooley Since we first met, life has turned topsy turvy. I no longer run after grandiose goals for the sport of it because I no longer feel completely alone; I no longer feel completely insufficient. Running toward grandiose goals has become an undertaking of passion and an exercise of the will and intellect. Since we’ve met, life has consisted of going to jobs that make us feel like we’re fireworks on the Fourth of July: sometimes the most mesmerizing thing in the sky while at other times burning to death as we are whisked away from the world we know. Life now consists of watching the sky glow pink as it dispels night’s blackness, brewing tea or coffee on rainy Saturday mornings and sunny Mondays, and long drives. We swap our favorite music and books and exchange socks that mold to the shape of your foot and cushion it when you step. We steal away for walks at dusk and talk about our hearts’ best-kept murmurs until early morning hours.

We read books people decades older than us assign without any reason presented and we push through our inability to concentrate in order to memorize information that prepares us to achieve our dreams. No longer afraid of being ostracized for our idiosyncrasies, we develop the capacity to be deeply quirky and strange around each other because we have found it is okay— accepted even.

Now we do stupid things like stay up until five in the morning and set about an important and busy day at eight because life hit the fan. We buy an extra ice cream we can barely afford because we want to be able to share our experiences. One simply does not eat ice cream alone (usually).

We offer a bed or couch in a cinderblock room that is only half our’s because when you love someone you share what you have; even if that’s nothing at all. If one has been hiding from the world, painting and writing and reading and being overcome by their emotions, we slink into their safe haven without alerting them of time passing. We pass the notes of our deepest fears and silent dreams either by sound or on paper. We share our thoughts, words, and hearts until the numbers on the clock catch us unawares. We share our clothes and our cars. We give what we can where we can. We poke fun at each other with inside jokes. A few words can send us into gasping fits of laughter: Batman, cheesecake, full disclosure, emergencies with four broken legs, you know the usual.

Praying where we can, whenever we can, we find ourselves drawn into the fellowship of Christ. We are a fellowship of various backgrounds drawn into one community. Refusing to allow each other to cop out of telling the truth, we process life together by way of multiple hours of conversation and studying late into the night. Distinguishing each person’s 34

unique knock and committing it to memory, memorizing the pattern of their feet striking the hall tiles, we soon know whom to expect at our door before we open it. Pretty soon we are comfortable visiting without invitation and almost always the response is a door that opens to reveal a loving, and perhaps annoyed face. We drop everything to stop someone from walking alone in the dark because God only knows what they will run into. Yes, a small girl who stands at 5’4’’ and weighs maybe 120 pounds makes a college thrower who stands above six feet wait as she bundles herself up and sprints down four flights of stairs to accompany him. As ludicrous as this sounds, she does it because she at least has some common sense and worries about this boy because he didn’t tell anyone until weeks later that while walking the bridge at midnight he almost got shanked. We walk each other home and to our cars so the conversation can bloom fully in the summer of time spent among loved ones and we expect texts when they reach their destination. We are family.

These are the people I met in college. These are the people who helped me through my first break up (and getting back together) and tried in vain to teach me the nuances of digital flirting. (They figured we’d move on to the in-person flirting, but I dropped this course at midterm because it was never one I really cared about and I was already failing.) These are the people with who I let my guard down with. These are the first people I shared my life with: my past, my dreams, my tears, my passions, and my musings. It was with this group that I vented about the things I could not change and developed and executed plans to do something about the things I could change. With these ladies, countless bachelorette parties and weddings were planned. Countless birthday celebrations and preholiday get-togethers were organized. This group taught me about the “emergency” phone call. During a global pandemic, it was this group that called or video chatted even when I was impossible to reach. It is this group that makes the effort and makes my efforts worth it. These are the people I most enjoy stopping my crazy-paced life to listen to.

I don’t know what the future holds for us. I don’t know what God’s plan is and I can’t promise we won’t lose touch. I can’t promise that all of our plans will come to fruition because, if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. But I do know that these will be people I love, cherish, and remember until I am no longer capable of performing these acts. I know that the lessons they taught me and all of the time we spent together have permanently changed me, and I think, for the better.

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Generations

by McKenna Cooley Millennials and Generation Z were raised in a completely different world from previous generations. We grew up as technology has grown by leaps and bounds. We have ready access to the internet every single day, as well as social media, which has almost entirely turned into its own entity in our lives. But with that also comes other issues of terrorism, extreme violence, cyberbullying. We were raised by completely different people than other generations. People who had lived through the Civil Rights era. We were brought up with “Stranger Danger” and “Who’s going to be there?” They were more suspicious than their parents before them, and with good reason. The amount of information and exposure we get now is far different and far more dangerous than the generations before us. But from that has also come the ability for us to know what is right and wrong and make those decisions on our own, which will take the world to greater heights.

Maybe we are shaped by common beliefs from our experiences. A lot of people in my generation are facing the world we are in and wanting social change. Older generations faced the same things, seeing the world they inherited and decided that change was needed. People now are wanting actual equality, not just the idea of it. We want open acceptance, no more falsies. We aren’t happy with what has been happening, the racism, sexism, discrimination, sexual harassment, bullying behavior; it has all gone on for far too long. We don’t like “The status quo.” We’re ready to tear it all down.

We are also facing greater struggles than other generations have faced.

The mental health crisis in this country is insane. I think there are a variety of reasons for this; we are some of the first to be open and honest, we inherited them, the unique factors that our generation experiences, and facing the issues that older generations are giving us. We were raised with so much more pressure placed upon us to be the best people. You have to be involved in multiple activities, including sports, and do well in school when you’re younger, so that you get into a good school, to do more school and sports, so eventually you get a good job and get married and have children. It’s just never ending.

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The people who raised us had the same pressures placed upon them, but they didn’t have healthy ways of dealing with it, so they are passing all of this junk onto us and expecting us to deal with it like they did. I watched a TikTok the other day that I think said it perfectly, “I’m going to therapy because the person that actually needs to go to therapy won’t, and they are ruining my life.” I think that can be true for many of us because we don’t see the opportunities in front of us the same way our parents do. Yes, we do have opportunity, but all that opportunity could be used for bigger and greater things than what our parents originally thought.

We could become advocates, tear down the systems that are oppressing people. We could become actually passionate about saving the planet, since no generation before us had the foresight to do that. Medical innovation has lead to cures to things like the Flu. What would happen if we could eradicate the Flu? What’s the next piece of technology that could change the world? What’s a better way that we could be dealing with the housing and financial crisis that a lot of Americans are going through? Or the poverty differential? What about ending childhood hunger permanently? There is so much that we could do, and we are ready to do it.

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The Mall of America

by McKenna Cooley A small-town Midwesterner, a desert city rat, and a shy East coaster walk into the Mall of America.

The first thing on the agenda is obviously the bathroom for the Midwesterner, after all they had been saying that they had to pee for the last twenty minutes of the ride. This was after the previous two bathroom stops. The others find the Directory as quickly as possible to make it easier to navigate the largest mall in America. It is relatively easy to find, go up the escalator, turn right, go across a walkway, and walk directly toward it.

While the East coaster is shopping for makeup, the Midwesterner notices a Yankee Candle shop, there is no way she can leave without going in. The desert rat finds another Directory. Before they are able to find a store location, a sporty looking man walks up to the desert rat.

“Ma’am! Ma’am! Please can you go into the Nike store and buy me a pair of shoes. I’ll give you the money and pay you to do it, please!”

“Why can’t you go get the shoes?”

“Because they have a one pair per person limit and I already got a pair.”

“Um I’m not sure, I don’t even know what shoes you’re talking about.”

“Just follow this woman in, she knows. Here’s the money to pay for them, and here’s some money for your help. Just follow that woman and get the same shoes she’s getting!”

The man shoves money into the woman’s hands and pushes them toward the door, offering no real explanation. What was the city girl going to do? Instincts were saying kick him and throw the money back, but logic said to hold off.

Luckily a store employee sees this strange interaction and the girl will not be allowed in the store, since the shoes will ultimately go to him, thus breaking the one pair-per-person limit. The desert city girl returns the money and quickly hurries away to the East coaster, who had purchased two eyeshadow pallets with as little talking to the employees as possible.

They proceed to stand outside the candle store for twenty more minutes while the Midwesterner explains the entire story of how they all got to the Mall of America on a Tuesday afternoon. An overall boredom and a combined interest of wanting to see the most popular tourist trap in the Midwest brought together three teammates stuck at school over spring 38

break. As to why this particular Yankee Candle store was different, the others were unsure. It’s not like there is a candle shortage in South Dakota, that would require a trip to this location. Once a pinewood is purchased, the Midwesterner needs to use the restroom again.

The East coaster decides to go to the Croc store and pick up predetermined shoes in proper sizes. It would become known as the easiest purchase of the day. Next on the agenda is Auntie Anne’s Pretzels: the sugar bites are worth it, but the pretzel bites with cheese sauce are not. Again, the city girl questioned why this was a must stop, considering Auntie Anne has locations across malls throughout the United States. The amusement park is open, but limited because of Covid. Not that it matters for these three, two are scared of crazy rides, the third has had too many concussions and is no longer allowed to ride rollercoasters. There is not a normal amount of screeching and excitement that normally surrounds an amusement park. It seemed like another mall, normal besides it’s size.

Signs are posted everywhere clearly explaining how to wear a mask properly, but some people are still doing it incorrectly. It’s busy, probably not as much as a regular day pre-Covid, or even a weekend. But for a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of a pandemic, there were a lot of people and it felt very claustrophobic. All three couldn’t imagine what it would be like regularly. There’s a wide variety of people. Some that definitely look like locals with their light outerwear and knowing look in their eye as they head to stores without needing to look at a Directory. Then there are those like our protagonists, that are clearly tourists, questioning every single thing around them with curiousity.

The three young women make a pleasant stop at a stationary store with a very lovely worker who explains all of the sales and shows the best pens available. There were a lot of cute sticker packs to use in journals.

They were offering reusable bags for an extra donation to help sponsor a country to get them the same stationary supplies. Of course, the Midwesterner and the desert city girl did the donation, the cute reusable bags were just a bonus.

The most important stop was the Fabletics store. Who can pass up two pairs of leggings for $24? And you get to try on the items before you buy?

It’s a perfect storm for college aged women. The desert city girl is the first one to find two pairs and buy them, done in fifteen minutes flat. She is the first to wander out of the store to find a nearby bench that is limited due to restrictions. All of the wandering and standing was starting to get taxing, even though it had only been two hours.

The East coaster is next with six pairs so they could get full advantage of all the deals available in twenty minutes. The Midwesterner spent fortyfive minutes bothering an employee to find the exact right size of legging, 39

then a multitude of colors that were both wearable and bold. There were six pairs selected in total after much deliberation and two phone calls to her mother.

They ended the day with a trip to the food court across from the minigolf course. Carlo’s Bakery was a must stop for the Midwesterner since it is unlikely for them to make their way to New York anytime soon. Qdoba for lunch was decent, considering the variety of mall foods. Although the Midwesterner felt jipped on steak for the amount paid. A stop at the bathroom was important before they left for the car ride home.

Overall the experience was fine, but at the end of the day it is a mall filled with a lot of stores and random people. The three young women can say that they have been to the Mall of America and don’t necessarily have to return again.

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10 Things I’ve Learned Living in Yankton, South Dakota

by McKenna Cooley 1. Not a single person in South Dakota knows how to drive. I think it has something to do with how they were all taught how to drive at such young ages, and possibly most of that education was not done in an actual car. There is a clear difference between how I drive and how everyone else here drives. Firstly, I do not ride everyone’s ass. I find it to be one of the most annoying things when someone is directly behind me for an extended period of time, for no particular reason. There’s another lane, GO USE IT. Secondly, no one uses turn signals, why? It’d be nice to know if you were going to turn before you do it. It’s a safety thing, not to mention a-not-piss-me-off thing.

2. They take a lot of pride in cows and tractors. Maybe it was because I lived with a farmer’s daughter for two years and then she married a farmer. Maybe it’s because of the stockyard in town. Maybe it’s just because both freak me out a bit. But cows and tractors seem to be big points of bragging rights around here. They are everywhere and are talked about quite a bit in a small town.

3. Fires are a lot more common. People have fires on their properties for a variety of reasons and they are always controlled so the fire department doesn’t get called. It just freaks me out sometimes seeing all the smoke and no one rushing to put it out. You would never see that anywhere more populated.

4. Always have a snow scraper with you. It does not matter what the weatherman says. You always need to be prepared for the bipolar weather of South Dakota. It could be sunny one minute and snowing the next.

Don’t like the weather? Wait an hour and try again!

5. Locals are always right about everything. It does not matter what the subject is, they are experts on it. They will prove their points, not with facts, instead with the knowledge of other people that they are going to bring in to help prove their point. It’s not about what you know, it’s about who you know. There is no winning with a person who believes they are right.

6. It’s not that cold. Truly, it could always be worse. Yah, sure it’s a little chilly when the wind gets going, but really -10 isn’t that bad. It could be worse.

7. You will have the same 5 conversations everyday: 1) weather, 2) local gossip, 3) vehicles/motorcycles/tractors/four wheelers for sale, 4) local and professional sports scores, and 5) endless connections to people five 41

towns over.

8. A concept of a far drive. A good five hours is not far, that’s a day trip there and back with a few hours in between to do an activity, like the Mall of America. I used to think that I could not do more than three hours by myself, and even that seemed like a far drive. Now, I am completely unbothered, I’ve figured out how to keep myself entertained for that long and the drive flies by, so it really “isn’t that far of a drive.”

9. There’s no good way to say goodbye except by walking out the door.

Never. I can say I gotta go, grab all my stuff, and be standing in the doorway letting snow cover the floor. They will still find a way to continue the conversation. There’s always something more to say, which then results in at least five goodbyes before a final escape with a wave through the window.

10. You will never find friendlier people. Seriously, I’ve never met such nice people before outside of my family. The locals here have been so welcoming and kind, and have made my time here a real joy. I have had both triumphs and downtimes, I have felt love and support by everyone on Mount Marty’s campus, as well as the greater Yankton community. I can’t imagine spending the last four years anywhere else.

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Smile

by McKenna Cooley To those who say, “You’d look much nicer if you were smiling!”

Smiles are reserved for those that I enjoy being around.

Smiles indicate happiness.

It’s not my job to smile just because you want me to.

I’d rather be known as a bitch, then for fake smiles.

I’m not sorry that my face in its natural state makes you uncomfortable.

Why is your standard for women based around us looking “nice?”

Are you saying I’m not appealing enough for you?

Lean into that and maybe you’ll discover something deep rooted as to why you feel the need to tell every woman you see to smile.

I can think of thousands of men who don’t smile.

Have you ever thought 43

if that makes us uncomfortable?

But you won’t see us demanding the same innocuous things.

I’m not smiling because I’m not in the mood.

Or maybe I’m preoccupied with the things you are currently slacking on, while you are in distress over my unappealing face.

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Rebel With(out) a Cause

by McKenna Cooley I don’t understand why our parents and grandparents think we are the rebels, the ones going against the order of things.

They sit at family dinners with casseroles and takeout pizza as the main staple, backhanding their negative comments at us, discussing amongst themselves the level of “depravity” that we have fallen to.

Our clothes, social media, food choices, friends, political stances, mental health advocacy, our voices.

How can they think this?

They were the ones who raised us.

They pounded into our heads: “Stick up to bullies.

Stand up for what you believe.

Be the change you want to see.”

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We are surrounded by stories of shootings, sexual assaults, racial and gender discrimination every single day.

They expect us to see these things on social media, the news, talking amongst our friends, yet we are supposed to sit, stay silent.

How dare we say anything.

How dare we stand up, and say no more to all of it.

We flood the streets in protest.

Vote in elections.

Create social and political change.

Educate and hold people accountable for inexcusable behavior.

We are no longer content to continue following the footsteps of the ones before us.

We are making our own path of important change.

You can’t be mad now, you created us.

“You need to stand for what you believe in.”

Well, this is it.

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The Man in the Hat

by Justin Paddack As I stand on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Lincoln, a man in a hat walks to my side. The man is dressed stylish yet functional. He wears a three-piece suit, complete with a plain navy-blue tie. He is well-groomed.

And of course, there sitting upon his head is the black felt diamond crown fedora.

As we both stand there waiting for the crosswalk sign to light up, he turns towards me. He says, “Pardon me, but you seem distraught. Are you okay?”

I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He waited another ten seconds, which seems like an eternity, before asking the next question. He says, “You seem like a dapper gentleman like me, so if you could have anything right now, what would it be?”

I found myself in a perplexing situation. A stranger was asking me these questions and I did not know if I should tell the truth or not. I could have said anything- money, a new car, or I could have even told him to piss off.

But instead, this is what I told the man in the hat.

“I want one more day with my family before they leave this earth.

I want one more shot of whiskey with my closest friends and family congratulating, celebrating, or drowning out the day. And then I want another. I want one more day with my great-grandma before she passed and hear her say “I love you”. I want one more date night with the love of my life. To dance in the moonlight as the river flows beneath our feet like the love we have for each other. I want to complete one more calligraphy project with passion. I want one more night with my friends. To laugh and smile before everything was destroyed and dissolved like chemicals eating the flesh of a corpse. I want one more night to be secured in the arms of a woman as I feel her soft, soothing lips pressed against mine in a cool set of sheets. I want one more ballpark hotdog at Coors Field as I watch the sunset behind the Rocky Mountains and enjoying a summer night of baseball. I want one more night to fall asleep like a boy I once was. To not worry, stress, or cry myself to sleep.”

Then I said, “But if I had to just choose one thing, this is what it would 47

be. I wish I could be vulnerable without consequences and retribution. I wish for once I did not have to be everyone’s savior or the knight in shining armor. I wish I could trust someone to be loyal. I wish, just for one damn day, to take a breath and breathe so deeply and exhale without someone questioning my existence. I wish I could have a civilized conversation without enraging the wrong person who might burn the house down I have built with their words of hatred and poison.”

I finally stop and catch my breath as tears fill my eyes. I do not know why I told the man in the hat all of these things. Maybe it was because he was a stranger, and I knew he would not care. The man in the hat and I missed the next thirteen crosswalks with this conversation.

The man in the hat turns, looks at me, and says, “There is nothing that can take away the pain. But eventually you learn to live with it. It will be the first thing you think about until one day it will be the second thing.”

The crosswalk light flashes and then the man in the hat turns and walks on leaving me. I never saw that dapper gentleman again.

Years later, I can still hear those words ramble into my brain from time to time. These words come and go, mostly when I am alone with Kentucky bourbon with the desire to be vulnerable. You see it is in those times I remember the man in the hat and realize I cannot be vulnerable.

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Today’s Fascination with Crime

by Abigail Thomas Crime stories seem to be at the surface more often than what they used to be. More and more people indulge themselves in the mystery of crime stories for many reasons. It can be interesting to listen to different people’s views on why they have a fascination with crime.

I have heard many police officers say that they deal with ten percent of their city’s population ninety percent of the time. Meaning that a small number of individuals are responsible for a large amount of the crime.

For many people, crime is not a part of their everyday lives, therefore it is “out of the norm.” I believe that many people have a fascination with crime because of this reason, for the fact that it’s different from their own lives.

People may also be fascinated with crime because they enjoy the thrill of mystery. Many crime stories in tv shows and books, both fictional and non-fictional, show crimes that are more serious and risky, such as situations from dealing with drug dealers all the way to serial killers.

We may wonder, What motivates criminals in their acts and methods of committing them? People may become so indulged in their own curiosity that they have a want to solve the crime; it’s almost like a puzzle for them.

This want to solve the inhumane mysteries in true crime documentaries and films can be addictive; ironically, almost like a drug for some individuals.

Reality can be somewhat frightening when it comes to crime. Some of the chilling circumstances that are explained in true crime media today can be quite obscene and cause viewers to ask themselves how other human beings can fathom committing such acts. By being able to watch true crime stories on television, or read about them in papers, it allows people to somewhat experience the thrill and fear behind crime from their own safe and comfortable homes. They have the ability to experience the horror of true crime while making its reality less horrifying because it didn’t happen to them. Watching crimes and bad things happen to others on TV may also make some people feel better about their own lives; that is if they were to say, “It could be worse,” about their own life situations. It’s almost as if the unfortunate circumstances of others reassure themselves that they are safe.

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Personally, I am fascinated with crime because I am going into law enforcement. I have always had some sort of fascination with the “why” related to people’s participation in crime. In other words, what motivates the criminal to commit the acts that they do? Do they do it just for the fun of it? Or are there other factors that relate to the causes of their actions, such as medical conditions, financial circumstances, etc. I enjoy watching true crime television because of the mystery behind many cases; how can people commit certain crimes, such as murder, and their extreme planning or absence of planning behind their crimes. The way people go about selling drugs along with why people take them and how addictions can be helped. The forensics behind crimes that help with the identification of perpetrators is also very fascinating to me; how a suspect can be identified by the fact that their same shoe print was found at the crime scene is absolutely astonishing to me. The puzzle of mystery is what drives my fascination with crime.

Overall, I think that most people have a fascination with crime because of its abnormalities. It’s out of the norm and many people don’t experience crime in their daily lives; they enjoy the mystery and sometimes horrifying thrill behind it.

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Learning to Think

by Brynn Dilly The article “Learning to Think” by Fareed Zakaria was a very fascinating read to say the least. His take on a liberal arts education will open your eyes as to what it really is and what it is meant to teach us. In this essay I will point out some of the most interesting aspects of Fareed’s article. First, I will touch on one of my personal favorite topics, including the idea of how writing is an invaluable skill that makes you think.

One of the great advantages of having a liberal arts education is that it teaches you how to speak intently. Having good communication skills in the workplace is necessary, especially if you own or run a business. The article talks about how Jeff Bezos, the founder of Amazon, insists that his senior executives write memos that are often as long as six printed pages.

These memos help give structure and organization to the thoughts of the executives, and they help promote clearer thinking. He even encourages them to write using a simple, “jargon-free” language so that it can be understood by everybody. This is very important because whether for public or private communication, the ability to articulate your thoughts clearly will prove to be a tremendous strength. Communicating well and articulating your thoughts are crucial when trying to convince others of your passion. Any owner of a business, small or large, knows this to be true.

Another thing I found intriguing was the fact that everything around us is constantly changing. The article states that the majority of what you learn in college, will prove to be irrelevant in your day to day work space.

It goes on to say that even if these subjects are relevant, that will change.

An example of this being someone who went to college for nursing 30 years ago. The information that this student learned about nursing is not going to be the exact same material that a nursing student would learn. Medicine is steadily changing, and so are the methods of getting medicine to the patient. All industries and professions are evolving, and today, nursing students are learning new skills that they will need to apply to new challenges. Everything is constantly developing, growing, and transforming. The only thing that remains constant are the skills you acquire and the methods you learn to approach problems. This is another 51

reason why Fareed values a liberal education, because it not only teaches you how to communicate, but it teaches you how to adapt to change.

While continuing to read this article, I found it interesting how Fareed made the connection between new technology and a liberal arts education, explaining how they go hand in hand with business today.

He mentioned in the article that by having a good education, you can be successful in today’s society. You might be wondering “What the heck does that have to do with technology?”, but just bear with me. In the article, Fareed mentions how computers have transformed the world, allowing advanced exploration into new ideas and information. He goes on to state that 20 years ago big tech companies would have survived solely based on the fact that they were manufacturing industrial products. Now, however, these companies battle to have the most cutting edge design, while maintaining a marketing and social network that is pleasing to the public. While the design of the product is important to the consumer, the brand name itself is arguably the best selling point. According to the article “Are Brand Names Really Better?” by Kristin Lewis, brand-name items such as Nike, Lululemon, Gucci, and Apple can be characterized as status symbols. Customers are willing to pay up to 10 times more for brand name items even though similar items are available. She goes on to explain that brand-name items give a sense of belonging to the owner and show others that they “can afford this expensive item” (Lewis 29).

This information goes to show how society is so strongly influenced by the “brand-name value” instead of the quality. It sheds light on how consumers think and how we put a price tag on material possessions. I believe that when Fareed stated that the value is in the brand - how it is imagined, presented, sold, and sustained - he was absolutely right. Being able to imagine and build a story around a brand is very important when trying to appeal to consumers, and you won’t just acquire this skill set anywhere.

That’s why Fareed believes that a good education is so important. He knows that the information you conceal inside yourself is an invaluable gift that not everyone gets the chance to obtain.

In this essay, I have pointed out some of the most interesting aspects of Fareed Zakaria’s article “Learning to think.” Overall, this article was insightful as to the importance of writing and knowing how to organize your thoughts clearly, along with knowing how to adapt to change.

Fareed truly opened my eyes as to how a good education can promote an imagination that could potentially benefit a company when designing a product. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Fareed’s piece, and I highly recommend it for anyone who wants to learn more about a liberal arts education.

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Works Cited LEWIS, KRISTIN. “Are Brand Names Really Better?” Scholastic Scope, vol. 65, no. 4, Dec. 2016, pp. 28-29. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=ture&db=keh&AN=119 487511&site=ehost-live.

ZAKARIA, FAREED. “Learning to Think.” In Defense of a Liberal Education, W W Norton & Company, 2016, pp. 72-105.

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Mental Health

by Brynn Dilly Today, it seems as if more and more people are mentally stressed. The Coronavirus pandemic has caused schools, businesses, and even whole cities to shut down, forcing students to learn on zoom and businesses to operate online. The lack of physical human interaction the past year has caused the percentage of people with depression or anxiety to skyrocket.

Corona has not only changed our physical lives, but it has changed us mentally. In this paper, I’m going to talk about the effect that the Coronavirus has had on adolescents and adults’ mental health, and I will give some examples of activities that can have a positive effect on you if you are struggling with depression or anxiety.

Quarantine. No work, no school, no stress, right? In fact, the lack of social interaction that Americans have been facing over the past few months has had a lasting effect on our brains. According to the article “Impact of COVID-19 Pandemic on Mental Health” by Andrew Gloster, the government mandated lockdowns have been decreasing the activity levels of people around the world. The amount of stimuli experienced on a day to day basis has declined substantially compared to pre-lockdown levels. He continues to mention, “This reduction of stimulus may lead to boredom and a reduction in reinforcement, which has been associated with depression” (Gloster 2). Increased loneliness and social isolation can cause severe mental distress, which could potentially subject people to mental disorders. The article goes on to explain how important it is to understand how much the virus has affected our daily routines. The added stress and uncertainty as to what your day will look like has taken its toll on our well-being and mental health. New questions like “Will I be able to visit my family member in the nursing home?”, or “ Will I ever get to go back to work or school?” have been tormenting our brains for the past year. Our lives have been turned upside-down, and there is really no end in sight.

The COVID-19 pandemic has enforced mandatory online learning to promote social distancing. This concept of e-learning has been implemented worldwide, forcing students to learn at home. According to the article “Risk and Protective Factors for Prospective Changes in Adolescent Mental Health during the COVID-19 Pandemic” by Natasha Magson, studies show evidence for the decline of adolescents’ mental health during the COVID-19 pandemic. The results suggest that “adolescents are more concerned about the government restrictions designed to contain the spread of the virus, than the virus itself, and that those concerns are associated with increased anxiety and depressive 54

symptoms, and decreased life satisfaction” (Magson 1). The article also mentioned that being at home for an extended period of time had caused conflict with parents and family members. Students have been, and are being, hounded on by their parents to do well in school, while experiencing online learning difficulties. Decreased social interaction mixed with a disapproving and dysfunctional family life is a recipe for depression.

While adolescents seem to have it bad, adults are also facing struggles of their own. New changes in adults’ homes and work life have not come easily. Being forced to completely change your routine in a very short period of time can cause stress and anxiety, consequently leaving you on-edge and frustrated. According to the article “Psychological reactions and insomnia in adults with mental health disorders during the COVID-19 outbreak” by Sun Qimeng, adults are developing and struggling with worsened anxiety and depression. The article goes on to suggest that the influx of depression and anxiety in adults is actually causing insomnia. In addition to lack of sleep, adults are concerned about the “fear of getting infected and the rapidly increasing number of cases, delayed work and school, economic related stress, travel restrictions, and changes in daily life” (Qimeng 7). I feel as if the mental health of adults is very important and needs to be managed in a way favorable to them. The knowledge of a global pandemic is, on its own, stressful to think about, but the addition of home life stressors takes anxiety to the next level. This is why people need examples of activities that will positively affect their mental health.

There are many activities designed to bring you outside of your own mind and make a positive impact on your mental health. One of these activities include exercise. According to the article “Can Working Out Help With Depression?” by Richard Dorment, research shows that exercise can lead to new neuron growth in the part of the brain most associated with depression. This means that there may be some depression fighting action at work in your brain. Exercise will not only improve your physical health, but your mental health too! Other than exercise, reading, drawing, painting, and even listening to music could help calm your nerves and improve your overall mood. If you are struggling with severe depression or anxiety, then talking to a trusted family member, doctor, or therapist could be more beneficial.

The COVID-19 pandemic has caused our lives to turn upside-down. The lack of social interaction has left many people less motivated and more depressed. In this paper, I talked about the effect that corona has had on adolescent and adult mental health, and I gave some examples of activities that can have a positive effect if you are struggling with depression or anxiety. Overall, I enjoyed writing this paper and learning more about the effect COVID-19 has had on our brains.

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Works Cited DORMENT, RICHARD. “Can Working out Help with Depression?”

Men’s Health, vol. 35, no. 10, Dec. 2020, p. 10, EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=aph&AN=1470 59680&site=ehost-live.

GLOSTER, ANDREW T., et al. “Impact of COVID-19 Pandemic on Mental Health: An International Study.” PLoS ONE, vol. 15, no.

12, Dec. 2020, pp. 1-20. EBSCOhost, doi: 10.1371/journal.pone.

0244809.

MAGSON, NATASHA R., et al. “Risk and Protective Factors for Prospective Changes in Adolescent Mental Health during the COVID-19 Pandemic.” Journal of Youth & Adolescence, vol. 50, no.

1, Jan. 2021, pp. 44-57. EBSCOhost, doi: 10.1007/s10964-02001332-9.

SUN, QIMENG, et al. “Psychological Reactions and Insomnia in Adults with Mental Health Disorders during the COVID-19 Outbreak.”

BMC Psychiatry, vol. 21, no. 1, Jan. 2021, pp. 1-10. EBSCOhost, doi: 10.11.86/s12888-020-03036-7.

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Surrealism

by Jessica Warnke “She used to come out here with us.”

The grass beneath me is pillowed down beneath my head. It’s like nature’s known for a while that Giana and I would come back, and let her hair of wild grass reach for the sun without restraint so when laid flat the ground was supple and soft. The only complaint I have is the creeping dampness emerging under my shirt from the residue of the showers earlier in the evening. The sun’s been down for an hour and the verdant hill below us has morphed to the blue midnight of shadows. The shapes are unfamiliar without light. The far-off dusty glow of the city is the only sign we haven’t completely abandoned civilization. The distance makes it look like we are almost floating over the city and the only thing separating us is an abyss of black, like a twisted version of the veil between God and Adam. How to describe it? There’s a word for it. What’s the word“-Adah? Do you remember? Rayleigh. She came here with us.”

It’s been quiet for too long. So quiet I realize the crickets seemed to have dropped off to their own music. My mouth’s dry. I wish we brought water.

“Yeah.”

Giana is still beside me. She’s so close, I can feel the heat from her body brushing my arm. She had been reluctant to come. It was only a reminder that I wasn’t the only one suffering loss. Giana’s lost Rayleigh too and it’s weird because, before everything that happened, we weren’t that close.

It’s like we were attracted to each other because we both are holding the same suffering and no one else knows it. No one else can know it because it’s our shared experience stamped in the solidity of the past.

Rayleigh wasn’t the only one who left. But it only hurts more with her because she was a catalyst for the others. Though it’s probably not as simple that they left because of Rayleigh, I can’t help feeling like the others were only here because of her. That our meetings here held no more importance to them than community chat time. It was never about that for me. It was never supposed to be that for anyone.

“I never wanted to see this place again.”

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My words fall flat. What I state is obvious, at least to Giana. She knows how upset I was when Rayleigh left. The stars shine a little dimmer. Giana shifts beside me, pushing herself up to on her elbows and looking directly at me.

“Then why did we come here?”

I let confusion rattle her and feel sick at the satisfaction it brings that it’s not me this time. There’s a sick sense of control you have over someone when they can’t predict why you do the things you do. I know what it’s like being on the other side of that control. It’s empty, surreal. Surreal. That’s the word. I breathe out and close my eyes. Why did we come here?

“To pray.”

I was thinking of a prayer that’s some kind of requiem. I catch myself thinking about her like she’s dead all the time, but she’s not. She’s lost and I can’t tell if it would be better if she was dead, but she’s alive and she’s not here. The sky is dark and Rayleigh’s not here anymore. The stars take the place of the sun and the sky is no longer blue.

“You think it will help?”

To pray? Maybe it will help her come back. Maybe it will help us accept she’s gone. There’re too many questions I have for both of them, God especially. But I know God will answer us. That’s all I know. Whether it’s a yes, no, wait, or silence...

“I don’t know” I don’t know.

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The Statistics of an Open Life

by Jessica Warnke Open is as closed as closed is to our dry mouths.

Voices are scratchy as all sound ceases, Language and community falling to pieces, A spoken word, once taken for granted, Now becomes a chorus singing behind one voice, Whispered and garbled in electric pulses.

Open spaces to empty places, Concrete faces, in the face of danger, A stranger passes on the street, Are they danger?

Or am I? I wish I could talk to them, Ask them how they are, “How’s life?”

Maybe when we ask, We open up a conversation and expand ourselves to be able to Communicate what we couldn’t enunciate before, When things were open.

Words will mean something and they’ll tell a story, And closed minds and imaginations will see beyond the numbers of test scores, Or statistics.

As new numbers jumble together each day, They only grow higher.

But the correlation between pain and death, Doesn’t equal causation, I learned that in statistics.

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Tied Together

by Jessica Warnke A nation without Love is a nation without hands.

Hands to hold the clay of all humanity has to offer, To clasp onto hope like a thin thread run through fingertips; Worn and frayed at the ends, The only rope we can tie ourselves together with.

Each knot messy and tangled, But stronger with each loop, Through and under.

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A Because Letter

by Bella Diaz-Short If I were to write a letter to me, it’d go something like this: Dear me, It’s amazing without saying a word how a story can be told or whatever it is you want to call it—I often experience. The process of baking a cake doesn’t require words. It requires physical instructions to follow and when you follow them, your cake is made. It’s delicious and you are fulfilled.

You’ll know what I mean in just a few seconds.

I have a mouth, but I cannot speak. I know well enough for my age, yet not enough. We don’t know enough.

Someone asked me the other day, “What is something you pretend to know?”

I didn’t even know how to respond, how could I? With the blank stare that I gave, something you pretend to know, I thought, everything. They taught me in school to never start a sentence with the word because.

Because it’s bad. Because it’s not good enough. Because.

Those instructions were given, instructions without meaning. They were just instructions because you had to. Just because.

I am well aware that we live and die, another instruction in life. I am well aware that there are the good times, and the bad. I am well aware, as I’ve said before. But when you aren’t aware you are lost.

I wish sometimes in life when I am lost I can pull up Google Maps, but that’s not how the world works. There’s this show that I was watching the other day on TV and one of the character’s lines said, “Sometimes you need to get lost to be found,” and that’s the most beautiful, pure thing anyone has said to me, at least through a screen, and it felt real.

If you think about it, there really isn’t a book to tell you what to do, what to think, how to act, or how to feel. We’re all living in a world free of instruction because really the instructions we are told to believe can sometimes feel like they lead you everywhere, but what’s supposed to feel like home. You live to play a part in this world. Without directions, I 61

guarantee you’ll get lost without them, but if it were easy we’d all follow the rules.

Bluntly, like others, I don’t like to follow the rules. Sometimes I feel the need to skip the instructions. I want to start my sentences with because.

Because we are all granted one life to live and I’ll be sure to make the best of it. Because sometimes when you follow the baking instructions, your cake still may not be good.

I remind myself that it’s not just me that gets lost and for the ones who are still trying to figure it out like me, you’re okay. You’re lost too or at least one day you might be, just because.

Sincerely, Me

62

Basketball as Life

by Brooklyn Eisenhauer Across from me sits one of my best friends, eyes rimmed red from the tears she has just shed while talking to me, but she’s already patting them dry with the ends of her sleeves and packing away her dilemma, at least for tonight. I’m on the school charter bus heading to what could possibly be my last basketball game ever. To change the subject, I mention that though I do want to win, I can’t help but feel I wouldn’t be heartbroken if we lost. Everything comes to an end eventually, and though I’d be losing the chance to play with my friends I’d also be losing all the stress and pressure that came with the sport.

The bus arrived, and we did our favorite kind of warmup. Dancing and singing to songs that are full of more profanity than they are not. Just last night, we played tag with flashlights in the dark, running around the old gym just outside of the locker room we had been given. Soon enough our impromptu concert came to an end. The coaches began giving us a speech to play our hearts out and just have fun. That was my favorite aspect of games that could potentially be your last, the pressure to win was still there but it hid in the background silently fueling your desire to win. We warmed up the same as always, balls rolling from one end of the court to the other, jumping up to knock the net loose from itself when too many balls were soaring into the hoop at the same time. There were a few more nerves floating around, but for the most part nothing was different.

Once the ball was thrown in the air for the tip-off something changed.

I knew I simply wouldn’t be satisfied with a loss, and I wanted to win. I played the game with more aggression than I had ever before. To most people’s astonishment, I only fouled out once from the span of fourth grade to my last season, and it was this penultimate game.

Leading up to this game, I had never particularly loved basketball. There were times I would have fun and times I wondered why I was even there.

I wasn’t amazing by any means. I played four years and the only awards I have to show for it are those related to my academic abilities. Though I’ve never been at the very top of a team, my presence was still valuable to the coaches. This was one of the reasons I kept playing. I didn’t want to let my friends and team down in a sport that wasn’t my favorite, because then 63

there would be nothing stopping them from quitting a sport, in which I depend on them.

There’s a quote hung on the bathroom stalls at my high school, hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard. I pondered this sentence a lot but found it difficult to work hard when I was always worried about making mistakes or what bad things fans in the crowd might be saying.

Because I didn’t like the idea of playing in front of a giant crowd, I found practices a lot more enjoyable than games. I remember one practice day a lot clearer than the rest. My team had always been small so we were limited to the amount of scrimmaging we could do, but this day in particular all of our student managers had showed up. Coach decided this was a great opportunity for us to scrimmage the whole day. Some of the girls expressed disappointment as they finished stretching their muscles, and others smiled with excitement, myself included. I’m not sure if I scored the most on my team that evening, or had the most rebounds, but my coaches were impressed. They asked me why I didn’t take the initiative in games and play as freely as I did in practice. I didn’t know how to respond so I just shrugged my shoulders and untied the white laces of my shoes.

The next game I told myself I could play like practice, but within the first couple minutes of the game I had already made multiple mistakes. We had just broken the press. I was down on our side of the court. I should have wanted the ball so I could score, but instead I dreaded the inevitable. The ball was lobbed to me from behind the half court line. When I caught it, I was only a few feet away from the hoop. I dribbled once and then took two steps towards the hoop. I didn’t see the girl sneaking up from behind me until it was too late. She had blocked my shot. I suddenly felt defeated. I had hoped the game would be different, but it had been the same as all the others.

Flashing back to my second to last game. I had decided I would play like no one was watching like I always “tried” to do, but this time it actually stuck. Our coach had already warned us about the opposing teams’ best players. The first one was number ten. She was probably around five foot eight, but a guard. We knew we’d have to keep a close eye on her, especially since our man to man defense was outmatched in height, like it always was. Right away number ten let us know she wasn’t going to lose easily. She took off dribbling down the court. I knew by her facial expression she’d bulldoze anyone that got in her way. My sister is very quick though, and she kept number ten contained with her corridor defense, that had consumed a portion of our practices since my freshman year. The ball moved around a bit and girls tried driving to the hoop, but when their shot went up it hit the rim and bounced off right into my hands slicked with sweat. The game followed a quick pace, and I found myself 64

panting only two minutes in. When the ball made its way to me, I didn’t panic or turn it over, I simply evaluated my options and chose the best one. Most of the time this meant passing the ball off to a more offensive teammate, but there were a few occasions where I made a move and heard the crowd cheer and clap as a result.

The game had the student section roaring by half time when the score board showed us up by four points. Before running into the locker room, I took a quick glance at the opposing team’s crowd. It was obvious they were surprised by the closeness of the game. Their team had a state rank and would surely get a district final game, either as a result of a win that night or as one of the handful of teams granted a wild card. They had underestimated us, and that made the win a hundred times more enjoyable.

With the adrenaline of a nail biting win still pumping through my veins, I thought back on my pregame mindset as my picture was snapped and people I rarely talked to, offered me hugs and patted me on the back. I had been content with the idea of losing because I was tired. I was tired of practicing for two hours every day after a long day of school. I was tired of staring at the orange rim of the hoop, praying my free throw went in so my team who was lined up on the baseline with their hands on their knees searching for air didn’t have to run another set of lines. I was tired of getting home late after a disappointing game only to have homework waiting for me, but I didn’t think about what I wasn’t tired of. I wasn’t tired of pizza parties, games of 3 on 3, or the congratulatory praises after a win I was getting right now.

Unfortunately, my next basketball game was a loss, but at least I understood what I was losing. Now when I think about my high school basketball memories only the good come to mind. Sure, I had plenty of bad memories as well, but if basketball was easy there would have been more than twelve girls, JV and Varsity, on the team. I wonder now if the girls that had quit their freshman or sophomore years regret it. Did their favorite memories wash out their least favorite like mine or are they happy with the decision they made? The truth is we can never be sure if the decision we made is the right one, but it’s what we do after that matters the most. I could have quit playing basketball at any time, but something was always pulling me to summer games or in-season practices. I listened to my gut and kept playing. Even if I had thrown in the towel at some point, I’m about positive it wouldn’t have lasted long. Instead of wishing more free time, I would have been sitting in the bleachers wishing it was me at the free throw line. It’s never too late to get back on the right path, but it’s also important to understand that there’s multiple paths to choose from. Like many others I have thought about steering off mine a couple times, but in the end, I stuck it out and couldn’t be happier with the decision I made.

65

Packing Cattle for the Nebraska State Fair

by Brooklyn Eisenhauer State Fair has been an annual tradition for my family for as long as I’ve been alive. My first memories of it are sitting in a hot and humid barn begging to go get a jumbo sized, greasy corndog from one of the fifty different food trucks, and my more recent memories are from September of 2019 when I walked in the nerve-wracking ring for the last time. If I learned one thing from this reading section, it’s that everybody’s fair experience is different. For me, State Fair begins the Thursday before Labor Day. My brother, sister, and I, sweat dripping down our faces, haul all the needed supplies into our trailer that’s been freshly power washed to rid it of the dried manure splattered all along the sides and doors from countless loads of various cattle.

The first piece of equipment on the dripping wet trailer is the double blower. It’s true what they say, bigger is definitely better. The side by side blue blowers held together in their rolling cart, get the job done three times faster than our traditional, silver, single one ever could. Sometimes I catch my brother blowing back his short blond hair, before he grabs the rope halter, unlatches the chute bars, and leads his calf back to its stall.

The chute is the second item in line. It’s the same one I used to play “cow doctor” with my sister while we got on our hands and knees, which were scraped and scabbed simply because we were kids and then stuck our heads through the metal bars and mooed at the top of our lungs hoping for a reply. My brother and I each grab the small handles covered in fly crap on the bottom of each side and pull it through the allergyinducing dirt that coats our machine shed, before lifting the two hundred pounds of aluminum onto the trailer.

After the chute and blower, we need a game plan for the last piece of equipment. I don’t have a clue how much our sticker- covered show box weighs, but it feels like a million pounds. I close the doors and clasp the lock trapping the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the green hair clippers, and the dust coated, leather show halters used for show day inside. My sister grabs the various colored and sized show sticks off the back hooks to clean with suds and water and decides which ones are joining us and which ones are getting left behind. While my sister is cleaning or as the obnoxious boys in my high school class would say, “Doing what she does best,” my brother Jackson and I tip the metal box onto its back wheels and grunt as we pull it through the dirt. We stop once we’ve reached the back of the trailer, resting one against the other and calling Bree over to help with the final step. Bree assumes her role 66

standing on the end of the trailer while Jackson and I squat down and grab a bottom corner. On the count of three Jackson and I lift while Bree pulls.

Once we’re successful moving the show box next to the blower and chute all in the back corner, we close the door blocking them off from the soon to be anxious cattle we are about to put into the next section.

State Fair is a lot different from County Fair, instead of three to five animals each varying in breed, sex, and age, we only bring three, one for each of us. We kept it simple this year, three stocker feeder steers. I walk over to Herman, the biggest of the three, and brush my hand against his soft, white hair. Jackson and Bree follow a couple steps behind, being careful not to scare their calves. After letting Herman sniff my hand with his perspiring nose, I begin to untie the loops that hold his Green Bay Packer colored halter to the dented fence. Once undone, I loosely grip the halter, rough rope against my callused hands, and begin to lead Herman through the shed towards the newly packed trailer. Jackson yells for me to help him and asks what’s taking me so long. I see that Chester, Herman’s full brother, is giving Jackson a hard time by refusing to move. Jackson’s got the rope wrapped around his hip leaning forward with all his weight, but the calf still isn’t budging. Since my calf’s a bit more cooperative, I lead him up behind Chester and begin twisting his matching tail. It does the trick, and Chester is on the move within seconds. Bree pulls her calf up besides mine and together we walk them all to the trailer in a line. One step closer to our next and last Nebraska State Fair.

67

What They Don’t Tell Us About Wildfires

by Tianna Bumbaca-Kuehl What they don’t tell us about wildfires is all the small elements that can change the personality of the wildfire with the blink of an eye. They shift directions like a speedracer in the fast lane that needs to get across all five lanes to the next exit. She can go from a slow creep down a steep cliff to a powerful rush of force, demolishing everything in her path. One minute we are alerted on our cellphones that the lightning strikes from the day before caused small spot fires along the ridge and in the deep forest.

The next minute we receive a message saying pack up your necessities and you must evacuate within the next hour. Those small spot fires were causing what the Santa Cruz Mountains of California now know as the CZU Complex Fire.

As our local news channels are broadcasting a horrific event titled the “Camp Fire” that was ripping through Paradise, California back in 2018, you might think to yourself that something like this could never happen to you, until it does. You can see the pictures and the videos of this heart wrenching event but you can never truly understand the feeling until it happens to you, god forbid it does. When you are sitting within the comfort of your home and things are going the way they should, everything seems perfect, until something takes a turn. They never tell you the full significance of a wildfire because authorities most of time never fully know and it is more complicated to explain to people who do not understand fire terminology. All you really want to know in the moment is: are we going to be able to come home to our memories, or are they going to perish beneath the wrath of the flames? When the fire finally started to rip through our beautiful valley, everything happened so quickly and there is so little that is able to be done right away.

On August 15th and 16th, 2020 Northern California experienced a once in a lifetime occurrence of over 12,000 dry lightning strikes within those two days. While photographers are posting on social media sites the compelling pictures of lighting and the coast line, little did they know that the next day this phenomenon would be devastating. I was away at college and my boyfriend, RJ, who is a volunteer firefighter is messaging me saying that this is a lot worse than what the public knows. The spotfires 68

that were thought to be easily put out in a few days are joining together to make one massive fire. Within hours, all of California is declared a state of emergency. Throughout not only northern California, but the whole state, everything is burning to ashes. Our one stop sign town is now mimicking Times Square; traffic backed up for miles up Highway 236, where the fire is raging towards residential areas and miles up Highway 9 for the people wanting to escape the lung clenching smoke. The small town folk that live up 236 are rushed out immediately grabbing only what they can carry and little did they know that they wouldn’t be able to come back for another two months and a lot that they will come back to is now unrecognizable.

Residents along deep Highway 9 are being alerted to evacuate, leaving everything they know, years of memories, not knowing what would be standing when they return. After months of battling, over 900 homes are decimated to the ground. Those who still had a brick chimney standing, are now a deafening black, encompassed by an untouched blanket of ash that once held their everything.

My father never left for the mandatory evacuation because his home is everything to him so there was no chance he was going to leave. Him, my grandma, and grandpa built their houses with their bare hands and our property is more to us than just a home, nothing was going to happen to it. With that, came his career, taking pictures of our local fire departments and law enforcement. Since I was 2000 miles away at college, there is little to nothing that I can do and it is hard for me to hear how my family and loved ones are doing. When I finally got to see some pictures of the hard work that the firefighters, including RJ, were doing, I was able to somewhat understand the hard work these people are doing for us. The first two weeks were the absolute worst two weeks of my life. Cell phone towers went down outside of town where my dad was, which made my only means of communication with him gone. The pain of calling him for nine days in a row with it going straight to his voicemail, where I could hear his voice, giving me a little sense of hope that he is okay, yet I didn’t hear from him. After that nine days, he was able to slip past the first evacuation zone where he knew some of the officers guarding it and said they would let him back in. When I heard his voice, I stood there stunned and instantly fell to my knees, streams of tears falling from my eyes uncontrollably because the hope that I was holding out, that he was okay, was fulfilled. The feeling of relief rushed through my body, washing some of the pain away that built up miles high within my body. Times were getting better at that point but prior to that, I still had another worry, the love of my life was out there day in and day out battling the harsh flames himself.

RJ had just transferred to Boulder Creek Volunteer Fire Department two weeks before the lightning strikes blasted our homes. He had all his 69

training already and had been on a different volunteer department for six months prior before transferring, so he had beginner’s skill. He had no idea that he was about to experience something that some firefighters will never experience in their whole careers. When the fires first started there were a lot of spot fires and at this time there were already fires going on down in the Los Angeles area that were of much more importance than our little fires because it is more populated in the city. When the CZU fire started to take off, swallowing thousands of acres, we still received no help. Our 40 volunteer firefighters were battling this fire that needed hundreds of firefighters battling it, yet we were all we had. Our group of men and women were working an outrageous amount of hours, some pushing over fourty-eight hour shifts attacking the flames, which sadly can only do so much. If the wind or temperature picks up, the work that these firefighters put in for hours could go to waste because they don’t have time to finish what they are doing otherwise their lives start to be at great risk. There were days where I heard from RJ for maybe three minutes while others passed without hearing a word. Him and his colleagues were getting beaten down by a hammer that was held by a mechanical arm, pounding and pounding them down, but they never gave up. Our firefighters pushed through two weeks with two goals, save as many houses as possible and save our downtown streets. Our volunteer firefighters made history every day through those two weeks, fires burnt all the way to the foundation of houses but the lines they cut and the water they sprayed, saved countless homes. After fourteen days, the first signs of help came from down south and out of state. People coming hundreds of miles to our single stop sign town, to save our little community.

After days of putting up walls to hold this beast back, our brave workers got their much needed breaks. They were able to get multiple hours of sleep, food in their bodies and rest. I wish I could say that was the end but we had months to go before this was going to come to a halt. There would be days where she kept creeping her way down, closer and closer to the town; when night fall came, you could see her glow on the top of the mountain that towers over our valley. While other days, other parts of her were spreading farther and farther up the highway taking out home after home in both directions. Just when you think she’s stopped, there will be a fire burning underground in a stump that ignites when trees fall on top of it starting her back up. It is an ongoing system until she finally gives up because there is no way our firefighters do. There was a day where she made it down to the side of our town getting inches away from our church with the sign out front that always states sweet sayings to brighten your day; that day it stated, “Thank you first responders.”

We finally got the help we needed and to this day, Boulder Creek Volunteer fire department is still fighting some spot fires, but they are 70

slowing down. Those first two weeks will be the hardest weeks of some of our firefighters’ lives and yet none of them gave up on each other or our community.

You never know what can happen with a wildfire, wind can shift, heat can rise, help might not be able to get there, and all you can do is hope. Hope that our first responders stay safe, they protect our memories, and the things we love most.

Give thanks for the life you live, never take a second for granted.

71

Beneath the Redwoods

by Tianna Bumbaca-Kuehl The incredible Redwoods encompass our town. Tattered buildings and their small town delectables, the kind local business owners who only want the best for their people and the individuals who sleep on the bus stop benches. News travels fast in a disaster and the way word travels like wildfire in an open dry plain with 100 mile per hour winds. There are always two sides to every story just like there are two sides to my hometown. There are the beautiful things you see on the outside that make it seem perfect, but if you’re there every day, you notice the other side of the story that people just passing through won’t ever be able to understand.

I’m from the Redwoods, the trees that are twenty feet wide, the trees that are towering over you like skyscrapers, that hold the moisture below their branches where you stand, kneeling at their roots, breathing in the fresh brisk air they provide you with. You stand looking up at them, never feeling so miniscule in your entire life, yet so immensely powerful because of the feeling just looking at these magnificent creations sends through your bones. Where you are surrounded by hundreds, planting their seeds in their family circles as they multiply to become the grand forests that everyone hears about, embedded into the West Coast of the United States.

The soft shed of bark that trickles to the ground, floating in the wind brushes by your face. Turning, following the falling skin from the growths, a white tailed deer, followed by two smaller, spotted creations have their own family circle. Living in one of the most beautiful and serene places in the world will always be one of the biggest blessings I have, because these trees are only found in two places on the entire planet, one being where I am from.

While I’m driving through the trees on a road that is anything but straight, there are a lot of bad turns that are dangerous. I’m from where a guy in ripped shorts, shoes that barely cover his toes and with a wife beater on is trying to drive his tin can of a car that is packed with trash bags, consisting of his whole life in the passenger seat. He fills up his vehicle with hose water in gallon jugs instead of oil, hoping that his last bit of hope won’t give up on him like the rest of his life did. I’m from where if you are walking on the street in front of Joe’s Bar and someone smoking a cigarette gives you a look, you keep walking forward to avoid anything bad.

I’m from where the backwoods locals, who live up Deer Creek, set fires in barrels and pop off rounds at the bobcats trying to get their dogs and at the deer trying to eat their mounds of illegal marijuana. Where if you 72

step anywhere near their property, you might as well turn and run away from the bullet like the cat that left before you. Where I’m from, the setting seems beautiful but the deeper you go beneath the service, just like any other town, you start seeing the little things that most don’t see.

Beyond the trees is the coast line, where the waves crash up against the side of the cliffs, rushing up onto the sand pushing farther and farther each time trying to reach the feet of the locals and tourists mixed in along the beach. I’m from the little beaches that are hidden miles up the coast and down a sketchy winding path that you wouldn’t normally go down if you didn’t already know it leads to a hidden treasure. I’m from the trails and back roads that I know like the back of my hand no matter where in the county we may be. Where roads wind to the top of mountains or to the rivers that lie where the two cliffs meet. I’m from the dirt trails that are infested with roots and potholes that make it hard to make it through, but with hard work comes a beautiful ending. Where you get burrs sticking to you from the tick bushes and fox tails clinging to your pant legs, hanging on as if it was their only way to survive. Running through the pasture and the forest in what I call my backyard, when really it’s a whole forest.

I’m from the home that is up on the hill, that has photo albums upon photo albums collecting dust since the 1920s. The photos encompassing what my distant family’s life was like prior to the 21st century. Great grandma Robechaud standing next to my grandma and her sister, dressed in full length dresses of a lightly colored floral print. The photo albums dated back to the beginning of the 1900s with names of relatives that I can only put a face to and not a sound of their voice. All stacked side by side in our long hallway leading to the back bedrooms. The hand-built home where the albums lie, sits empty now that my grandfather has passed away and my grandmother is in a nursing home. The home sits there getting the winter sun and the summer shade, just how my grandpa built it and my grandma likes it. Where the antiques stack the shelves in every corner that would be empty otherwise, everything now worth millions of dollars but my grandma would never sell because they bring her back to the times when she traveled the world with the love of her life. Antiques from over twenty different countries traveled by my grandma and grandpa, and for a handful of years my father. Places like Papua New Guinea, Africa, and China’s artifacts that now are worth thousands of dollars each.

I’m from a family that hosts all family events and team parties because we had the Recreation Room, pool, massive kitchen and grandparents who loved to cook in it and have company. I’m from the place where home cooked meals and movie nights are weekly activities. With Tundra, the family mascot sitting at our feet holding his chew toy in his smiley chops, in hopes you will grab the other end and start pulling. Where the fireplace is the source of heat and the TV is the only source of light. I’m from a 73

family that loves family and will do anything and everything for each other.

I’m from the place where the trees are skyscrapers, where the ocean breeze pushes its way through the family groves, where the moisture in the air helps you take in deep fresh breaths. Where the locals will watch you closely and judge you when they realize that you are a tourist not a local. I’m from the family that only wants to help and make things better for other people. Where, although not everything and everyone is perfect, we do our best to make do with the cards that we are dealt. The Valley.

74

America the Quiescent

by Brooke Skutnik My concern for this country is that we are at a point of stagnation. The wheels of change are stuck in the mud spinning as fast as they can, and yet they are going nowhere. People know there are problems. We can see the division, the addiction, the discrimination, the mental illness, the under-performing education system, the social media dilemma and the harm we are doing to our environment. We want to make this country a better place, but no one knows how. Instead of making personal changes, we would rather sit silent and stagnant, glued to screens, going through the motions of life. We are at a time where the world is stuck in a pandemic that seems never ending. Because of this, life is constantly changing. And yet in the last year of quarantine, not much change has occurred. People are dying, scientists are making vaccines, politicians are making decisions to impact our lives. The world is spinning out of control, and all we are doing is scrolling through Facebook.

My concern for my country is that no one is willing to listen to those whose political beliefs contradict our own. Automatically, we must label each other as Liberal, Conservative, Biden, or Trump. The fact that we judge people so harshly based on who they voted for, and not by their character just proves that this country is in a state of disarray. It scares me that no one will take a step back and listen, but instead they try to shout so that their voice is heard over all of the others. This never ending cycle of “my opinion is better than yours” keeps the wheel spinning, all while the citizens of America are getting nowhere.

Maybe the issue is that some people are too stubborn to change, while others are just plain lazy. However, I know that there are the individuals in this country who want change. But it seems like everyone is so focused on their idea of the best country, that no one will come together to resolve conflicts. The reality is that we would all like America to be the land of the brave and the free, however we are lacking personal initiative to make it that way once again.

75

Matthew 21:1-11

by Elita Eastman I am having quite a rough day. One minute everything is going smoothly, the next minute my whole life is crashing. I finally had saved up enough money to buy myself a colt to help me with farm labor, travel, and companionship and now he’s gone. I have done nothing to earn this bad luck, so why is this happening to me? My poor colt was only bought yesterday and he was probably very stressed out by the long walk he had to take to get here. I have to go search for him and bring him home right away.

I hear a crowd gathering in the streets… this hasn’t happened for quite some time. At least not around my home, which is on the very outskirts of town. I am fairly short, taking after my father, so I had to push my way through the crowd of people to see what was going on.

There he was, on my colt, a man with long, dark hair seated on several cloaks. Not only was he sitting on a few cloaks, but many people were laying out their own on the ground for this guy on my colt to stomp over!

The smell of cut leaves fills my nostrils, and I realize some are laying palm leaves over the path for him too. Only one question comes to my mind...

“Who does this guy think he is?!” I ask myself a little too loudly. A neighbor of mine turns to me and answers, “He has been sent by God to start the kingdom of David!” Immediately, he turns his attention back to this man on a colt riding through town. I asked myself, could this be true?

Has this man come from God? I couldn’t help but stare at him, he was stoic but looked kind, familiar yet celebrity… Then, he turns his head, looks straight at me and nods as if he knew that it was my colt who he had taken. As soon as his eyes met mine I knew that what the crowd was saying was true. My heart beats faster, my eyes started watering, but an intense feeling of peace ran through my veins. Immediately, I swing off my cloak and place it in front of this man and my colt.

76

Waiting

by Rita Woodraska Just wait You’re not ready yet You’re too young You don’t have the money Why is it so hard to wait Some wait for things they can’t control An end to days An end to war An end to this suffering in this life Some wait for smaller things A kiss A handful of words A chance to tell the truth Should we be waiting Life is so small So breakable and fleeting And yet we wait for it to happen Waiting feels like a moment Bound up by a thousand tiny threads While the hands of fate delicately sever them One by one 77

Unless Perhaps you don’t believe in such fantasies Then maybe It’s like watching someone walk across a parking lot Holding the door open Realizing you made a miscalculation It feels embarrassing Silly even And then that poor stranger ends up walking right by you The other way Leaving you dumb And still holding open a door That opportunity told you not to open So why is waiting important Why must I agonize over each moment Waiting for a task A person A moment To be free of the constraints of time Or fate Or whatever you suppose keeps you from destiny Some say it’s gratifying There is a satisfaction in the counting of fractions of time In marking the minutes and seconds In checking off the items on the list Before one receives the thing they waited for Before they see a moment long awaited And gone in an instant All this anxiety 78

For something we will forget to appreciate Once we have it Perhaps rather than seeking things in life Maybe search for meaning You need not wait for meaning to appear It is something you must choose to do Instantly And I suggest you start now Before your cynical behavior Makes you a distasteful guest At a dinner for dreamers Life is not about waiting It’s about deciding what’s worth waiting for The meaning derived from these crowded DMV lines And the frustrating waiting lists It’s not about what’s at the end of the rainbow And it’s not even about the path you took to get there It was every moment you looked forward And told yourself That’s something important and if I must I will wait for it

79

Old Friends

by Rita Woodraska Old friends are like old photographs You hide them in the back of junk drawers Praying you’ll forget soon Because you can’t handle the idea of never talking to them again.

The memories of them fade just like the picture And when they come around, After who knows how long, You scramble and shuffle And jam your hand to the back of the drawer To rip the frozen instant From its unfortunate lost holding cell Thrust it out into the open, Spouting something about some old inside joke And that one time when that one thing happened And the vaguely familiar figure gives a nervous chuckle Offers a quick farewell.

And you’re left Holding a beloved memory in your hand A hand pressed to your mouth You grasped for a tether that once tied the two of you together And you just now realized It snapped It snapped and you’re left cracked On the verge of shattering Sometimes I wonder Should the moment be left forgotten: The time, the connection 80

Or will there be a day When a joke mends the fraying Of a once beautiful and fleeting tapestry?

And if the answer is no, Why do I still choose to say hello?

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Oceans on the Mid Plains

by Rita Woodraska Here in the middle of nowhere Where there’s not a shoreline to be seen Here where the cows are grazing That’s where the ocean is for me Cool swift breezes sift over fields Of yellows, greens, and oranges alike The blades bobbing and rising high Much like the wakes far from here tonight We may not have the majestic whales To conquer our vast seas of green Cows, horses, and prairie dogs rule Over our boundless scene We also have no mythical land No “Atlantis” if you will For amongst these infinite stretches of land Clusters of life do mill We may not have the splashing waves Or the groaning of the whales But we have the dry waves of green Filled with more than just one trail So, here in the middle of nowhere Where there’s not a shoreline to be seen Here where the cows are grazing That’s where the ocean is, always, for me 82

The Change in Me: Understanding Yourself

by Calli Davis While growing up, you will hear time and time again that college will change you. You will find a new version of yourself. You will become the person you are meant to be. Many say this as if it is easy. As if you walk into the university and boom, everything makes sense. I wish this was the case, and for some, it might be. (Oh, to be so lucky.) However, at least for me, it isn’t quite like that at all. Any transformation in and of itself takes a mental and physical toll. In college, you jump from everything being familiar to something completely new. New room, new friends, new classes, new environment, and new responsibilities all come to the forefront in a short span of time. For me, the greatest changes were in my friendships, mental health, athletics, and self.

Throughout high school, just the thought of college terrified me. I came from a small town where everybody knew everybody. All my friends I had known since kindergarten or preschool. I had two older siblings, so most of the teachers already knew me. My parents worked in town, so I knew most of the adults that lived there on a personal level. I never had to work hard to socialize, and this caused me to develop social anxiety when meeting new people. You can then imagine that the thought of college and having to put myself out there to make new friends was appalling. It didn’t help that I also felt like I had to display a certain image throughout high school. This made me feel like I didn’t have my own personality heading into college. My self esteem was low and confidence even lower. That is why I cannot explain the appreciation I have for the friends I did make my first semester. My roommate and I were very similar, but it still took us a while to grow used to each other. Now, I can confidently say that she has completely changed my life. From confidence growth to road trips, to communication, she has helped me open up in so many ways and become more comfortable with who I am. We also made some quick friends on the first day who we spent the whole semester hanging out with. We aren’t very close with them this second semester, but looking back, I can see how greatly they contributed to my growth. They helped me with my confidence and to not take what people say about me to heart. We are still friends now, but I think certain people come and go into your life for 83

certain purposes. You learn to roll with the punches and become excited when meeting such a variety of new people.

However, with such a change in environment it can take some adjustments. This in turn can affect your mental health and how you think about yourself. As I said earlier, I was extremely nervous about coming to college. I was more of an introvert and enjoyed my alone time more than most, so it was a complete 180. I had to learn how to be in this totally new world while also taking care of myself. However, in the beginning of the first semester, I didn’t take care of myself the way I needed to. The first few days I felt so isolated. Everyone I’d known for my whole life suddenly wasn’t there. It felt like I was suffocating. I was thrown into an entirely new lifestyle. I decided to go to the counselor for the first two weeks to see if it would help. It was nice to let go of my feelings, but it can be emotionally exhausting. Yet, I think everyone should try it because it can be beneficial for those who tend to pent up their emotions. The other strategies I used to improve my mental health were journaling, playing the piano, singing, and going for walks. It reminds me of who I am and grounds me in where I’m at. Mental health can be an incredibly strenuous task to take care of, however; it must happen. Without a strong mindset and perseverance, it’s hard to get through each day, which shouldn’t be how you’re living.

Building a strong mindset can be very difficult. Being a college athlete, you have no choice but to have an unbreakable mind. However, I still find myself struggling with my mindset every day. It can make or break my work out or race that day which then in turn affects my mind even more. There’s a vast difference between high school and college athletics.

Mental health and being a student athlete collide quite often. It becomes even harder to take care of yourself. You’re also at a higher risk for injury.

I have been dealing with a foot injury for the past year and a half, and it has impacted me greatly and my love for the sport. Some days it can cause my improving mindset to crack, ripple, and fall apart completely in just seconds. Student-athletes also deal with an exceeding amount of stress. “For example, increased academic pressures, longer playing seasons, pressure from coaches to win, and the commercialization of college athletics all impact the mental health of student-athletes” (Ryan 68). For track, we are constantly working year-round. Pre-season is in the fall and then our season is all in the spring. It gets incredibly exhausting and can lead to an increased susceptibility to form mental health issues.

As it states in Ryan’s article, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and substance abuse are the most common mental health issues that occur in student-athletes. Once again, that is why it is so important to find time for yourself. By giving yourself time to be alone and do the things you love, you become more familiar with who you are and who you want to be.

Finally, as stated before, one of the greatest transformations when 84

transitioning to college is within the self. With such a new learning environment, sprouts numerous moments of self-growth. It’s not easy. It’s not simple. You encounter various people, challenges, opportunities, and struggles. However, when you make it a priority to take care of yourself, everything starts to connect. Writing in a journal has helped me a lot with this, but you can find your own form of self-expression. I find personality quizzes can be helpful, as well. One that has helped me in understanding more about who I am is the Enneagram test. It is a personality typing that can help you understand more about the way you connect with the world, others, and yourself. According to Simmons and David in their article, “When a student truly engages with this tool, it has a way of encouraging them on a journey rather than just providing them with a finite list of strengths or characteristics” (2). This can be a helpful tool on your road to self-discovery, especially with the emotional roller coasters that occur throughout college.

I’ve had so many highs and lows since attending my university, and it has greatly affected the person I am today and will only continue in guiding me into the person I will be. You feel a dramatic effect on your character.

This can be considered good or bad, but I believe everyone will go through necessary phases in their life. It doesn’t matter if it is considered good or bad. It is a part of your self-discovery and college plays a big role in bringing those phases and events into fruition. However, you can’t sit back and watch it happen. You have to give yourself the opportunity to grow by pursuing the happiest and healthiest you. To do that, you have to dig deeper into who you are. Since it is only my freshmen year, I still have multitudes of learning and growth to accomplish. Don’t feel rushed. You may never “find yourself” so to say, but life is a constant battle of trying to understand yourself and know yourself. It’s not going to be perfect every day, but hopefully one day, you’ll get to the point where you are proud of who you are and what you’ve gone through and aren’t scared of whatever may come tomorrow.

Works Cited Ryan, Heather, et. al. “Student-Athletes and Mental Health Experiences.”

New Directions for Student Services, vol. 2018, no. 163, Fall 2018, pp. 67-79. EBSCOhost, doi: 10.1002/ss.20271 Simmons, Elizabeth, and David M. Johnstone. “The Road Back to You: An Enneagram Journey to Self-Discovery.” Christian Higher Education, vol. 17, no. 3, May 2018, pp. 175-177. EBSCOhost, doi: 10.1080/15363759.2018.1453032.

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Creativity

by Ally DeLange Creative moments occur in our everyday lives; sometimes without even realizing. I remember in my seventh-grade art class my teacher asked us, “Who has been creative today?” As the room sat fairly quiet, staring back at the teacher, two students raised their hands. My teacher was disappointed in the lack of hands and began to ask us questions. Who got dressed today? Who did their hair this morning? Girls, did you do your makeup? All these simple questions were a yes for the majority of the class. My teacher then reminded us that all those simple tasks, like getting dressed in the morning, are an act of creativity. When I dress myself, I am being creative. Simple tasks in our everyday life can be moments that we are creative. In a way being creative is just expressing yourself. Every one of us is different in many ways. The way I like to show my creativity is by taking pictures. If I am out with my friends, we always are taking pictures. On a hike we will pose creatively on the rocks, going out for ice cream pose as you are licking it, just being silly. There is so much you can do with pictures and photography. Not only the way you pose but how you edit them after. There are millions of editing apps that you can express your creativity through. On Snapseed you can change the background, add special effects and in the end you have something very unique. Creativity can be expressed in many ways and without you even thinking about it.

Being creative happens naturally, as we express ourselves every day. The great thing about being creative is that there is never a wrong way to do it.

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The Modern Gravity of Technological Addiction

by Kiah Trainor Modern society suffers from the dramatic and diverse realm of addiction. We see it in different forms and different levels of severity throughout different cultures and groups. Though many think addiction is limited to substance abuse, in reality, it includes all materialistic obsessions as well as impulsive habits. The increase of technology and luxury has added to the ease of becoming inseparable from an object that we believe enhances our quality of life such as phones, television, and substance use.

Our society revolves around and relies on the easily accessible world of technology. In Dr. David N. Greenfield’s article, “Virtual Addiction: Sometimes New Technology Can Create New Problems,” he states that, “the combination of available stimulating content, ease of access, convenience, low cost, visual stimulation, autonomy, and anonymity—all contribute to a highly psychoactive experience. By psychoactive, that is to say, mood-altering, and potentially behaviorally impacting.” By this statement, he warns of the negative impact that the internet can have on our society and our behaviors.

We see in our own lives that the more technologically advanced our world becomes and how we increasingly become reliant on the technology we have, it becomes less of a luxury and more of a necessity. Greenfield continues to explain how we as a population essentially devolve and become sedentary creatures due to the ease of things like drive-thru restaurants, elevators, dishwashers, and other amenities and he compares this devolution to the current reliance we are building on technology.

“They all save time and energy, but the energy they save may dissuade us from using our physical bodies as they were designed to be used” (Greenfield, 1999). Though our reliance on technology and the internet is not as obvious an addiction as other forms, it is truly influential and has harmed our wellbeing.

Greenfield believes that the “love” that Americans have for technology is resemblant of a “religious fanaticism” meaning we attach ourselves to the hope that it inspires and promises (Greenfield, 1999). There are always new technological developments and we strive to gain access to the 87

newest and best available technology. In the first two weeks of its launch in the United States, the iPhone 12 became the #1 5G model in the country. This is an example of how much worth we put on the ownership of the fanciest and most desirable devices.

We have become attached and psychologically addicted and dependent on technology. Greenfield gives the following example as a reference to how we use the internet to alter our moods. “Nearly 30 percent of Internet users admit to using the Net to alter their mood to relieve a negative mood state. In other words, they use the Internet like a drug” (Greenfield, 1999).

The emotional attachment to the internet that humans have is closely related to why humans use substances such as drugs or alcohol as an emotional buffer from the outside world. In a study conducted by Carnegie Mellon University, researchers found that there is a direct correlation between heavy internet use and the increase of social isolationism and depression (Greenfield, 1999).

To make life easier and more convenient, developers of technology unintendedly made us as humans, lazy, selfish, greedy, and impatient.

“The Internet simply makes everything easier to acquire, and therefore that much more easily abused” (Greenfield, 1999). In a survey conducted

by Greenfield, it was found that the compulsive use of the internet is linked to how it connects to other addictions from which individuals suffer, such as gambling, pornography, stock-trading, online shopping, and social networking. Internet addicts claim that they noticed the following withdrawal symptoms. Preoccupation with being online, failure to cut back on internet use, feeling restless without internet use, and feeling a need to have progressively more time online (Greenfield, 1999).

In her book, “Digital Addiction: Debugging the Very Modern Problem of Digital Overload,” Jessica Forrest defines digital addiction, also known as screen addiction as the excessive habitual use of technology leading to negative consequences. Forrest explains that unlike other addictions when trying to resist temptations, internet addicts can not completely avoid the source of their addictions (Forrest, 2017). This is because technology has become a major part of our lives and is often a necessity for work or social life to keep in contact with family or friends. She also warns that this form of addiction can develop early in a person’s life, especially because of the easy access to technology that even young children are developing (Forrest, 2017). When a person grows up with certain material objects or freedoms to do different activities, it is hard to detach themselves from these luxuries. As a child often struggles to abandon a particular blanket or pacifier that they have had their entire life and have developed an attachment to, it is difficult to detach a child from the luxury of technology and internet access. Forrest shows how children and adults are manipulated by companies to become susceptible to their games and 88

websites because these companies, such as Facebook, use their algorithms and platforms to trick the human brain into continuing to use their programs (Forrest, 2017). There is also a correlation between the use of the internet and multi-tasking. We believe that we can use technology and perform other tasks at the same time but, actually, our brains are not able to completely focus on two tasks at a time, so it has to continuously switch between tasks. “It increases the levels of cortisol and adrenaline in our bodies, which can lead to disordered thinking or ‘brain fog’” (Forrest, 2017). This leaves our minds to be more susceptible to addictive behaviors and the addictive nature of digital devices.

Technology is addictive because of its attractive nature, we become addicted to the colors of the displays, the sound of notifications, and the feeling of buzzing. “When we grab our phones and see a bunch of attention-grabbing notifications, it strokes our ego.” This is an example of developmental theorist Pavlov who used operant conditioning to study how the mind memorizes patterns and creates specific responses to triggers. Social Media platforms are habit-forming because evolution has made us social mammals who have developed a fear of missing out, also known as FOMO. We have been conditioned to believe that without checking our media platforms often, we will not be “in the know” about the lives of others (Forrest, 2017). We often post on social media seeking the attention of others as well as the “joy” we receive when others like or respond to what we post.

In conclusion, our society has become heavily dependent on the luxury of technological advancements and access to internet use. We have become attached to this amenity and use it habitually to distract ourselves from our real world lives and have become enthralled with having the quality of life portrayed on social platforms. Though technology has become essential in our daily lives, it has also become heavily addictive and affects how we live in decreasing our individual independence. It is imperative that we begin to accept that the internet is truly addictive and begin to regulate the use of technology especially in children in an effort to protect our children from this dependency on technology that are beginning to develop at a very young age.

Works Cited

Forrest, Jessica. Digital Addiction: Debugging the Very Modern Problem of Digital Overload. Createspace, 2017.

Greenfield, David N. “Virtual Addiction: Sometimes New Technology Can Create New Problems.” The Center for Internet Studies @ Pscyhological Health Associates, 1999. https://citeseerx.ist.psu.edu/ viewdoc/download?doi=10.1.1.133.3845&rep=rep1&type=pdf 89

Bede Art Gallery Mount Marty University Student Artwork

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Signue Lakota Macie Ferwerda

The Doors Karlee McKinney 91

Cars are a Girl’s Best Friend Heather Maier

Photo of Missouri River Adam Yalch 92

Tipi Sadie LaPointe

Diver Caitlyn Brewer 93

Tri-Color Vase Alice Schleich

Swirly Sunflower Tayler Carlson 94

Let the Sunshine Ali Hughes

Summer Vacation Madelyn VerMulm 95

Crush Payten Burtzlaff

Colorful Flowers Rachel Pavelka 96

Until Next Time Chantel Brende

Sand Wares Madison Van Wyhe 97

Heart Cesar Urerda Gonzalez

#8 Chantel Brende 98

Our Reality Morgan Stohlmann

My Artist Chase Vleck 99

Joshua 1:9 Sarah Konrad

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Book Reviews

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I Have a Poem the Size of the Moon

by Matt Mason

by McKenna Cooley Matt Mason’s, I Have a Poem the Size of the Moon, book of poetry was published in 2020 by Stephen F. Austin State University Press. Mason is also the author of Things We Don’t Know We Don’t Know and The Baby That Ate Cincinnati. Mason is Nebraska’s 3rd State Poet, serving from 2019 until November 2023.

I enjoyed the opening title poem, I Have a Poem the Size of the Moon.

It is short and sweet. Funny and memorable in a good way. It’s effortless in its form and a great way to start a poetry book. I also enjoyed Ode to Omaha. It is a longer piece with its repetitions, but also has complex details. It draws you into its lush scenery, giving you the opportunity to be on the streets of Omaha even when you aren’t there in person. The poem is for the land and the people that live there. It is to be admired by those looking in at its beauty.

A Thing That Happened is one of my favorites because it’s honest, real, and you can see the emotions written behind the words. I can’t imagine what it is like for parents to hear about their kids going through active shooter drills. When I did those in school I always assumed that my parents and grandparents had as well. How the times have changed that they can no longer relate to our school experiences because we live under constant thoughts of what to do if someone dangerous gets into your school. Hide as quickly as possible, barricade if you can, don’t look the person in the face if they get in, and don’t distract the police officers that respond first because they are looking for the intruder; you’ll get help after the building is clear. I never thought it was strange to know those things, until I read this poem.

Mason’s book is filled to the brim with immediate, knee jerking reactions to events, like in “Flash”. His poetry has an ease to its writing and format.

He sees the news in front of him or listens to a conversation with his daughters and responds. He doesn’t overthink the process, making it easy for anyone to read and relate. I enjoyed reading his poetry, especially about things that were direct reactions to real events.

He gives a Nebraskan point of view of life. Both rural and urban, past and present. It is relatable, even to those who don’t live in Nebraska. He gives readers a look inside his life that is multifaceted. Not one moment or poem is boring.

He mixes short and long stories together fluidly, giving readers variety and the opportunity to go deeper if they wish. He adds layers and depth 102

to what some may consider to be simple ideas, things, like “Three Poems About The Eclipse,” for instance.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Mason’s poetry. I had never read anything by him before this, but I can now state with confidence that I am a fan and look forward to more poems from him.

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Best of Brevity

by McKenna Cooley Best of Brevity is a collection of eighty-four essays from the past twenty years of Flash Non-Fiction. Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction has published hundreds of brief nonfiction essays by writers around the world. Brevity is a specific type of nonfiction writing, with a word count of less than 750 words. The collection was edited and compiled by Zoe Bossiere and Dinty W. Moore. The book also gives further resources for writers, readers, and teachers of Flash Nonfiction.

I really enjoyed the anthology. I had never heard of brevity writing or the journal until I found this. I also enjoyed the collection of different writers and styles. The collection gave a lot of different perspectives of a variety of subjects. It was overall a very interesting book and would recommend it to anyone who is interested in short nonfiction writing in a variety of forms.

There are really no rules besides the word count.

I chose a variety of stories that popped out to me as I read the collection to highlight specifically in this review because I think they are a good representation of the talent displayed in the journal. Thank you to the editors for listing the works in a regular table of contents, by subject, and by style, it made it really easy to find things again.

There are a variety of topics covered in Brevity; here are a few of the subjects that are covered with my favorite stories and contributors in each: Childhood Memories - “Suspended” by Kyle Minor and “Devotion” by Sarah J. Lin. Coming of Age - “Chronology of the Body” by Sam Kiss.

Disability and Illness - “The Birthday Place” by Rebecca McClanahan and “Shower Songs” by Brian Trapp.

Family - “Meanness” by Beverly Donofrio and “I Go Back to Berryman’s”

by Vincent Scarpa.

Gender - “Alive” by Laurie Lynn Drummond.

Grief and Loss - “The Sloth” by Jill Christman and “The Shape of Emptiness” by Brenda Miller.

Immigration and International Perspectives - “/’in-glish/” by Christina Tang-Bernas.

LGBTQIA+ Perspectives - “Transgender Day of Remembrance: A Found Essay” by Torrey Peters.

Race and Ethnicity - “An Indian in Yoga Class: Finding Imbalance” by 104

Rajpreet Heir and “How to Discuss Race as a White Person” by Sam Stokley.

Teaching - “An Address to My Fellow Faculty Who Have Asked Me to Speak About My Work” by Ayse Papatya Bucak and “Intro to Creative Writing” by Dani Johannesen.

Trauma - “Milk for Free” by Deesha Philyaw.

Women’s Experience - “Women These Days” by Amy Butcher.

I think I have found a new favorite form of short non-fiction writing in brevity thanks to these stories. They are all so short that the authors had to compact their thoughts to make an impact; all of these stories pack a punch in a short amount of time. I had to take quite a few breaks as I was reading and come back to it because there is a lot of heavy material.

But all of these stories are so important to share, and I think, most importantly, use to educate people about other’s experiences.

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So You Want to Publish a Book?

by McKenna Cooley Anne Trubek gives an honest insight into the publishing industry with her book, So You Want to Publish a Book?, published in 2020. Trubek is the founder and head publisher of Belt Publishing, which produced this book. She is published in previous titles, but is most known for her popular newsletter “Notes From a Small Press.”

I found Trubek’s voice throughout the book to be entertaining and informative. She seems very well versed in the publishing industry. It is clear that she has spent a lot of time as both a writer and a owner of a publishing company.

It is also clear that she understands how complicated the process is to understand and wanted to make the book as well versed, yet specific as possible. There are areas she could have expanded more in, but I didn’t find the book lacking at all; she gave just enough information in all areas so as to not confuse readers.

Trubek uses an honest, yet funny voice to bring readers inside the mysterious world of publishing, using her small company Belt Publishing as a basis of a lot of the ideas. It gives readers the opportunity to learn and understand all of the jargon that publishers use from queries, to print runs, differences in publishing houses and styles, as well as editing and author participation.

It is a quick and easy read for anyone who has ever wondered, “How does a book get published?” It is perfect for authors looking at publishing being their next step. It is also a must for people looking to get into the industry in a variety of avenues. There is a lot of work that goes into publishing a book and if you can imagine how many thousands of books are published every month, it makes for a lot of effort and work by a lot of people to get so many ideas into the world.

The book shows readers: the lay of the publishing landscape, turning ideas into books, how much publishing costs, the editorial process, the production process, middlemen, and selling books. What does it mean to be a best-seller or how money is made off publishing a book? Trubek answers all of these questions and more.

She gives a lot of insider tips on how to have good first impressions with publishers and editors. Also how to make things easier for yourself if you are trying to get published. There is also a fun interactive part of the book where there are seven mistakes throughout the book and you can try to find them all and connect with her website to find out if you are right.

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Overall after reading the book, I learned that the publishing industry is a gamble. There is a lot of educated guess work and sometimes those guesses are still wrong, in good or bad ways. Publishing is also like a lot of things in this world, ever changing; things that worked ten years ago, don’t now. I would recommend this book to writers, readers, editors, publishers, and anyone with a curious mind.

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Craft in the Real World, Rethinking Fiction Writing and Workshopping

by McKenna Cooley Craft in the Real World, Rethinking Fiction Writing and Workshopping

by Matthew Salesses is a self-help for your writing. Catapult Publishing published the book at the start of 2021.

I really enjoyed Salesses’s take on how to write fiction, and how that looks different for everyone. A majority of publishing used to be geared towards straight, cis, able bodied, white men. Look at who was writing throughout history, who had the ability to write and get published at a greater majority than other groups. When you look at the stories that were being published, they were all like that because that was who their authors were.

Authors write based on what they know. White men aren’t going to have the same experiences as white women or any people of color. They can’t even relate to those experiences and struggles. It is even less likely to find an author who is writing about something the complete opposite of what they know because that can become problematic itself with stereotypes and assumptions.

Salesses wants this book to make one thing clear, you can write about anything. You don’t have to water down your stories, characters, experiences, anything to fit a mold. That’s not what writing is about. It’s about writing stories you are passionate about.

In order to workshop, you don’t have to put the weight of a writing style on yourself or others. Each person can write how they want. If you are workshopping with people who write opposite of what you do, they are going to see your writing in a different way. Every person views writing through their personal experience lens, so when someone writes differently than that, there is a tendency for people to change another writer’s style to fit their perspective.

Salesses is here to say that we don’t need to do that when we workshop with other writers. People can bring their experiences and different perspectives to the table, but ultimately authors need to look at critiques as suggestions and figure out if those suggestions actually work with their stories.

I really enjoyed the book because it was talking about something I’ve been discovering through my writing and workshopping through the past few years. Everyone has an opinion about which word to use, where to end the sentence, where does the comma go, everything. And weeding your way through that process to discover your story is a journey. But in the 108

end, what you should come out with is something that is uniquely yours.

Salesses makes a lot of great points throughout the book, but I want to end on something he said at the beginning of the book. It made it clear to me that this book was going to be important and that anyone who wants to write, but isn’t sure about workshopping and crafting fiction, this is the book you should read.

“What we call craft is in fact nothing more or less than a set of expectations. Those expectations are shaped by workshop, by reading, by awards and gatekeepers, by biases about whose stories matter and how they should be. . . They represent the values of the culturally dominant population: in America that means (straight, cis, able, upper-middle-class) white males. . . We need to rethink craft and the teaching of it to better serve writers with increasingly diverse backgrounds, which means diverse ways of telling stories. Like in revision, the fiction writer must break down what she thinks she knows about her craft in order to liberate it.”

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Words Like Honey: Reviewing Murmur of the Bees

by Kassondra Gooley Are you someone who loves poetic prose that explores questions of historical, cultural, and communal significance? Are you in eighth grade or older? Then Murmur of the Bees by Sofia Segovia, translated into English by Simon Bruni, is your next must-read. This Mexican novel whimsically swirls through the bountiful fields and asperous hillsides of Linares, Mexico, in the early 1900s: an era of war and disease. The story delicately paints the story of a dynastic ranching family and their servants, all of whom live on a hacienda scented by thyme, Mexican tea growing in garden pots, the euphoric smell of orange trees and honey, with words almost sensually elegant. Among them is an incalculably old wet nurse, Nana Reja, who nourished multiple generations of the Morales family and spends each day in her rocking chair until she disappears.

She is found with a baby whose deformity begs the question of possible survival. Despite doubts, the Morales family takes the child under their care, allowing Reja to nurture him as she sees fit. As the family grows and life in Mexico becomes a game of chance, readers also witness the pros and cons of the Campesino system and watch as Anselmo Espericueta, a laborer on the ranch, begins to harbor a hatred for the Morales family. To find out what happens to the family and their laborer, one must read The Murmur of the Bees.

Aside from the detailed, captivating plot, perhaps the best part of Segovia’s novel is her use of language. Each sentence of the book drips with gorgeous, pregnant imagery that adds finesse readers do not find in many modern books. One such example from the book is a statement depicting a mysterious gift that reads: “And when he [Simonopio] had completely unwrapped the package Simonopio had presented to him, letting out the air he held in his lungs, he uncovered its contents with relief: two hollowed-out orange halves, so old they had become shells of hard leather” (Segovia 226). In this example, not only does the language languidly drip off the page like honey, but it also provides readers with a striking image and the desire to keep reading. Another interesting element of the book is the mystery of the narrator. While the narrator’s identity is eventually revealed, the use of a related, almost omniscient narrator sets a curious, buzzing tone for the novel. Allowing the narrator to be anonymous in the beginning increases the suspense of the novel and keeps the pace steadily increasing, and emphasizes the narrator’s importance in the story once he is revealed. All this being said, if there is one criticism to be held of this novel it would be that the ending could have used more scrutinous revision. As a reader, it seems there are multiple 110

moments when Segovia thought about ending the novel, but instead kept writing as her vision became clear. While the ending leaves readers with bitter-sweet tears the sinews of their heart cast about the room, reaching the end is laborious for the reader and borders on painstaking at some points. Therefore, this book receives four and a half out of five stars.

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Happiness - A TED Talk Reflection

by Al Tennant America is built on the dream of success, but success can be defined in many ways. In America, the most accepted definition of success would be money and personal belongings. That is not true success in my book.

Success to me is happiness. I think Graham Hill has very good points in his TED talk. He brings up the idea that having more belongings and space does not equal happiness. It really begs the questions, does having a lot of stuff make people happy?

All my life I have never had much. I spent much of my childhood in a trailer home. If I remember this correctly, the trailer had four rooms.

There was my room, my parents’ room, a bathroom, and a living room that connected them all. It was in one of the nicer trailer parks of Aberdeen. It was right next to some busy railroads, so whenever a train would come by it would shake our trailer. I had never lived in anything besides a trailer, so I loved it. I had a bike, some toys, and my imagination. As a kid those things were enough for me. I could spend the entire day just playing in my backyard. I would go out and play with the neighbor kids until sundown when my mom would call me in for dinner. The only time I remember crying in that trailer was when I got stung by a bee for the first time.

There was nothing but happiness in my life back then.

As we grow older and collect more things it seems as if our happiness levels go down. We want to collect more and more. Cars, money, clothes, things we would’ve never cared so much about as kids. People think that money will make them happy, so they go out of their way to pursue a career that will make them rich, but it won’t make them happy. In Graham Hill’s TED talk he brings up huge storage facilities. People spend tons of money a year on spaces to put all their stuff. They pay to put things that they think make them happy in a locker to collect dust. If they really cared so much about those belongings, they would not be collecting dust in a storage facility.

If money can’t buy happiness, then how does one find it? Happiness can be found anywhere. For me just being outside in the nice weather makes me happy. I find happiness in friends, sports, class. I do my best to find happiness everywhere I go. I don’t have a lot of stuff either. In my dorm I have my laptop, my bed, some rugs, some snacks, some clothes, and that’s about everything. Those things are plenty for me. At home it is the same way. My room is not cluttered. It is not overly large but is a good size for me. I am much happier than many people I know. These people often have much more stuff than me as well.

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I’m not saying that having a lot of stuff is bad, but if you are on the search for happiness, then look somewhere besides stuff. Graham Hill’s TED talk has some great points if you are still interested, and I suggest you check him out.

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Contributors

Alphabetical Order by Last Name

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Tianna Bumbaca-Kuehl is a sophomore at Mount Marty University, who is majoring in Human Services and minoring in Criminal Justice. Tianna is co-captain of the soccer team and a runner on the track team. A resident from Santa Cruz, California, who loves traveling and the outdoors.

Noah Cagle is a sophomore at Mount Marty University and is from Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Noah is a varsity archer on the MMU Archery Team and a member of the 2021 USA Junior National Team. His hobbies include spending time outdoors, primarily hunting and fishing throughout the fall and winter.

McKenna Cooley is a Mount Marty University Graduate of 2021 with a degree in English and a minor in History.

The daughter of Amy and Marcus, from Henderson, NV. McKenna has been previously published in Paddlefish and the Yankton Federal Prison’s journal, 4 P.M. Count.

Betsy Crumly is a sophomore nursing student at Mount Mary University. She is from Page, Nebraska and graduated from St. Mary’s Catholic school in O’neill.

Betsy loves using her creativity in things like music, theatre, and writing, and she really enjoys being able to be a part of SNA at Mount Marty and being able to perform in theatre productions on campus.

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Calli Davis is a sophomore at Mount Marty University and is majoring in Exercise Science and minoring in English. She is from Elk Point, South Dakota and is on the Track and Field team here at Mount Marty. This is the first publication of her work. Since a young age, she has enjoyed writing. She hopes to further her writing skills at Mount Marty and involve it with her future.

Ally DeLange is a sophomore English major at Mount Marty. Ally is also a setter on the Lancer volleyball team.

Ally falls third in line of four children in her family and enjoys shopping, going on hikes and taking pictures.

Bella Diaz-Short has just started her senior year at Mount Marty University. Bella is originally from San Diego, California. She is a member of the Women’s Soccer team and hopes to become a future educator, as she dreams big about becoming an elementary teacher. In her free time she loves to fish and ride ATVs.

Brynn Dilly is a freshman majoring in Pre-Physical Therapy at Mount Marty University. She is originally from Neligh, NE, and in her spare time enjoys spending time with family and friends. These are her first publications in Paddlefish.

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Elita Eastman is a junior at Mount Marty University from Springfield, South Dakota who is studying Performing Arts, Theology, and Art. She thrives in creative environments, as shown by her involvement in theatre, music, and visual arts.

Brooklyn Eisenhauer is a sophomore at Mount Marty University who is currently majoring in Business Administration. Brooklyn’s hometown is Bloomfield, NE, and she is a part of the Track team where she throws the shot, discus, and hammer here at Mount Marty. In her free time, she enjoys reading, spending time outside, and helping her dad on their family farm. This is the first time her work has been published.

Stephanie Faulhaber is from Wessington Springs, SD. She recently graduated from Mount Marty University with her Bachelors of Science in Nursing. She has accepted a nursing job at Avera McKennan and is working on the Intensive Care Unit.

A’shinee George is a sophomore at Mount Marty University, majoring in Nursing. She is from a small town near the Four Corners area known as Shiprock, New Mexico. She is a member of the Mount Marty Track and Field team and is also an admissions ambassador. She enjoys traveling, running, spending time with family and friends, and writing about things she is passionate about.

This is her first publication in Paddlefish.

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Kassondra Gooley is a senior secondary education and English major with theatre and Catholic theology minors at Mount Marty University. Some of her previous compositions have been published by The American Legion, Scholastic Rising Stars, and the Paddlefish literary journal. Some of her notable works include her award-winning prose “A College Student’s Review of the CoronaVirus” and her poem “Legacy”. She hopes to continue writing and participating in the performing arts as able during her senior year beyond. Finally, Kassondra looks forward to inspiring her students to dive into the depths of the human experience using literature, critical thinking skills, and writing to discover who they are, what they believe it means to be human, and more life lessons they weren’t even searching for. She hopes you find something of similar value as you read her works in this journal. Enjoy!

Oakley Jandreau will be a sophomore at South Dakota State University. Her hometown is Highmore, SD and this is her first time her work has been published. She is currently double majoring in Public Relations and Indian Studies, as she is very passionate about her Native American culture. Oakley enjoys spending time with her family and being outdoors in her free time.

Justin Paddack is from Colorado Springs, CO. He graduated Mount Marty University Spring of 2021 and is currently working as a Patrol Officer for the Yankton Police Department. In his free time, Justin enjoys running, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and watching The Blacklist.

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Brooke Skutnik is a sophomore at Mount Marty. She is studying nursing, and hopes to pursue a career involving Women’s Health in her future. Brooke is originally from Omaha, NE, but she would love to move full time to South Dakota or Montana.

Al Tennant is a sophomore Biology major at Mount Marty University. Al was born and raised in Aberdeen, South Dakota. This will be his second year playing for the MMU tennis team. A few of Al’s hobbies include disc golf, cycling, and watching movies.

Abigail Thomas is a senior criminal justice major at Mount Marty University, who is also double minoring in psychology and Spanish. She is a member of the MMU softball team, a tutor, and a resident assistant in the MMU dorms. Abby is from the small town of Loretto, MN and is working to become a K9 police officer in her future.

Kiah Trainor is a freshman at Mount Marty University.

She is originally from Rapid City, South Dakota. Kiah is a member of the Mount Marty Cross Country and Track and Field team. She is currently a Secondary Education and Special Education major. In her free time, she enjoys being outdoors, especially at home in the Black Hills.

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Jeff Wanner is a recent 2021 graduate of Mount Marty University. While attending Mount Marty Jeff earned his bachelor’s degree in nursing. He is a South Dakota native, having grown up in Henry, SD. Jeff enjoyed many opportunities on the Yankton campus during his four years including archery, shotgun sports, residence life activities, and most importantly growing in his faith. Jeff plans to move to the western side of the state to pursue a career in nursing.

Jessica Warnke is a student at Mount Marty University pursuing a double major in Theology and Psychology.

After graduation she is looking to join missionary work in the United States before pursuing a Master’s Degree in Theology or Ministry. Over the years she’s been involved with the Mount Marty choir, band, and theater. If you ever want to see her around campus, more than likely she’s hanging around all the other students involved with the performing arts. She thanks God for all of the friends/ teachers she’s met during her time at Mount Marty and looks forward to her last year at Mount Marty.

John Sibley Williams is the author of Scale Model of a Country at Dawn (Cider Press Review Book Award, 2021), The Drowning House (Elixir Press Poetry Award, 2021), As One Fire Consumes Another (Orison Poetry Prize, 2019), Skin Memory (Backwaters Prize, University of Nebraska Press, 2019), Summon ( JuxtaProse Chapbook Prize, 2019), Disinheritance, and Controlled Hallucinations. He has also served as editor of two Northwest poetry anthologies, Alive at the Center (Ooligan Press, 2013) and Motionless from the Iron Bridge (barebones books, 2013).

Rita Woodraska is from Valentine, Nebraska and is studying Secondary English Education. She has written poetry from a young age and continues to search for inspiration in her life and the lives of those around her.

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Paddlefish Snagging good literature one line at a time.

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