2022 Iris: Art + Lit

Light adds an ethereal quality to every space, bathing it in evolving tones: hiding or illuminating what the eye notices, the mind explores, the body remembers. A flash of glitter on the surface. Cold shock to the toes. Foliage growing in dark sand, reaching toward a rising sun.

To

Humza Jameel

Rita Li

Addy Eby

Mimi Huelster

Hannah Brass

Anja Seifert

Addy Eby

Aarushi Bahadur

Clara Garner

Mimi Huelster

Addy Eby

Annika Lillegard

George Peltier

Ivy Raya

Settling Debts

See Glass

The Oak

guilt of the ungrateful

I am drowning in the ocean of my love

Bluebells ; God found me at the DMV

I’m growing up and out

Ellie Dawson-Moore

Addy Eby

Grace Medrano

Catherine Hooley

Eliza Farley

Addy Eby

Addy Eby

Kai Sih

Leo Sampsell-Jones

Eliza Farley

[PHOTO STORY] Awake: Senior Art Seminar

Belle Weng

Alice Duncan

Isabella Tunney

Alyssa Ebert

Sam Peterson

Wyatt Tait

Adeline Horstman

Liam Sullivan

Sawyer Bollinger-Danielson

Charlie Johnson

Lulu Priede

Lucas Granja

Lily Malloy

Hadley Dobish

Remy Ebert

Liza Thomas

Maddie Pierce

Nan Besse

Lucy Murray

Quenby Wilson

Carys Hardy

Coda Wilson

Griffin Schwab-Mahoney

Elle Chen

04-05

Painted

Anna Nowakowski

Maya Coates Cush

Nina Starchook

Emma Krienke

Natalie Waibel

Joey Stolpestad

Vivian Johnson

Addy Eby

Sarah Oppenheim

Annika Brelsford

Lucie Bond

Gray Whitaker-Castaneda

Nan Besse

Becca Richman

Naomi Straub

Asa Zirps

Remy Ebert

Hannah Brass

Annika Brelsford

Marie Schumacher

Mimi Huelster

Untitled (Photo Collage 8”x10”) Lulu Priede

Industrial Assemblage (Ceramic -5”x13”x5”) Anna Nowakowski

pages08-09

To Save Nanuq’s Land

by Humza Jameel

The soft snow surrounds Nanuq for miles and miles. The snow crunches under the weight of his tiny paws as he walks over to the hole in the ground where he waits for seals. He knows that the seals usually come up to breathe around this time, for his mother taught him well. Nanuq waits patiently for a seal to come up to breathe.

“Mama, Mama,” Nanuq suddenly calls, “the seals are here, one just popped up!”

Nanuq’s mother comes out of their den and races towards the seals. She starts pulling one out of the water, but it slips away. The other seals quickly leave after witnessing this.

“That’s the fifth time in a row that you didn’t catch it,” Nanuq exclaims, “you know that seal is my favorite food too.”

Nanuq and his mother have to resort to eating leftover cod that they keep in their den.

Later that day, Nanuq waits again at the hole for seals to come up for a breath. After what feels like an eternity for Nanuq, he still has not seen the smooth skin of a seal break the surface of the water, so he begins to wander off. “Mama won’t mind if I’m only gone for a little bit,” Nanuq thinks to himself, “afterall, she is taking a nap.” Nanuq has the entire area surrounding their den memorized, so he knows exactly how to get to the highest vantage point. From there, Nanuq sits and enjoys the view of the tall mountains and hills covered with snow surrounding his den. After a while, Nanuq notices a tall figure cautiously approaching his den. He races back down to his den just in time to alert his mother.

“Mama, Mama,” exclaims Nanuq, “there is a person coming towards the den.” Nanuq’s mother immediately wakes.

“Stay back,” she responds, “don’t come out until I say you can.”

Only after a few seconds, Nanuq, curled up in the corner of the den and covered in snow, starts to worry for his mother. “What’s happening,” Nanuq thinks, “Did something go wrong, is Mama hurt?” Nanuq then hears the comforting sound of his mother’s voice.

“It’s okay Nanuq,” says his mother, “you can come out now.”

Nanuq inches out of the den. He sees the tall figure dressed in a light brown jacket. “Hi there, little one,” says the person, “Sorry if I gave you a scare. I just moved onto the top of Mount Laijaq,

and I saw your small den and wanted to see if anyone was here. I have some seal meat as a gift for you.” Nanuq’s mother and the stranger begin to talk for a while as Nanuq just sits there, nods his head now and then, and eats his favorite meal. After he finishes, Nanuq slowly slips back into the den as he loses more and more interest in the conversation. After the man leaves, his mother also returns to the den.

“That is one nice fellow,” says his mother, “we should stop by his house sometime.”

Early the following day, while his mother is still asleep, Nanuq starts thinking about the man who visited them yesterday. Nanuq eventually decides that he wants to go and visit the place where the man stays, so he wakes up his mother. “Can we go and visit the man?” Nanuq asks.

“Sure,” the mother responds, so they trot over to the highest hill and look to see in what direction Mount Laijaq is.

“There,” Nanuq says as he points to Mount Laijaq, which is at least five miles north of their den and has a hut of some sort with smoke coming out from the top.

After Nanuq and his mother arrive, they are greeted by the same man with a shocked look on his face. “Oh, I didn’t know that you were going to come here today. I was not prepared. Maybe we should go to your den. I don’t even have food or a place to sit or lay down for you,” the man lies.

“You don’t have to worry about food,” says the mother, “I can go back to my den and bring some fish. Nanuq will stay here.”

As soon as Nanuq can no longer see his mother, the man quickly grabs Nanuq and stuffs him into a cage that the man had been holding behind his back the whole time. Nanuq tries to fight against the cage’s bars, but the man throws the cage into the house, and the impact knocks Nanuq out cold.

Inside the house, when Nanuq finally awakes, he opens his eyes to see a giant red corpse hung on the wall right beside him. At first, Nanuq thinks that it is seal meat, but to Nanuq’s horror, he soon realizes that it is the corpse of a polar bear, as he notices that there is white fur covered in blood around the red flesh of the polar bear. As Nanuq turns around in his cage, he realizes that he is surrounded by corpses of polar bears along with heads of polar bears strung up and mounted upon the walls around him. Nanuq stares in silence as he quietly mourns the dead polar bears until he starts crying. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop: tears pour down his face for hours. “Mama, Mama,” he calls, but of course, no one can hear him.

Outside, Nanuq’s mother returns from their den with food. “Where is Nanuq,” she asks. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know where he is. I think that he might have been eaten by a wolf,” the man lies.

Nanuq’s mother returns to her den in grief. She cries for Nanuq, who she thinks she has lost.

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“ Oh, I didn’t know that you were going to come here today. I was not prepared,” the man lies.

Nanuq is still crying in his cage when the lights suddenly turn on. A woman steps into Nanuq’s view. “Hello, young one,” she says, “I’m not here to hurt you. I am here to help you escape this horrid man. He seemed nice, but he tricked me into coming here and helping him. I wouldn’t be able to bear the guilt if he killed you.”

The woman opens Nanuq’s cage and lets him out. She then quietly opens the door to the building, and Nanuq thanks the woman and then runs out.

Outside, what Nanuq sees makes him freeze. All of the land behind the hut for miles is flattened, and there are oil drills, oil tanks, and oil pipes scattered all over the place. Trucks are taking the tanks and driving out in the opposite direction, where there is a newly made road. Nanuq, scared and confused, turns around and heads straight to his mother’s den. As Nanuq approaches the den he hears the loud crying of his mother. As he enters the den, his mother looks at him in disbelief and then hugs him so hard that Nanuq thinks his lungs might collapse. He explains everything that happened to him and everything that he saw.

Nanuq and his mother go over to the man’s hut and roar as loud as they can. Nanuq roars louder than he ever had before. He roars for the polar bears that were brutally slaughtered, the land that was truly destroyed, and the world that he lives on. Once the man realizes that Nanuq and his mother are attracting the police, he comes and tries to stop them from making such a loud noise, but it is too late: the police cars pull up to the man’s house.

The police find that the man was illegally killing polar bears and drilling oil. The man has no choice but to obey the authority and go into their custody. Nanuq watches as the man is arrested and all of his drills, tanks, and pipes for oil are taken by the police. The chief police officer apologizes to Nanuq and his mother and promises that they will not be disturbed again. Even though Nanuq truly does believe that the police will try their best, he knows deep down that even they can’t stop the melting of ice, the rising of sea levels, the destruction of nature, and the loss of animals by themselves.

Nanuq knows that he didn’t cause these things to happen, nor did his ancestors. He knows that humans caused these things to occur.

As Nanuq walks back to his den, he suddenly realizes that it is also entirely up to the humans to save this land. To save Nanuq’s land. I

All of the land is flattened and there are oil drills, oil tanks, oil pipes scattered all over the place.

pages12-13

Bear Line (Wire - 5”x5”x2”) Maya Coates Cush

sail away

Lucas Granja video

if I had asked, would things be any different?

by Rita Li

In childhood, None believed in blue skies. Hard was it to lie, To the eye. Hard was it to pretend, Not remembering. When all one had to do, Was to open the curtain, To tilt one’s head, And look at the sky. In Literature, Teachers taught to Stare at one tree, And picture a forest. When writing papers Titled Nature.

Many asked how, But each question Was followed by, “Use your imagination.”

It’s here where we had learned, How to make it to the word count.

In Math, Teachers taught to Count the buried carcasses And the stars. Calculate the distance, To the nearest trash can.

Many asked how, But each question, Was followed by

A fake smile.

It’s here where we had learned, What is infinity And what is none.

There were never blues in our eyes, The ocean blue. There were never stars in our eyes, The candle bright. Maybe that’s why our eyes were brown and dull. Right?

The only time I have seen a forest, Was through a cartoon show. Two bears worked together to protect the forest, “Protecting the forest is every bear’s mission.”

I stare at the concrete roads, tall buildings, and factories, Wondering,

What happened to the bears in my city?

What lights up the night wasn’t the moon, It was the city lights. Perhaps without them, The world would be in complete darkness. Under the city lights Could we chase shadows.

It was with the moon

When we were afraid of ghosts. In Science, Teachers taught to Ignore plastic, Floating fish. And recall lively rivers, From textbooks. Many asked why, But each question, Was followed by An awkward silence.

It’s here where we had learned, Even teachers can mistake the truth. In Art, Teachers taught to Color grass green, Flowers pink. And even described What is a rainbow.

Many stayed silent, We all have been taught to

Know better.

It’s here where we had learned, Even teachers were taught this way. It was the emerald pond that threw me off. How you were supposed to see the lively fish And cobblestone, Resting at the bottom of the pond. That clear pond with fresh water, The one the teacher referred to, Was instead like any ordinary dent on the earth’s surface. Filled with grey, And buoyant algae. One, Two, Three, I counted.

Never mind, that third one is dead. Of course we believed in the colors. You know, The green grass, And blue sky.

Of course we did.

Like how we once believed in fairy tales. But it no longer matters, The color, the argument, or the truth. We were the immature. Adults ignored us,

As we cried over the emperor’s new clothes. They just continued to Cheer the emperor on.

Tri-bulb (Ceramic - 13”x7”x7”) Nina Starchook

Ballet Flip Book (Photography Book 5”x8”) Lily Malloy

Summer (Painting, 9” x 12”) Belle Weng

i am going to

by Addy Eby

i can raise my voice an octave and soften my tone in a way it was not naturally meant to do

i can straighten my hair back neat and contour my nose

but no matter how hard i strain my vocal cords

i will sound more aggressive to you and no matter how uncoiled my hair is and thin the bridge of my nose appears i will always have an angrier look

i can emphasize my words never let the all fall off an alright leaving me saying ight i can lengthen my sentences and never let a “i am going to” slip into an “i’m finna”

i can refuse the dialect that so many of the greatest black writers and singers found their success in because no matter how many hearts they reached and worlds they changed Langston Hughes would’ve sounded better if he was a lot less ghetto

see i can spend all this time correcting myself before i’ve even spoke to sound less abrasive

i can minimize the features that relate me to my sisters to be more comfortable for you too look at

and i can refrain from using words that make you feel excluded because that is much more important than me reclaiming my people’s history but at the end of the day despite all the energy i put into worrying about your general comfortability forget my own there will always be an african before my american i will always be seen as aggressive and therefor unprofessional i will always sound stupid in a way that you probably think you know i won’t amount to much

i will always be overestimated when people ask me to do their hair and not even considered when there is a problem that everyone else hasn’t been able to crack an x that he could not solve for but is written and circled at the bottom of my page

but i am okay being underestimated for now seen as another black girl with a wide nose and an empty skull really its ight i just don’t want anyone to forget what they saw when they see how far i’m finna go

Figure Vessel (Ceramic -9”x7”x5”) Emma Krienke

At the Cabin (Photography 8.5”x11”)

Landscape Vessel (Ceramic - 10”x7”x10”)

pages22-23

Hadley Dobish

Natalie Waibel

Remy Ebert Video

pages24-25

Industrial Gesture (Ceramic - 12”x6”x6”) Joey Stolpestad

Kama’aina

by Mimi Huelster

The Big Island is too perfect. As I walk off the plane onto Kona International Airport’s blackened tarmac and into the outdoor complex of COVID screening facilities and customs declaration desks, a small colorful bird chirps from atop the “Mahalo! Welcome to Hawaii” sign. A gentle breeze rustles the palm plants lining the roped-off paths that split into two: one for vaccinated travelers, the other for those opting for an “additional stay.” Making sure my bright yellow VACCINATED

DELTA CUSTOMER wristband is visible to the airport staffers, I hurry down the first passageway to collect my bag. Sweat drips from my upper lip down my chin and soaks into the inner layer of my mask. It was freezing on the plane, but now my thinning hoodie feels like a parka.

Four hours later, I am standing in the nicest hotel I’ve ever been inside. I don’t believe that this is where we’re staying. When we pulled up to the front doors, and a couple of employees came up to the car, I thought they were going to tell my dad he couldn’t park there. Instead, they opened the doors and offered us leis. I laugh off my inclinations to brace for the realistic — my family is not used to this kind of vacation.

We mull around the lobby in awe. The entire building is open-air, so the wind from the ocean located down just a couple flights of stairs lazily makes its way through the building and out the main doors. The wind brings the sweetest smells of lilikoi and hibiscus and mineral sunscreen. Soft Hawaiian ukulele music drifts in and out as I eavesdrop on my parents’ conversation with the concierge, Mike.

“So, my sister-in-law made the reservation,” explains my dad. “And she lives in Hilo, so she applied for…” He trails off, trying to remember the phrase my aunt Heather explained to us over speakerphone on the drive from the airport to Hapuna Beach.

“Kama’aina rate,” my mom chimes in, her voice taking on her sister’s pseudo-pidgin accent.

The Hawaiian word “kama’aina” translates directly to “child or person of the land” and is used to describe those who reside in Hawaii regardless of their racial or ethnic background (Native Hawaiian people are called “kanaka”). The kama’aina rate, offered exclusively to those who have proof of permanent residence, is an opportunity for those who live on the islands to experience Hawaii from inside the gated golf courses and poolsides. Heather has used her privilege of owning a Hawaiian driver’s license to have our reservation include a significant price slash.

“Yes, that,” my dad continues. “But she has a new baby and with COVID and everything she doesn’t feel comfortable coming over here to check us in. Can we still get it?”

Mike is a burly guy with thin grey hair and a jolly demeanor, for lack of a better word. He’s wearing a greenish-yellow linen shirt with a pattern of grey palm leaves, a matching mask that slides down his nose when he talks, and a name tag that says “MAHALO! MY NAME IS Mike . ASK ME ANYTHING!” All the other concierges are wearing the same thing, too, though I doubt all their name tags also have a “ ” Mike’s eyes lose their joyful squint as he looks my family up and down, assessing.

We do not look like kama’aina qualifiers. We are the palest of white and smell like pennies from our thirteen hours in transit. Despite the lack of specific stipulations for kama’aina, there is still a relatively universal idea of who should receive the locals’ discounts: not us, people who pronounce “milk” like “melk.”

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Ceramic Vase Form (Ceramic - 11”x8”x8”) Vivian Johnson

After some personal deliberation, Mike makes a decision.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll apply the kama’aina right now.”

He taps away at his computer, most likely granting us the discount, but in my mind he’s typing my aunt’s address into Google Maps, just to make sure it’s real.

Two days later, I lie in my parent’s hotel bed as the sun sets over the ocean’s horizon. Their room has a small balcony, and its doors are open, allowing for a soft breeze to tousle the curtains. Mom is reading her latest mystery novel out there by the dimming daylight. My siblings are back in our connected room, eating chocolate-covered macadamia nuts and onion chips from the snack shop downstairs. My dad pulls up The White Lotus on the hotel’s television. There’s a new episode out today.

The White Lotus is a black comedy about privilege concerning class, race, opportunity, and ethics through the lens of a luxury Hawaiian resort. Dad and I started watching it together long before we left for Hawaii, but the prospect of eventually being in the same environment as the show’s events lurked in the back of my mind as each episode aired. Now, sitting in a room which, although not as absurdly nice as those in The White Lotus, does bear some resemblance and certainly offers the same experiences — white sand beaches, fancy restaurants, obnoxious families — I start to feel claustrophobic. Once the episode is over, I turn to my dad.

“I’m glad we’re going to Hilo tomorrow,” I say.

“Me too,” says Dad. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

“Me too.” I pause, unsure of whether or not to ask my next question. “We’re not resort people, are we?”

who stay at resorts?

Dad thinks it over. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, this is the first time we’ve been able to afford someplace like this, so it’s not a pattern, but it could become one.”

“I don’t want to be resort people, though,” I clarify. “I feel like a fraud. Like I’m fake.”

“I get that. This is nice, but it is kinda too nice, isn’t it? I want to actually see Hawaii.”

“Yeah.”

We sit in the room in silence for a bit, listening to the waves rolling outside and the faint sound of reggae music coming from the dining areas. I realize I don’t know what I meant by resort people. People who stay at resorts? People who travel for fun during a pandemic? People who are so blind to their own privilege they’re able to watch a show that satirizes a mirror of themselves and laugh? White nuclear families whose kids pee in the pool while the dad gets drunk and the mom flirts with the surfing instructor? I still don’t know. I convince myself this stay on Hapuna Beach is a blip, that I won’t be a part of the problem — although I’m not sure which problem — once we get to Hilo tomorrow, once we see our family.

Just then, Mom comes into the room.

“I’m hungry. Let’s order room service,” she says, picking up a menu that doubles as a souvenir catalogue.

The next day we drive halfway around the island towards Hilo. I notice that the further and further we get from Kona and the resort, the less catered the landscape becomes. White beaches

“ I realize I don’t know what I meant by resort people. People

turn black as fine sands grow into spills of volcanic rock, Pele’s fingers stretching into the ocean. Swaths of grassland turn into lush forest and then back to grassland again. After a couple of hours, we drive through Hilo. The largest town on the Big Island, it’s a unique mix of 1950s slatted shacks and western false front architecture. Each storefront is decorated with colorful murals and posters and deep brown water stains from the countless rainy seasons’ monsoons. We keep driving. I had forgotten that Heather does not live in Hilo proper but in a small town on the edge of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, aptly named Volcano.

Volcano is as if someone had bought an entire township from The Middle of Nowhere, Midwest, and moved it to the Big Island of Hawaii. It’s strange, and delightfully so. Stone statues of fat, happy Buddhas poke their heads out between massive ferns and kukui trees along roads to mark driveways. BEWARE OF DOG signs are used the same way. Motels advertise wine samplings at the local vineyard, specializing in sadistically alcoholic fruit wines, and showtimes for the local theater troupe’s latest show: The Pirates of Penzance. There’s a farmer’s market, a covered skatepark, and a Thai food truck that makes the best spring rolls I’ve ever eaten.

My aunt Heather lives in a stilt house tucked in a thicket that is almost blindingly green. Her baby blue manual Subaru Outback and her partner Pat’s pickup truck adorned in Grateful Dead bumper stickers are in the gravel driveway. Under the house are their washer and dryer and so many surfboards, skateboards, and other kinds of boards. Upstairs is just big enough to fit Heather, Pat, and their toddler Finneas. Six-year-old wild child Teotzin also joins them for half the week when he’s not staying with his dad. The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, family photos, and Teo’s art. In the bathroom is an entire installation of Heather’s homemade earrings, eyes of tiny pop culture icons pasted to wooden shapes watching you wash your hands.

Auntie Heather is the gold to my mother’s silver. Her tanned skin and brown curls carved into a gentle mullet are some of the few physical differences she has from my mom. They even sound alike — over FaceTime, Teo and Finni are horrified as they come to discover their mom (really their Auntie Heidi) has become trapped behind a phone screen.

Heather’s twenty years on the island have chipped away at her midwestern accent and replaced it with Hawaiian slang and linguistically sound pronunciations. One thing that has never changed, though, is her penchant for one-syllable names. My mom, Heidi, will always be Heid. I will always be Meems. Only my dad, however, gets an extension of his name: Josh will always, always, be Joshy.

Heather moved to the Big Island in 2001 to study at the university in Hilo. Before then, she studied at the University of Montana in Bozeman and studied abroad in Iceland and Mongolia. Initially, Hawaii was just a stopover for Heather before moving on to Stellenbosch, South Africa. Nothing besides the stunning landscape was that attractive to her.

“I come from the Midwest, right, so cold weather is in my bones,” Heather tells me. As she speaks, a broad smile grows across her face. “I just remember just sweating for the first year.”

When asked why she decided to stay, Heather’s smile disappears, considering my question. She looks up, a habit I recognize from myself as a signal she’s thinking of what to say next.

“Really the only reason why I stayed in Hilo was because it was a very quirky place to me, and I liked that,” she begins. “It’s been twenty years now, but I really liked that I was the minority as a white woman. I felt like that was good for me.”

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, individuals who identify as white, such as my aunt, make up 25.5% of Hawaii’s population. While in comparison to practically every other U.S. state that is a meager percentage

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Minnesota’s white population, for example, is a whopping 83.8% — it is second only to Hawaii’s Asian population (37.6%).

Pre-statehood, Hawaii was treated as an outpost for East Asia. Large waves of Asian migrants arrived on the islands, either to work on the plantations or as a layover until they could continue migrating to the U.S. mainland. With the influx of Asian migrants came an overwhelmingly racist reaction. Several anti-Asian migration bans from Hawaii were instituted by the U.S. government in the early 1900s and were only repealed in 1948. Adding insult to injury, the prohibitions were not lifted out of genuine remorse but instead due to the supposed disappearance of a former threat. Wrote The New York Times on the bans’ repealing: “The President said that the ‘continued restraint imposed upon these people’ by the Executive Orders had brought ‘considerable personal hardship’ and that the number of these people was so small and their age so advanced that their entry would no longer be a detriment.”

Many Asian migrants stayed in Hawaii, injecting their customs into preexisting Native Hawaiian traditions. The modern Hawaiian way of life is a blend of Indigenous, Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, Korean, and Taiwanese cultures. Driving along King Kamehameha Avenue in Hilo, named after the first Polynesian ruler to unite the Hawaiian islands, boba tea shops pop out of storefronts alongside sushi and loco moco to-go restaurants. Day spas and Buddhist temples fill the hills surrounding downtown. There’s an entire section of Longs Drugs (Hawaii’s version of CVS) devoted to plastic rice paddles and house slippahs — what mainlanders call “flip-flops.” Another aisle contains candies coated in li hing mui, a salty-sour-sweet dried plum powder that dyes your fingertips pink. A set of shelves are reserved for Maebo’s One-Ton Chips, fried pieces of wonton noodles wrapped in a red foil bag complete with an intimidating bodybuilder on the front. They’re sugary and savory and addicting.

My aunt Ren was the first person to introduce me to One-Ton Chips. Now married to my paternal uncle, I’ve known her for over half of my life. For one of the first Christmases she spent with my family in Minnesota, she brought so many Hawaiian treats I woke up on the morning of Boxing Day and puked. I remember my brownish-green vomit from the matcha KitKat bars and chocolate macadamia nuts. I also remember apologizing to Ren for the lack of snow that year, forgetting that she had flown in from LaGuardia and had seen snow before.

Ren was born and raised in Hawaii, mainly staying on the Big Island near where Heather lives now. She’s a fourth-generation Japanese and Chinese American and grew up surrounded by people who looked like her — thick black hair, gently bronzed skin, almond eyes that curl up and out in the corners when she smiles.

“Everyone’s Asian,” Ren giggles, reminiscing with me about growing up in Hawaii. “This is so weird, but I was only attracted to Asian guys in high school. But only because I thought that was what was going to happen — I was going to find my husband in high school and, like, everyone’s Asian!”

What happened after high school was far from the straightforward path teenage Ren had planned for herself. In 2004, she took the bold risk of moving from Hawaii to New York, following a friend of hers whose partner had just gotten a job in New York City with the promise of retail work and an apartment. By this time a licensed hairstylist, Ren took what she knew, and not much else, with her.

“I just moved. I was happy working at the hair salon in Hawaii. It was a nice, comfortable job. I loved everyone. I was doing well,” says Ren. “I don’t even remember leaving, it was so long ago. Obviously I was really sad to leave all my friends, but it wasn’t a hard decision. I don’t know I would have done it without having some sort of certainty about a job and a place to stay.”

After a couple of years of getting used to the city, Ren met my uncle Mac in 2006 and started dating. Now, they’re married with two kids, still living in NYC, and try to go to Hawaii to visit Ren’s family once a year. In 2021, their trip and my family’s happened to coincide perfectly.

A couple of days after driving to Volcano, I’m admiring a beast of a Harley Davidson motorcycle in a humid garage. Its license plate reads “SLYK.” It belongs to Ren’s dad, Jerry Chang! I add an exclamation point to the end of Jerry Chang! because that is how my family will always and forever say it, usually accompanied by a haka and toothy grin. A former Hawaii state representative, now Jerry Chang! lives in the upper hills of Hilo, surrounded by goats and leather jackets. Behind the motorcycle is a poster board of a family photo, pubescent Ren dressed in a black buttoned dress. Everyone in the image has the same smile.

On our drive up to Jerry Chang!’s house, we passed through neighborhoods with homes growing further apart by the block. By the time we’re in the hills, we pass by one place every three minutes. They all look relatively alike — 1950s bungalow architecture complete with shingled walls and the occasional chicken coop out front. All sorts of flags hang from homes. There are American flags, greyed by the rain. Black and white flags for prisoners of war. Tibetan prayer flags. One flag, in particular, catches my eye. An upside-down Hawaiian flag is hanging from a garage door, its Union Jack corner dipping low to the ground. It’s not the first one I’ve seen on this trip.

“Across the islands, on cars and on porches, Hawaii flags fly upside down, a sign of distress,” writes John Branch for The New York Times, “Some say this is a periodic reawakening and defense of a culture that many Native Hawaiians feel slipping away. All of it is backdropped by what the Americans did in the 1890s, deposing Hawaii’s queen and annexing the islands. Plenty of Hawaiians still view the United States as an illegitimate occupier.”

Hawaii is very familiar with the experience of settler-colonialism. In 1893, European plantation owners led by Samuel B. Dole (yes, that Dole) overthrew Queen Liliuokalani with the support of the U.S. government. Five years later, Hawaii was officially annexed. It remained a key military territory for the U.S. until statehood in 1959. During that time, the U.S. took it upon itself to build several naval bases and airfields, none of which are as famous as Pearl Harbor. An already suffering Native Hawaiian population wilted. Anger simmered within Indigenous communities as lands were decimated and people were exploited by plantations, tourism, and overt fetishization. Situations most recently boiled over in 2019, with the construction of the Thirty Meter Telescope atop Mauna Kea, right around the corner from Hilo. Mauna Kea is the highest mountain in Hawaii and is highly sacred. For many, any construction on Mauna Kea is a direct disrespect towards the Native Hawaiian people. Groups of kia’i, Native Hawaiian guardians, climbed Mauna Kea to block bulldozers and workers from entering the building site. My cousin Teotzin, at only four years old, was among them.

My cousin Teo is Indigenous to Hawaii through his father, Chris, Heather’s ex-partner. Two years ago, Teo went to the summit of Mauna Kea to visit the kia’i and see their work for himself. Still too young to have a conversation that doesn’t somehow circle back to playing with Instagram pages30-31

Hawaii is very familiar with the experience of settlercolonialism.

Vessel Form (Ceramic- 12”x9”x5”) Addy Eby

face filters or watching his “wipstik twix” (“RipStik tricks”), I asked his stepsister Kaiao about her firsthand experiences with mainlanders instead.

Kaiao looks just like her dad, Pat. They both have the same kind eyes that crinkle when they smile, the same big grin. I never met Kaiao’s mom, but from photos, I can see they share the same nose, the same long brown hair, the same round cheekbones full of joy. Kaiao tells me about one of her auntie’s homes that was nearly demolished to make room for vacation rentals. Her face twists into a dry smile as she tells me about the numerous mainlanders she’s seen move to Hawaii, only to be met with reality.

“We live on an active volcano,” she emphasizes. “We get tsunamis. We get earthquakes. We get hurricanes. And that stuff’s not really advertised. In 2018 we had a huge eruption, and a whole bunch of people from the mainland who had bought a lot of cheap land lost it to the lava flow. They just don’t realize when they sign their forms or whatnot it does state that you’re in the active volcano area.”

The mainlanders, unwilling to accept their own blindspots, turned to the ridiculous.

“They were saying that somebody has to go and move all the lava rocks or give them back their money,” says Kaiao, grinning. “There’s definitely a side many people don’t see to the island until it happens.”

While Kaiao’s childhood in Hawaii was full of frustration, there was beauty, too. Growing up, she was never far from family, and everyone looked after each other.

“We were a very culture rich community. We learned a lot about how to give back to the land as it gives to us,” explains Kaiao. “You don’t overfish. You only take what you need. And then, of course, if you’re fishing you’re not just fishing for yourself, you’re also fishing for the elders and family and neighbors.”

Kaiao’s entire family has been very accepting of my aunt Heather. Since she began dating Pat, they’ve welcomed her and Teo with open arms. Now, with the birth of Finneas, that bond is even stronger. Although Finni is endearingly referred to as the token “haole” (white) baby, Kaiao blessed her with a Hawaiian name at birth: Kahiku Uakea’eu’eu.

““Kahiku” is the time right after dawn.” I feel a little guilty for making Kaiao give me a whole Hawaiian language lesson, but I also feel a little guilty for not knowing what my own cousin’s name means. “And my name is Kaiao which translates to dawn. So she comes after me, and I wanted to be connected, in a way. “Uakea” means a fine white mist. I gave her that because of where she’s raised. Volcano is constantly misty. And “eu’eu” means full of life, which she has definitely proven that it fits.”

All my cousins are full of life, but my Hawaiian ones especially. Teotzin is often fondly described as “feral” — he runs over broken branches and dried leaves barefoot like it’s cool cement. He even ollies on his skateboard barefoot (always with a helmet, though). Finni loves nothing more than to dance and coo along to music. They’re bursting with light, and Hawaii has helped them shine.

Ren’s children, Louie and Kenji, are likewise full of joy but fueled by very different means. Growing up in New York City, Louie is one of the few toddlers I’ve met who is content to read by himself for fun. Kenji also likes to dance like Finni, but his gabbing is much more self-motivated. Ren wonders how differently their lives are going to be than her own.

“It’s so weird to have a kid be raised so differently. Every once in a while it will kind of hit me, like, Oh, you’re a New Yorker. You’re really American.” Ren knows she’s American, too, but it feels different. She sees it in the way Louie uses less Hawaiian slang than she did. In the way Kenji only sees family from the islands over pages32-33

FaceTime. In the way she goes to Asian American-focused events now instead of events with other Asian people. It’s difficult for her to explain. I realize at the end of our interview that it’s Ren’s story to tell, but she doesn’t have to tell it. And I don’t want to force her to.

As we near the end of our conversation, I ask Heather if she had to summarize her experience in Hawaii as a whole, what she would say. There’s a long pause as she looks up, deep in thought again. She takes a breath and speaks.

“There’s a lot of beauty in the diversity that’s here in Hawaii, Meems. I get to take my kids to Chinese New Year. I get to take my kids to King Kamehameha Day. Where I rest at night — and this is from Pat’s family, too — is that it’s a very beautiful thing that we can all be together and learn these practices and really listen to each other. And that’s a really enriching environment. I think where we get in trouble is when people come to Hawaii and think they have a better idea.”

In honor of Hawaii’s 20th anniversary of statehood, Dave Smith, a reporter for the LA Times, traveled to Honolulu in 1979. Walking around the main commercial strip, Smith stopped and interviewed several tourists, most of whom were white, about their initial impressions of the islands. One of the couples he interviewed was from Michigan.

“‘Well, it’s absolutely beautiful,’ the woman says. ‘But it isn’t quite like I imagined…’

‘Our hotel is terrific,’ the man says. ‘We rung up room service when we got in, and the food was excellent.’

‘Oh yes,’ she agrees. ‘It’s a nice hotel, very comfortable. But, I don’t know, I guess I just expected it to be less commercial, but I guess I thought it would be more like a different country, sort of…’”

The mainland expectation that Hawaii is meant to behave like its own nation, an exception to the American curse of fast food drive-throughs and neon signage and metered parking, is born out of ignorance. Even forty years ago, these delusions were well-steeped in the public’s mindset. Writes Smith later on in the article, “While it might be argued that the Hawaiian Islands were taken over by a succession of newcomers, a reading of Hawaiian history also gives an impression that its people virtually gave themselves away for the asking, unwittingly and out of pure good nature.” The mainland American expectation of Hawaii suspends the state in limbo. It is meant to serve as a national getaway, a paradise to explore without the need of a passport, all while balancing its sense of national belonging with its exoticism. Hawaii and its people are, in turn, ostracized and exploited. There should, of course, be individuals working in the hospitality industry, available at every tourist’s beck and call, but no one should actually live there, right?

It’s our last full day in Hawaii, and I’m sitting on a park bench in Hilo, eating One-Ton chips from a plastic baggie. To my left is my aunt Ren, who has graciously offered to share her snack with me. We watch a mongoose scurry across the volcanic rock below, disappearing into a crevice as seawater splashes at its tail. Beside us, my uncle Mac is holding a fly fishing rod and wearing a pair of polarized sunglasses that have a fabric strap around the back of your head for maximum security. My dad, who, in stark contrast, is wearing normal sunglasses, drinks a can of

There’s a lot of beauty in the diversity that’s here in Hawaii.

grapefruit-scented sparkling water as he chats with his brother. Mac has just been fishing along the ocean’s edge and in the small ponds of the Japanese garden behind us. It was Louie’s duty to hold the bucket that would hold the fish, if Mac had caught any. Instead, Louie and my siblings are sitting on the ledge above the shoreline, dragging soft rocks across the pavement and etching pictures. Kenji is at Ren’s mom’s house right now, playing in her baby pool.

To my right is my aunt Heather, eating wholesome nachos out of a cardboard to-go box. My mom sits next to her, splitting the meal and discussing what else to do in Hilo while we’re here. Heather has become our own personal tour guide — per her suggestion, we got lunch at a local vegan restaurant that specializes in homemade kombucha, hence the atypical description of nachos as “wholesome.” Every once in a while, Ren chips in with some ideas, too, although with less certainty than Heather. Her and Mac and their kids are staying a little while longer in Hawaii. They wanted to see us before we leave.

As the adults talk over my head, I look around at the park. It’s beautiful. Massive trees sprout up and out overhead, forming a plush green ceiling. Wooden bridges curve over koi ponds. I see families picnicking on the grass. I see kids my age dart across the paths, heading straight for the poke stand across the block. Their backpacks slam into their sides as they run. School must have just gotten out for the day. I see young parents going for walks, pushing strollers with tanned, chubby legs kicking out from underneath fabric canopies. I see people going about their day in Hilo. I see people living in Hawaii.

After our lunch, my family drives over to the hotel we’ll be staying in. Heather follows us in her Subaru. We park outside but stay in the car. Instead, Heather goes inside for us, and, after fifteen minutes, comes back out with two sets of room keys.

“Here you go, Joshy,” she says, lightheartedly handing over the small paper envelopes like a double agent exchanging information with the enemy. A wry smile cracks on her face. “You can just Venmo me.” Heather shows my dad the transaction receipt. There’s a notable discount. Printed on the white glossy paper, right above my aunt’s scribbled signature, reads “KAMA’AINA.”

Bibliography

Branch, John. “’I’m Not Anti-Anything. I’m Pro-Hawaii.’” The New York Times, May 17, 2021. ProQuest. Heintz, Heather. Videoconference interview with the author. 19 Oct. 2021.

Huelster, Mimi. Family/travel photos and Google Maps observations.

Huelster, Ren. Videoconference interview with the author. 19 Oct. 2021.

Omandam, Pat. “Population Growth in Hawaii on Low Side: One Expert Believes that as More Figures Come in, they Will show the Isles had an Out-Migration.” Honolulu Star - Bulletin, Dec 29, 2000. ProQuest.

Shine, Kaiao. Videoconference interview with the author. 21 Nov. 2021.

Smith, Dave. “Hawaii--the Search for a New Identity: Hawaii: Mixture of the Foreign and Familiar A Mixture of Foreign, Familiar Hawaii: A Search for Identity HAWAII’S SEARCH FOR IDENTITY MIXTURE OF FOREIGN, FAMILIAR AMERICA’S AFFORDABLE PARADISE.” Los Angeles Times (1923-1995), Jul 01, 1979, pp. 7-a1. ProQuest.

Special to THE NEW YORK TIMES. “IMMIGRATION BAN LIFTED: TRUMAN ORDERS JAPANESE, KOREANS BE ADMITTED FROM HAWAII.” The New York Times (1923-), Oct 19, 1948, pp. 14. ProQuest.

United States Census Bureau, editor. “QuickFacts Hawaii.” United States Census Bureau, www.census.gov/quickfacts/HI. Accessed 6 Dec. 2021.

United States Census Bureau, editor. “QuickFacts Minnesota.” United States Census Bureau, www.census.gov/quickfacts/MN. Accessed 6 Dec. 2021.

pages34-35

Presence (Photo Illustration 8.5”x11”) Liza Thomas

like pluto

by Hannah Brass

i am named not for my good features but for the parts missing

i am chaos pure and true an asteroid field riddled with dust not the perfection parents dream but a child always falling a star they wish on but i do well maybe that’s why others never liked me

i come from another world entirely they never knew the taste of can in beans nor the old telescope i looked through its base wobbly like me

i grew up with the smell of grease car and pan we made trek daily i was normal there not here, never here do i care i did i do i won’t i am not them

i am of ferenginar, kronos, bajor

i am of star strewn cornfields

i am of metal, wood, petals

i am of time worn steles

i don’t have favor nor grace i have space

pages36-37

the climb

by

when the world stares up looking from beneath my feet I won’t be alone

Anja Seifert

Wire Goat Form (Wire - 5”x7”x2”) Sarah Oppenheim

Monochromatic Study in Violet (Painting, 6” x 9”)

Alice Duncan

for mom

by Addy Eby

I am from lavender soy wax or paraffin coating my sister’s ceiling black

I am from marigolds sporadically growing along the California coast the centerpiece of my mother’s favourite book.

I am from the Duluth flies ankle biters amongst the flat rocks past the dirt road off-highway sixty-one.

I am from yes ma’am, no ma’am and no room for Minnesota nice but still, I am from rolled eyes and passive-aggressive nights.

I am from swinging to tickle the treetops above rotting wood and hidden beehives.

I am from the Mississippi how it flows amongst my family all eight of us, petals flowing downstream.

pages40-41

by Aarushi Bahadur

Vacancy

The bright red Thunderbird’s engine hums beneath you, covering up the roar of the wind, as the car tears through the dark forest highway. The convertible hatch is open, cool wind blowing through your hair. The rich burgundy trees scattered among the pines and golden aspen blur as your car flashes past, shaking new leaves loose from the trees to join the dry husks crushed beneath the tires. Turn the bend, keep your hands on the wheel–the headlights can only cut through a sliver of the twilight.

The sun has sunk below the horizon–though when you don’t know: only left are burnt orange streaks in the ink-soaked sky. You’ll have to stop for the night.

Not far ahead, the glow of rippling light emanating from a sign basks a stretch of cracked road. The words, however, you cannot read; Your eyes are heavy now, your sight dim, but you have time to

hotel and catch the last shreds of color vanish from the sky behind the sloped roof.

There you stand in the doorway. Look up at the chandelier, a downpour of solid crystal tears, now down at the warped wooden floorboards beneath you. Two banisters stand proud: one going up and one going down, one with a white sign and one with white text. Sheer curtains billow around closed windows in the lobby, and shadows mill about in line, pacing, unable to reach the front desk. You have no trouble, though: walk up to the concierge, the neatly coiffed man smiles at you. “No need to check in,” he says. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

You point to the white sign, the banister that goes up. I want to go there, you say. The man shakes his head. His face is pale like powder, like strychnine. His smile is like sugar, like honey. “Read the sign,” he says. “There’s no room for you Upstairs.”

Hesitantly, you walk towards the flight of stairs. The white sign flashes and two words are clearly etched into the straight, sanded wood: No Vacancy.

Something sinks in your stomach. You were so close, you could feel it (though to what, you don’t know). Then where’s my room? you ask, not without a little bit of petulance ground into your words. I don’t want to wait here, not like everyone else.

The man points downwards. The twisted boards of the black sign have double the amount of words: Come As You

You look back at him once. He’s still smiling, urging you to go down. Take one step, two, three, put your hand on the rail. It’s not so hard.

Persephone’s BaneCeramic and Rhinestones (8” x 2” x 3’’) Annika Brelsford

“Don’t forget the keys,” says a woman. You didn’t notice her there before, but how could you have not noticed those cupid-bow lips? She’s smiling, dangling the silver chain between her fingers. “You’ll want your room. Let me take you there.”

The woman grips the rail, you follow in her stead. She passes you sly smiles (like sugar, like honey) as you go.

The steps twist downward in a snake-like coil, hissing, spitting, smoking. The walls are lined with empty candle brackets that sputter to fervent life as you pass them, all while you go down, down, down.

The hall stretches out before you–how far, you don’t know. No, upon closer examination it’s not a hall at all but a high-arched, cavernous beast of a room–a beautiful beast with magnificent silver candelabras set upon silk-draped cocktail tables, every plush, velvet chaise accompanied by a cigarette table, each marble statue unweathered by the passage of time.

You turn to the woman, groping for words. She smiles, her bow-lips bent, string taut, face empty and pale (like powder, like strychnine). “Relax, this is all yours for the use. Your room,” –she points down a narrow hall to the right– “Is the last one at the bend.”

What’s the room number? you ask.

She’s already halfway up the stairs. “Enjoy your stay.”

You turn towards the direction of your room, but the hall to the right where she pointed which you once saw so clearly has closed off to a chokehold. She must have meant the left. No matter; though you are tired, you can rest later.

Yet you hesitate, the lure of the massive fireplace drawing you closer, closer. Don’t look away from the fire (but you have to, you’re not a moth): who knows how many men have drowned in the ecstasy of the pink champagne fountain, surrounded by the sprawling clutches of narcissus and larkspur. The shadows cast by the flames bring a cold heat to the glass flutes set waiting, and waiting for whom but you? Over and

over you cast the glasses into the fountain and you drink and drink but the fizz fades and you’re never quite satisfied.

Wander past the fire, where poker tables line the walls as far as the eye can see. And there’s Blackjack and there’s Texas Hold ‘Em and you’re absolutely sinking, buried in wealth and you don’t fold until raising the figures sitting across from you up sky-high.

And you play and you drink and you go through full quails and caviar and mousse, and it goes on and on and on and on. You don’t sleep, you only eat when you want to but not when you need to, and it’s too good and still, the room stretches on.

Have you walked miles? Have you been awake for hours? Days? Do you even need to sleep? Can you walk the halls for years, moving forward, forward, deeper into the glittering underbelly of the hotel?

When the tables start to blur, and when you can’t tell if the card in your hand is a joker or a fool, you stand up on numb feet. Walk left—that’s the direction of your room, isn’t it? There are the doorways ahead of you.

The doors are made from the same material, a mess of wings and eyes and teeth carved into the dark wood. White veins criss-cross the marble knockers, and the keyholes are black maws for which the keys are no match. You don’t look up at the room numbers–something about this particular door feels right. Slide the thin metal into the slit and twist. The door swings open.

Whereas the hall had been warm, almost sweltering, stepping into the room is like plunging headfirst into crisp winter air. Perhaps the most surprising thing is that you are not alone in the room. A man and a woman are standing in the far back. It is empty, furnished only by panes of gilded mirrors–on the floors, the ceiling, the walls. They do not look like the man at the concierge, the valet. This cannot be your room. It is occupied.

Take a step forward, then stop. Walking feels like

sliding on broken fragments of glass. Look down: where are your shoes? Did you even have them to begin with? You take another step, but the stabbing does not subside.

“It’s not worth it,” says the man.

The woman gives you a once over. She walks forward, barefoot. You watch her face for any sign of a reaction, but if she feels any pain, it does not show. “You look lost,” she says. “Aren’t you just thrilled to be here?”

Wrong room, you say. You should have asked for a number. You make towards the door, even as your skin feels as though it’s being slit in countless spots. Reach for the handle, but release it from your grasp quickly–the cold burn stings. When you remove your hand from the handle, it looks raw.

“As I said,” says the man, “it’s not worth it.”

The man and woman hold up their hands–charred–and identical to yours.

“Besides,” says the woman, “the door is locked.”

But she said–you start. My room, it’s this one. It must be. (Your heart is pounding now. This isn’t right. Is this right?)

“Let me clarify,” says the woman. “There’s no point looking for a floor or counting out doors individually if all the rooms here are the same. Didn’t you check the number? Now, tell us,” –she smiles– “who are you?”

This is when you find that you can’t remember your name.

“Yes,” says the man. He tilts his head at you. “This is most certainly your room. We’ve been waiting for a third for quite some time. The more the merrier, as it is.”

(There’s no bed. There’s no closet. Did you bring any baggage with you?)

Who are you? You demand. (Do they know their names?)

“A sinner and a saint,” says the woman. She drops to the floor beside you. Her cheek brushes against yours, her lips against your ear as she whispers, “Just the same as you.”

Turn to the mirrors. There is nowhere else to look, after all. There is your reflection, swimming lazily beside you. Oh. How could you have missed that mask? It’s the columbina, one you’ve seen countless times at masquerades. Yours is ever so gaudy. It’s tinged bronze around the edges, glitter like ground diamonds rimming the bridge, a festoon of brightly dyed feathers clamoring for attention. Reach up and untie the ribbon, work through invisible knots. Your reflection drops the mask and you see your face.

(No. This is all very wrong. You don’t have a mask on. Because this can’t be your face. You won’t let it be.)

It’s almost unrecognizable: your eyes are sunken, your face is sallow. This is not the reflection you have worked so immaculately to preserve. Nothing about that twisted face in the mirror exudes your shallowness and charisma. Yet you are smiling, ever so wide. Are you smiling? You must be smiling. Why else would you see nothing but smiles up and down and all around you?

Let me out, you shout. This is wrong. LET ME OUT. This is not me. This is NOT ME.

“Of course it’s you,” says the man. “That’s the only thing the mirrors show.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, darling,” says the woman. “You’ll learn to like it. They’re the only thing that’s ever really known me the way I do.”

(Smile smile smile smile SMILE)

Your reflection gestures to you. Take off the mask, it seems to say. Stop hiding. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

“So,” says the man. “Why are you here?”

Because I took pleasure in things that society condemned. And sometimes what I did was wrong and sometimes what I did was selfish and I didn’t regret it. This is what you should say. What you do say is nothing. If you don’t admit anything, maybe that can stop the memories from becoming real. Tangible.

Evade the unfavorable. You change the subject. Where am I? you ask. You want a real answer, and you will get it.

Look at the man and woman. Really look, don’t just size them up as you did upon entering. Look at the mirrors. What do they see when they turn to the walls? They have shed their disguises long ago. They are clothed, but they are naked. They are familiar with the poison in each other’s souls. They aren’t hiding their nature, who they were in life.

And then you understand. There’s no point keeping the mask on, there’s no point hiding. They don’t need to look underneath your painted-on smiles and smiles and SMILES (honey and strychnine and sugar and powder blended into one) to know the ravenous, dark thing inside you. This is why:

It’s because there’s always vacancy where you are. It’s because the halls really never end, and when the

doors open, you’re always too afraid to step outside. It’s because you could never make yourself what you wanted to be. It’s because you always chose the easy way out. So, you already know where you are. That realization isn’t the panic you inevitably expected, it’s the weight of a lifetime of lies that falls into your lap. You’re dreading the words that the woman says next. You’re dreading the confirmation that you don’t need. You know what you’ve done.

When the woman smiles, her expression is bitter and wry and you can see the hate carved into the jagged edges. Yet within in, you inexplicably understand that you’re going to be here for a very, very long time. She spreads her arms. “Room six hundred and sixty-six. Welcome to Hell.”

I

pages44-45

Self Portrait (Photography 8.5”x11”) Maddie Pierce

Jeane

by Clara Garner

sometimes I return back to a familiar place hauling sand to the beach and trying to clean it out of the grass where we spilled it walking down the steep hill to the edge of the lake like always the fire seems to climb like the monkey in Joe’s song but for the first time plastic chairs no longer grip the sweat on my skin grandma watched from her spot right by the window as we sing and laugh on the beach

come fall we take apart the dock pulling at the wood grandma plays cards with us flying words we’re told not to say but she does as she takes the game

now I live in the perfect song of the ring that rests against the junction of my two fingers no longer does the brush of the cards on the table pique my interest

wood planks suspended in frozen water outstanding goodness paused

never the same without you I would bend time like I bend my cards reveal the moments I forgot and remind myself how life works you could give me the path and I would take it I bloom into something new every time I remember the unspoken lessons you teach

Monochromatic Study in Yellow Painting, 9”x12”

Isabella Tunney

“Bubbles” (Digital Art (AL 21-22)) Alyssa Ebert

balloon game

by Mimi Huelster

It’s your 7th birthday party. The night before it snowed so heavily your dad can’t open the front door without some force. Your parents are scrambling — your party was supposed to be outside. Everyone comes over. A sea of first graders hounds the living room. They’re growing restless. Your mom proposes an idea.

“Let’s play the balloon game!”

Taking the balloons that were meant for outside, your mom tells everyone to partner up and try to pop a balloon. There’s a catch, though — you have to pop it by squeezing it between yourself and the other person, bouncing between you like the ball in Pong. Everyone’s giggling. Your dad takes out the camcorder.

It’s four years later. Your dad has transferred his files to his laptop. He finds the video. You watch it all together. You don’t speak to half the kids in the video anymore. You miss that day. It doesn’t snow like that in November anymore.

Yellow Painting (Painting, 9” x 12”) Sam Peterson

time of year time of year time of year time of year time of year

it is now that time of year

by Addy Eby

it is now the time of year when winter is making way for spring white nail polish chipping off the ground to unearth the grass green at its roots patches of ground still covered in snow and ice being hijacked by little bluebells

birds returning to their nests in empty naked trees greeting us with their familiar song every morning

pine needles no longer the only colour littering the ground but slowly weeds begin to invade

the cold clean smell of winter mixing with the heavier fresher scent of spring

because it is now that time of year the transition from winter to spring those weeks of grey melting ice in gutters and fragile winded flowers

time of year time of year time of year

Voyage (Ceramic, paper -13”x11”x5”) Lucie Bond

The Dangers of

The Great Gatsby

by Annika Lillegard

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is the work of a talented author who means to insert racial hatred into the consciousness of readers through subtle and overt antisemitic themes. This racially and culturally degrading piece of literature creates suffering for Jewish people while normalizing antisemitic views in society. Because of its systematic and targeted attacks on Jews and their culture, this book should not be required reading in high school, where high school readers become desensitized to the extraordinary harm these antisemitic views have in society.

The war of racial oppression begins with attacking the mind of people. The psychological warfare of racial oppression contains several elements of conscious and unconscious intent. There are three major elements in the mental process of racial oppression. The first is separation, which can be detailed from the excerpt “The cultural perpetuation of disability” by Karen Whalley Hammell Ph.D.: “the purpose of displaying negative imagery of [...] people[s] in literature, film and the media is to affirm how different ‘they’ are from ‘us,’ and thus how admirably normal ‘we’ are’’ (Hammell 41). This quote demonstrates the purpose of separation which is to lead people to define the targeted group of people as other and apart from ‘normal’ society. The next step is dehumanization, as seen in Robert Mark Simpson’s paper, “Dehumanization: its operations and its origins,” where he states that, “dehumanization can lead to mass, ethnically motivated human rights abuses, like those of the Holocaust” (Simpson). The final stage of psychological discrimination is vilification, as seen in this exert from the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum outlining the common forms of vilification seen during the Holocaust: “Jews were an ‘alien race’ that fed off the host nation, poisoned its

culture, seized its economy, and enslaved its workers and farmers” (“The Nazi Party Program”). Vilification is the last phase in the mental war of racial oppression as it provides people something that they can use as logic for their hate allowing for future potentially heinous actions. Once the psychological warfare has been successfully completed, harmful action towards the oppressed group can take place as the people will no longer see the oppressed group as human, and they will view the separated group as a threat. The Great Gatsby is a tool in the psychological attack on the consciousness of society targeting our Jewish community.

Fitzgerald starts by using unflattering and highly stereotypical descriptions of Jewish characters to separate them from the rest of the characters in the book. This characterization of Jewish features is particularly visible in Nick’s description of Mr. Wolfshiem as he notes that Mr. Wolfshiem was a “small, flat nosed Jew” with “tiny eyes in half-darkness” (Fitzgerald 69). This description represents the first goal of all racial oppression, separation, as it enforces the idea that the Jewish community is truly different. This separation can be done in a number of ways and often is done by simply pointing out obvious physical differences such as the nose, eyes or color of the skin as mentioned in the passage. The manner in which Nick describes Mr. Wolfshiem provides the reader visual evidence to separate him from ‘normal’ members of society, forcing the reader to identify him as different from the likes of Nick.

Throughout the book, this method of identifying the Jewish community as negatively different and separate from Anglo-Saxon Caucasian members of society, like Nick, forces the reader to question the reasoning for this separation leading to the second phase

of oppression, dehumanization. Now that people have a way to physically or easily separate groups of people that are meant to be oppressed, Fitzgerald works to dehumanize the Jewish people. This is done as Gatsby says, “‘He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919’” (Fitzgerald 73). Following this statement, Nick says, “I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, [...] It never occurred to me that that one man would start to play with the faith of fifty million people” (73). This statement confirms the feeling of unease and mistrust that Nick hopes to imbue into his description of the Jew Wolfshiem as he attempts to connect the idea that he is doubly guilty due to his identity as a Jewish man. Continually, the manner in which Nick describes the fixing of the World Series makes it seem like an inhuman act done by some ‘abnormal individual’ as he presses this notion further, “one man play[ing] with the faith of fifty million people.” The idea that this was accomplished by one man paints Mr. Wolfshiem as something other than human, something more akin to a monster or devil. This dehumanization of Mr. Wolfshiem and the further cultivation of the identity of the ‘sinister Jew’ only furthers the idea that “The Great Gatsby” is antisemitic propaganda that is a potentially harmful influence on students.

Fitzgerald continues in his progression through the phases of psychological oppression as he aims to vilify the Jewish community in his book. He uses the historical vilification of the Jewish community from Christian society through the idea of the ‘sinister jew.’ This idea is presented repeatedly throughout the book

as a way of villainizing the Jewish community and promoting further isolation of the Jewish community from the ‘good’ and ‘proper’ Anglo Saxon members of society. The link between the Jewish community and the identity of the ‘sinister Jew’ is prominent in the description of Mr. Wolfshiem’s attire featuring, “‘the finest specimen of human molars’” (Fitzgerald 72). This reference to human body parts in the hands of a ‘sinister Jew’ is an obscure reference to blood libel (Gokhberg 5:6). Historically, blood libel was a story created by Christians and non-Jews that depicted Jews as monsters that killed good Christian children and used their body parts for decorations and food (Gokhberg 5:6). This reference by Fitzgerald is solely meant to vilify the Jewish community. Fitzgerald’s reference to this wildly false historical rumor and his lack of effort to properly represent the Jewish community only proves the point that Fitzgerald’s purpose in writing this book is to convince the reader that Jews are the enemy of society.

Some people would argue that The Great Gatsby should be taught because it represents an opportunity to understand the thinking of racists and others who would seek to divide our communities. The argument behind this is that students should be exposed to all forms of writing without trying to shelter their view of the world. Additionally, some might argue that not allowing a book like this to be taught in the classroom is a form of censorship and this violates the spirit of free speech, which would in effect be censoring the history of American writing. The end goal of the opposition to this book being taught as a part of mandatory studies

Mr. Wolfsheim’s attire featuring, “the finest specimen of human molars” (Fitzgerald 72)... in the hands of a ‘sinister Jew’ is an obscure reference to blood libel.

pages54-55

Painted Slab Vessel (Ceramic- 14”x9”x5”) Gray Whitaker-Castaneda

Vessel Abstraction (Ceramic - 11”x9”x5”) Nan Besse

for high school students is not to see this book banned from our libraries or burned from existence, but to halt the forcible spread of this antisemitic propaganda. The Great Gatsby is antisemitic propaganda and educators should no longer declare The Great Gatsby is an example of a great American novel similar to how the Germans disavow Mein Kampf as a great German novel. The idea that antisemitic propaganda has been chosen to represent the students and their values is not an idea that educators should spread in the context of an American Literature course. This book should be taught in the context of a class dedicated to historical social oppression where the issues in this text can be addressed.

Educators should remove The Great Gatsby from the list of ‘Great American Novels’ due to the racist antisemitic propaganda found within it. The forceful

exposure of students to this deliberate and systematic attack on our Jewish community serves no educational purpose in general American Literature courses. Praising this work as a great American novel only serves to reinforce the playbook of the racially motivated propagandist, which desensitizes students to the harmful slanders found within this novel. However, The Great Gatsby should not be banned from schools or libraries as this would be a form of censorship. The book belongs on the reading syllabus for a course discussing the psychological warfare of racial oppression and alongside it you would find other like-minded texts written by the likes of Joseph Goebbels and Adolf Hitler. This is the context where this book would shed its best light on the minds and hearts of students where it could be accurately called out for its hatred and deliberate attack on our Jewish community.

Works Cited

Robert Mark Simpson, Dehumanization: its operations and its origins, Journal of Law and the Biosciences, Volume 3, Issue 1, April 2016, pages 178–184, https://doi.org/10.1093/jlb/lsv040. Accessed on 02/8/22.

United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. “The Nazi Party Program.” Holocaust Encyclopedia. https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/ en/article/defining-the-enemy. Accessed on 02/10/22.

Karen Whalley Hammell, “Perspectives on Disability & Rehabilitation.” Churchill Livingstone, 2006, Pages 33-51, ISBN 9780443100598. Accessed on 02/12/22.

Fitzgerald, F. Scott, The Great Gatsby. SCIBNER, 2018. Gokhberg, Jessica. “Gatsby Day 1: 1/5/2022.” Google Slides. Accessed on 02/10/22.

pages56-57

Story of Us

What do stories mean to me? A lot of things. Sometimes it’s seeing the beautiful pictures. Other times the feeling of the rough pages beneath my fingers. But most of the time they remind me of my grandpa. When I was in elementary school, he used to read to me before bed. We read countless stories like Cinder Edna, The Crows of Pearl Blossom, Stone Soup and [The Summer of] Peas and Pickles. We read them until we both knew them by heart. He would even do the voices. I looked forward to reading with him every day. It was the best part of my day. Those hours laughing and sometimes crying together. And when it was finally time for bed, he would always tuck me in. As I got older and learn to read more complicated books, I would read to him. Looking back, those stories fostered my love for art and writing. Things that I’m very passionate about. And, even now, we still read occasionally, but mostly we just play cars and talk about our day. And that’s fine. You know, I miss reading with him like I did when I was young, a lot. But then I catch a glimpse of my bookshelf at all those rainbow spines. And I just can’t help but smile.

Video Nan Besse

a race with time

by George Peltier

The green light had appeared moments ago, Touch the gas!

I stayed far too long. Watching everyone pass with determination to arrive at a far-off destination. You have to catch up!

So you do as anyone would Drive

But to take off years in a journey

Is hard considering the world was never moving slow

(In the rear-view, a shadow is approaching)

That shadow is a forgotten name

Your name

Everyday filled with sameness, shame-est, IF If you can’t make that journey of a lifetime take only years

Who will I be?

So cold-hearted that you won’t even remember what your mother did, or that you once too made the decision to step on the gas when the car is illuminated with the GO of green.

Will I still see my friends?

Let weights drop by themselves. When does this all end?

Ambition Money Power Fame

where does it go when the shadow of time forgets your name

Your puny cars don’t move that fast

When I look down from a plane

Say it was all in vain, Not worth the pain, But which of us

Likes piña coladas and getting caught in the rain (you) And which of us vs. (work) Until our balls are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy (Me)

I wouldn’t exchange this life for any other

Truthfully I fear you

And your ways

How you spend your days

How the toxins of weekends

And aromas of sleep and friends and feeling

Could tempt me for only a moment

To wish I never got in the car that day

To wish I never took my foot off the brake

pages60-61

The Ride (Photography 8.5”x11” ) Lucy Murray

One day the sun will share its wealth...

by Ivy Raya

One day the sun will share its wealth register my being into its existence the rays will be woven into my robe and the light will glance off my heart

little men on ridges will slowly fall down to my nose while the ones in my head will pay attention and stop the creep of the fog arguing in my mind

Man in the Plants (Painting, 18” x 24”) Wyatt Tait

pages62-63

Vessel (Ceramic - 11”x13”x13”) Becca Richman

Settling Debts

by Ellie Dawson Moore

By 2063 the world’s population had vastly exceeded any previous projections released by the UN and in response, it seemed as if the world set out to punish humans in their greed for life. Wildfires raged and natural disasters were as second nature as blinking, like Mother Earth was throwing one continuous tantrum. At first, it was easy to brush off as a string of freakish but overall random incidents—that is, until patterns started emerging. Once seemingly spontaneous, horrific accidents started occurring like clockwork. When humans still relied on the digital recording of time, before clocks stopped working and kids began to be taught the ability to measure the day in shadows, it seemed as if the “accidents’ ‘ only occurred in reaction to something else, as if humanity had provoked the earth. A bill proposing a raise on plastic tax would be denied and within minutes the ground would shake. A country would pull itself from a climate accord and immediately be faced with drought and famine. Even then, the people preferred to live in ignorance as the truth was simply too much to bear- this was all entirely their fault, but there was nothing they could do to fix it.

They had polluted the water, the air, anything within reach of their sweaty palms they had grasped and destroyed. In other words, they had their turn, and now it was over. The earth was patient, having lived as long as it has. It has no concern for the fleeting breaths of those who remain here on the First Planet, except for revenge. In some ways no one can really consider its retaliation malicious, or even wrong- it was only responding in kind. Some people, so desperate to cling to their last five or ten years of existence, began searching for some way to slow the violence. Billions of dollars were poured into research, mostly futile in its discoveries. Nothing more than a bandaid to the rotting corpse that remained, that is, until anthropologists began being sent out to study new age cults that had formed in the wake of all the disaster. Gaia’s Army, aptly named for their unending willingness to satisfy the earth’s hunger and the group’s regimented order.

They were the first to suggest blood sacrifice as appeasement, even if only a momentary solution. It started with small animals: mice, stray cats, and rabbits. Each time the congregation would gather around a swamp left solitary in an overgrown field, left in the remains of an abandoned summer camp in preparation for the ceremony. The grounds themselves were thick and hard to navigate, long grass and weeds scratching at passerby and hiding even sharper rocks beneath their greenery. Any buildings that remained there were worn down to the point of debris, tree branches splitting the seams of the walls as if to reclaim the land. The swamp was maybe forty feet in diameter, two or three feet deep depending on the rainfall. Its edges were rimmed with thick concrete-like

They polluted the water, the air, anything within reach of their sweaty palms they had destroyed.

mud and at some unknown point in time signs were placed around its barrier to warn anyone from coming closer, for fear of sinking. The members of the Army began to associate its unexplained danger with something beyond reality as if the swamp were a gateway to somewhere better, a direct route of communication with the Earth Mother herself. They severed heads from rodents and dropped them into the muddy water, blood swirling on its surface and bubbling like soap in oil before sinking out of view. When nothing spectacular seemed to happen as a result, the members grew anxious. Mice couldn’t fill the deep aching pit of the earth’s stomach- the mice they caught and killed for food rations barely fed themselves. A vote was taken on the matter of sacrificing larger animals, specifically one child’s beloved dog, a rarity for a domesticated animal to even be coexisting with them, existing with any humans at all. Animals and humans had always had a rift between them, created by humanity to fill some incessant desire to categorize and to rise above someone or something, but after the earth began to rebel the gap only widened. Pets ran away from their homes or simply showed up dead, their furry limbs petrified in place forever. It was almost as if they no longer trusted their owners or any humans, like the earth had communicated with them a message the people were incapable of hearing.

The child’s mother begged the crowd to reconsider, her red face slick with tears as her pleas hit the air and vanished. They did not listen, as humans tend not to do, and a team began to guide the dog to the edge of the water. The child, a young girl of maybe only eleven years, had finally snuck past her father’s careful watch and tried to crawl through the reeds so she could assess the situation. Through the grass where she kneeled she could see her mother sobbing, her hands wrung together around the dog’s collar as if in prayer. She could see the direction her mother faced, her gaze pointing in a direct line to the waters that had all the funny signs around its borders. The waters she was forbidden from playing near, let alone in. She could feel her breath rise in her throat, choking as she realized what they intended to do. She had heard all the rhetoric imposed on her by the group and knew that the swamp was not really a threat even if she wasn’t supposed to be near it. She knew all this because the mice they had removed from cabin basements only to drop into the water weren’t dead, simply somewhere else. Her dog wouldn’t die, but if it was sacrificed she would never see him again, and would never truly know where he went. Selfishly, she found herself crawling through the grass, and if one had felt particularly observant that morning they might have seen the way the reeds rippled as she moved closer. Luckily, all eyes were fixated on the dog and its impending destination, all members present transfixed in the possibility that this might be what earns them their very own ticket to whatever lay beyond this wasteland of human consumption. The team that had secured the dog reached the first outer layer of signs and waited there for a moment, trying not to feel guilt as they prepared themselves.

At this point the girl had hidden behind a decaying tree stump, half crouched over in the dirt, her vision blurry from tears and an anger-fueled red that colored her thoughts. Pebbles made

“

Pets ran away from their homes or simply showed up dead, their furry limbs petrified in place forever.

themselves at home in the web of lines in her palms, and mud clung to the frayed edge of her raspberry-colored corduroy jumper.

The words drilled into her through daily sermons began to repeat themselves in her head, an annoying droning wave of her lifetime’s education. We, as humans, take and take. We take to feel pleasure, to feel full, and in turn, the earth has provided for us. We grew greedy even in the mere act of existing, we feel entitled to life. But we are not. The earth owes us nothing, and we owe the earth an endless debt. Now, the earth will take from us, and we shall thank it, and hope it spares us further pain in death, as death by its will would be a gift- to be one with the ground, to find no distinction between our interior and its exterior would be the greatest conceivable joy. They had said to give to the earth would be less painful than any alternative, but as she slipped past the legs of the adults at the barrier, and then the barrier itself she knew they were liars. If she jumped into the water, there would be no need for her dog to go too, but even if they went ahead with the original plan, at least she would be there to greet it, and they could sink into the earth’s embrace together.

One of the anthropologists had accidentally noticed a glimpse of pink out near the edge of the swamp, which confused him. He was not a man particularly prone to hallucinations, nor did he partake in any substance that would alter his perception. He found the world was deceiving enough sober. But sure enough, even after he took the time to wipe the lens of his glasses semi-carefully with the hem of his shirt he saw it again. An artificial pink, a color that would not have naturally formed around the swamp, nor would it be moving so alive even if it had been a unique and invasive species of plant he had yet to encounter til now. The director of the group had turned to ask him something mundane, like his thoughts on the weather for the day, but instead followed his line of sight to the same dash of pink thirty feet out. Clothing was scarce as productions had shut down years ago, the world out of their preferred fuels and practices and with no money or patience to develop new ones. In the chaos of the world seemingly coming to an end, fashion took a backseat. All members of the group upon turning 18 wore a cream-colored tunic, something simple that was meant to remove them from any remaining human vanities they still possessed. Children were allowed their own clothing, whatever their guardians were able to provide, so they could understand the importance of denouncing vanity when it became their time to do so. Most children rotated between one or two outfits if that, repurposing fabric from old furniture in the main lodge of the camp. The pink that flashed across the meadow then looked eerily similar to an old armchair that had since been ripped apart, its springs and stuffing spilled out on the cabin floor like intestines. Before the director was even fully sure he knew what he was seeing, the girl emerged from the grass. She had somehow snuck past her guardian and the perimeter of the swamp itself, no longer taking the effort to hide from the adults as she screamed and barreled toward the water. The director stood there frozen in time, unable to move in any direction when he felt the anthropologist shake him by the shoulders, screaming at him to stop her, stop this, that it was all inhumane.

Wasn’t that the point? That humanity and its ideals had failed and a new order was in need?

We, as humans, take and take. We take to feel pleasure, to feel full, and in turn, the earth has provided for us.

There were too many questions itching themselves around his tongue but they fell flat in his mouth and laid there. Vaguely, as if through a veil he began to notice the anthropologist was no longer yelling at him, was no longer next to him at all. In the same realization, he found that he could no longer spot the pink across the valley and that the dog was no longer barking. Within seconds of his paralysis, the anthropologist had taken advantage of the confused state of the group’s border patrol and too broke through the perimeter of the swamp in hopes of rescuing the young girl, fleeing, and forgetting everything about this awful place. Instead, he broke through the wall of people at the water’s edge and lunged for the girl’s ankle, the strap of her backpack, anything that would tether her to him. The backpack, like everything else on the commune, was old and fraying, and in the exact moment it was being used as a lifeline it snapped, their connection severed. The two of them tumbled together into the water and the mother’s scream punctured the shocked silence of the crowd. They had done the one thing they all feared, they all secretly desired. They had gone through the portal.

IA reporter and a recovery team were sent the following day, drawn in by the mystery of the water and the tragedy of the two souls lost. Everyone there hesitated to say for sure what had happened to the girl and the anthropologist, but it didn’t matter if they were truly dead. There was no way to survey the water or excavate it for their remains so they really were as good as lost. After that, human sacrifice at the camp doubled, the camp children joking as if it were a crude form of compost. At the same time, the air around the camp seemed to clear and the ground shook less intensely with every drop of blood spilled into its exterior. There was no denying that people had fed the earth so much more than a dead mouse, no denying that everything seemed calmer despite the bloodshed. The recovery team left, and soon the reporter did too but not before giving their people a platform, not before the government began to wonder if this could be a remedy on a much larger scale. The grounds were removed of the cult and the government began shuffling bodies in and out of the commune like playing cards. The more that disappeared, the more the earth stilled itself. The earth owes us nothing, and we owe the earth an endless debt. With that, they began to pay.

Bowl and Spoon

(Ceramic - 4”x7”x4)

Naomi Straub

Punker Grrrl

by Quenby Wilson

Dream Sequence

Intiution (Ceramic-12”x14”x10”) Asa Zirps

See Glass

by Addy Eby

the earth is a collection of shattered glass everything we get to see the seeing we get to do is because of the light shone from the creases in the sky reflecting an image of these fractured, broken pieces of glass

truly, nothing is a solid form but whizzing spinning atoms negativity charging forth, forming images

now I understand that these particles are very very close more so glass woven than glass broken but why then

if things are not made of one big particle can we not float our fingers through the surface of a mirror like water and sand.

what happens really when sand gets so hot it becomes an impenetrable solid piece of glass and why can’t we walk through mirrors like we can see through windows

The Oak

by Grace Medrano

It was your average fall day, with leaves falling against the will of the wind to the ground. And, as is usual in fall, it was cold. So I shivered, pulling my coat closer to my body, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. It was the same thing every day. I would pick up my peppermint tea, make small talk with the barista. The stench of the bus would linger on my clothing, but I would ignore it, instead choosing to focus on the familiar scent of baked goods, tea, and coffee.

This day things went a touch differently. I had collected my tea and begun my walk to work. I had a smile on my face, waving at some of the familiar faces, rolling my eyes at that one couple who were constantly being gooey in the park just across the street.

I’m getting a bit off-topic, aren’t I?

Normally I get to work just fine, but like I said that day was different.

Walking down the street towards me was a large man in a tan trenchcoat.

He was very calm, just walking as if he were on his way to the cafe. He seemed comfortable and sure of himself. This man knew exactly what he was doing and why.

I wouldn’t generally assume someone is walking towards me, but the man seemed to stare right at me. And to be honest I was intimidated. He was tall. Over 6 feet, with broad shoulders, with super-spy sunglasses, and a trench coat to top it all off.

But, what stood out most to me was a strange pendant hanging from his neck. It looked like a bird of sorts.

Obviously, I didn’t want to say hello to this man, so I made to cross the street. But before I had the chance to step off the curb, a strong hand grabbed my arm.

I’m not ashamed to admit I let out a yelp. I scanned the area to see if anyone saw what was going on, but all the people who had been there just seconds

before were gone. There wasn’t a single soul on the street.

The man offered me a smile, and it was almost… comforting. I know, that sounds strange. I spent an entire paragraph talking about how unsettled this man was making me feel, but there was something about that smile. Something that made me rethink my previous assessment. Looking back, I have no idea why.

But I felt safe at the moment. As if I had always known this man, this man whose name I didn’t even know. It’s silly, really. But, nonetheless, I smiled back at him. And then he nodded, and the next thing I knew, I was being... pulled somewhere. But not by him. The

two of us, together, were being moved. He was standing perfectly still, and I know because his hand never left my arm. What I thought were his eyes never left mine.

And suddenly, he didn’t seem quite, well, quite human. Where there should be eyes under his sunglasses seemed to whirl as we moved, which sounds quite ridiculous, but it seemed like there was an abyss behind them. Like if I stared too long, I would fall into it. And I would never come out.

That’s why the moment we stopped moving, I once again yanked my hand away, scanning him and our surroundings in confusion. We were in a pure

pages72-73

Irises in Sunshine (Photography 8.5”x11”) Carys Hardy

white room, but not really. I couldn’t see any walls, a ceiling, a door, a floor. It was just… nothingness.

“Who- Who are you?” I hated how my voice shook, hated the fear that had once again consumed me. But, well, the answer he gave me turned my brain inside out. He told me he was my brother: my twin brother, Neil.

But something was pulling me to him, making me want to believe with everything in my being that this was Neil. I wanted to think that, after almost 15 years, my brother was back for good.

‘Neil’ hugged me, then. And that was when I came to my senses again. It felt all wrong. He wasn’t warm, like a human. His skin was ice cold, and when my head came to his chest, there was absolutely nothing.

No thump of a heart, no rising and falling of the lungs. And when I pulled away, the sunglasses were gone. Where his eyes should gave been, were two black holes. I screamed, for real, this time.

I mean, I didn’t know how or why this was happening to me of all people, all I knew was that I wanted to stop, wanted to go home, curl up in my room, and hide in a good book.

Maybe you’re thinking, ‘Well, obviously, he’s not your twin. You would recognize him!’ but that’s where you’d be wrong. Neil disappeared when we were kids. I warned him. I really did, not to go into those woods near the cabin where we’d been staying. He never did listen to me.

Mom and Dad had given him a bit of a superiority complex. He was their beloved son, who could do no wrong in their eyes. He was their golden child. I was so envious of him for the longest time. But after what happened, I couldn’t bring myself to care that they’d always preferred him. It didn’t end up getting him anywhere.

Neil had laughed at my suggestion, shooting me a smirk. He had told me it would be fine that he would be back in a bit. He never did come back. Mother and Father were a wreck, calling the police, private investigators, anyone who could find their baby boy.

But no one ever did.

And now, this man in front of me was claiming to be my long-lost brother? I was confused and overwhelmed, and I’m fairly certain I started crying. I haven’t the faintest clue why; I, in no way, shape, or form, believed this man was my brother. It couldn’t be.

But he just stared at me, or at least I thought he did as if my scream warranted no reaction. I demanded he tell me just what he was, what he wanted, but he just continued to stare. Eventually, I’d had enough, and I shoved him, hard, against the wall. It was only then that he reacted, face seeming to change, almost seeming to morph.

It wasn’t empty, anymore. It was full of fear. Primal, terrifying fear, like I’d never seen before in my life. I attempted to scramble away, but his hands were on mine again, and he gripped them iron tight.

“Lizzie!” He snapped. I continued to struggle. “Lizzie!” He demanded, and I met the holes where his eyes should have been, terrified. I wanted to scream (again), but I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t but I didn’t. . “Lizzie, I need you to listen to me. I’m in the woods, okay? I’m in the cave, the one-” Then the face turned cold again. But no longer empty. It was full of malice, just pure hatred. I took a step back, fear clutching at my entire being.

“Run, little girl,” The man rasped, the smooth kind voice replaced by what sounded almost like air through the vents. It didn’t need to tell me twice. I ran, and I ran, and I ran, but there was no escape.

I hated how my voice shook, hated the fear that had once again consumed me.

I tripped a couple of times, not knowing where to turn if there even was a way out. It felt like I’d been running for hours, but I never did get tired. Never got hungry, or thirsty, it was as if no time passed at all. But I know it did. Out of nowhere, after running for hours there was a bright flash, a scream, and my head slammed hard on the ground. When I woke up, I was in the hospital.

They told me I’d been missing for a week, that I had run out of an alleyway, only to be hit by a car. They asked what happened to me. I didn’t bother telling them, there’s no way any of them would believe me.

I did go back to the forest, you know. I had been scared, shaking, even. But I entered that forest that Neil had never come out of. I went to the caves, there were multiple. And I tore each of them apart. I was obsessed. I think it started scaring my girlfriend, eventually.

I haven’t mentioned her yet, have I? Yeah, she kept telling me how happy she was that I was home, but… I had to find out what happened to Neil. And she got scared. Told me I had to get help, but there was nothing to help! I was fine, I just had to find out what happened to my brother.

Eventually, I did.

In the last cave there was, the one under the old oak tree, the one- well you’re missing this little piece of context, aren’t you? Probably should have mentioned it earlier, but, um, well, better late than never, I suppose.

When Neil and I were children, we used to play in the wood behind the cabin our parents brought us to each summer. Specifically, near this gigantic old oak tree. We also liked to play in the dark, deep caves beneath it. The tree was beautiful. And it remained beautiful until it died.

We had come up to the cabin one year, and it had just been dead. There were hollowed holes, and bird nests taking over.

And there was one bird, a crow, I think. It scared me, for some reason. I felt like it was staring at us, so I had asked Neil if we could go back to the house. He had rolled his eyes, telling me not to be a scaredy-cat, yet he shrugged and obliged. I didn’t ever want to go back there. But Neil did.

I found his body, in that cave, hidden deep within it. His eyes were empty holes. When I saw them, I gagged, and I had wanted to puke, but my eyes landed on something on his chest. Hands shaking, I remember I picked it up. It was a pendant, of what looked to be a Crow.

Nothing like this has happened since, but I still get the feeling someone’s watching me. Luce broke up with me a bit ago, so I don’t have anyone to tell. I tried to tell the police, but they assured me there was no one.

They had even checked security footage, following me, and the only person there was me. Except for a singular crow on a lamppost.

It’s probably nothing. But, now at least someone knows.

I

pages74-75

untitled (drawing, 12” x 18”)

Adeline Horstman

guilt of the ungrateful

by Catherine Hooley

Often times I dream of standing on the edge Of a mountain, the wind making me feel alive. As I sit in these empty desolate rooms, I talk to people, faking to feel alive. Far away across the globe I hear of people, Bloody, scared, in danger, shaking as they feel alive. At the edge of the earth I imagine an artificial entity That longs for the beauty and the pain, aching to feel alive.

Raindrops fall from the sky onto petals, Aiding those who are breaking, to feel alive. Standing in a cemetery with a light breeze

Might be just what I need, to have an awakening, to feel alive.

I am...

by Eliza Farley

I am drowning in the ocean of my love. My chest rises and falls, pulling salty water into my lungs, filling every pore. The pressure squeezes my stomach into my spine, a pain so vibrant my vision goes red. Somewhere, someone is dying of thirst. Even now. Even now. Hair floats like seaweed, softly flowing; like a dead fish, belly up; like an empty lifejacket. I cannot be saved anymore.

I adjust your collar. I speak your name. I look at you without closing my eyes.

Underwater (Cyanotype 5”x7”) Coda Wilson

The Way it Flowed

by Addy Eby

We come from water

from how the wood was grown to harbor the ships that tore us from our home

and carried us to the land of wet soil

it was the water that washed away our culture and rocked us across the ocean

it was water that crashed up and held our brothers and sisters suspended in the icy blue waters of the Atlantic

and it was the same water used to grow the cotton weeds we calloused our hands picking

it was water in the rivers that stole the stench and allowed our children to escape the fields

and it was water that filled our eyes when our sons were hung like dangerous fruit eyes bugging necks bleeding and feet half-burnt

and now it is water — between us and our ancestors

the ones that jumped, and the ones that sent us away

I wonder if it is water that will take us home?

In The Garden (Ceramic - 15”x7”x7”) Remy Ebert

bluebells

by Addy Eby

there’s something very beautiful about how wildflowers grow spreading down the freeway littering tall blades and never in a row

it’s bizarre how on the very first still freezing days of spring when the grass is only green at its roots and the trees are mostly bare they’ll always be a little bluebell fully blooming swaying in the air

or how roses must be tended to and orchids properly shaded but wildflowers they can grow in a hot sun that by other flowers are hated

I think a long time ago wildflowers must’ve just decided that they could grow wherever they wanted and have done so ever since fully unguided

and because they so clearly do whatever they want

I bet if you asked why it is that they hijack every lonely blade of grass the wildflowers would look up at you and if they felt like it they just might talk back

Cylinder (Painting, 6” x 9”) Liam Sullivan

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Monochromatic Study in Green (Painting, 9” x 12”) Sawyer Bollinger Danielson

by Kai Sih

my body aches a little too much to be my own and i think id be comfortable fading out alone but i will not sleep without raising hell

its been years without a break i think as i rest and i cant see whats wrong about being depressed just no rose-tinted blinders, as far as i can tell

im getting a tattoo tomorrow; cover ugly with the uglier i see it every day on the arms of people i admire the people who laugh just to show theyre well

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Fields (Cyanotype 8.5”x11”) Griffin Schwab-Mahoney

En commençant mon autoportrait, j’ai fait appel au style des artistes impressionnistes. En particulier, j’étais inspirée par Van Gogh avec ses grands coups de pinceaux et ses couleurs abstraites. Ce tableau est fait avec de la peinture acrylique sur un panneau de toile, créé en printemps 2021 chez moi pendant l’apprentissage hybride.

Upon starting my self-portrait, I recalled the style of impressionist artists. In particular, I was inspired by Van Gogh with his big brush strokes and abstract colors. This painting was made with acrylic paint on a canvas board, created in spring 2021 at my home during hybrid learning.

Van Gogh Self Portrait Annika Brelsford

I added my face to René Magritte’s “L’homme au chapeau melon.” The original work criticized the pretension of self-portraits, while decomposing the idea of a face. Both Magritte’s painting and my adaptation feature faces obscured by birds. The presence of the bird breaks down the face into missing features. I think it is interesting to consider what parts of the face are the most distinctive, or which we most expect to see, especially during a pandemic.

J’ai fait un oeuvre numérique où j’ai ajouté mon visage à celui de “L’homme au chapeau melon” de René Magritte. René décompose l’idée d’un autoportrait et se moque de la culture artistique sérieuse et de la prétention des autoportraits. Nos oeuvres incluent des visages obturés par des oiseaux. Ces traits cachés du visage interrogent ce qu’on s’attend à voir dans les visages. Il est particulièrement intéressant de penser à comment nous vivons les visages différemment pendant une pandémie.

Magritte Self Portrait Marie Schumacher

Rococo Portrait of a Child Mimi Huelster

God found me at the DMV

by Leo Sampsell-Jones

God found me at the DMVhad never met a soul like meand followed me to the drugstore. He tried to charm me with His quips, a ciggy dangling from His lips its ashes on the squeaky floor.

I prowled the halls for medication and planned my route to the gas station but God was keeping a tight trail, so turned I toward Him with a start and, shaky jabbing at His heart, told Him to get off my tail.

He thrust His hands into the air and whipped about His greasy hair and pressed me down to cool my jetsget rid of all those misconceptions, babe, you need a new perspective, I know you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

But I remember, I still see, God left His son in Laramie, wishing death to all the proud. He can’t come at me with His rings and tie my hands with sneaker stringsthere’s no one like us in St. Cloud.

I found God at the DMV and left Him on 35-E to prove there is a greater forcegazing at the dusk above, I cast off his professed love, and flip my blinker, heading north.

pages90-91

Moto Study (Mixed Media, 18” x 24”) Charlie Johnson

Gender (Wire, plexi - 25:x14”x14”) Hannah Brass

i’m growing up and out;

by Eliza Farley

i’m growing up and out; a plant desperately branching, long and tendril-like, leaves pinkish from sunburn and slightly dry, from negligence.

i have never left. my window grows dusty with disuse. i have always known who i know, and they are branching as i do, forking and twisting from the trunk. i brush against them, but it will never be the same. a limb does not reabsorb into the tree.

someday, someone will propagate our sorry plant. they will take a cutting and blood, my blood, whoever’s blood will run down our spine and into the soil. we have been ripped from the womb; we are free. i will never see them again.

i ache for an arm that doesn’t exist. it never existed.

AWAKE

Senior Art Seminar ends with artist talks; spring show

Photo Story by Elle Chen

EYE-OPENER. (above) From April 29 to June 5, AWAKE displayed the work of Senior Art Seminar students in the Drake gallery. Students explored different facets of their identity to create their exhibitions. (below) Nan Besse‘s interactive illustration desk; Noa Ni Aoilin Gross’s photos.

PRECIOUS MEMORIES. Senior Elizabeth Trevathan compiled a book which revisited places which were important to her childhood. “I photographed them, tried finding different perspectives, researched a little about the history, and handwrote some poems,” she said.

pages94-95

MYRIAD MEDIUMS. Nina Starchook, Kevin Chen, and Vivian Johnson displayed their final projects in AWAKE’s exhibition, ranging from traditional ceramics to print making to mixed-media interactive setups.

LARGER THAN LIFE. Senior Lulu Priede created a triptych of “women who have graced [her] life with their presence.” Printed on staggering 42” by 50” sheets of vinyl, the images’ unique look is created by combining two photos with curvy cutouts.

hueMoments in darkness bring appreciation for light, plunged into the depths what may be unknown, the self rises stronger from feeling without seeing. A pulse of movement. The sensation of warmth. Hands breaking the surface. Feet finding equilibrium.

Iris 2022 Staff

Club Leaders: Eliza Farley, Poppy Ploen

Submissions and Promotion: Eliza Farley, Poppy Ploen, Annika Kim

Ladder Development: Annie Bai, Eliza Farley, Claire Kim, Orion Kim

Page Design: Eliza Farley, Audrey Leatham, Orion Kim, Poppy Ploen

Kathryn Campbell, CJE Director of Publications

Andrew Inchoisa Club Advisor

Colophon

Iris: Art + Lit 2022 was printed by Ideal Printers in Saint Paul, MN with a combination of lithographic and digital technology in four color process. The cover stock is #100 Royal Sundance Ultra White and inside pages are 80# Eggshell. The book is permabound.

Body text, folios, and artistic credits were designed using the Le Monde Livre, Deja Vu, and Zapfino font families. Titles, literary credits, and pull quotes were designed using the Deja Vu and Zapfino font families.

All graphic design was completed in Adobe CC on iMac computers. Files were submitted via Google Suite.

250 copies of the magazine were printed. One copy of the magazine was distributed free of charge to each senior, published artist or writer, with the support of the publications budget for the magazine. Additional copies of Iris: Art + Lit can be accessed digitally for free at ISSUU.com or purchased for $15, subject to availability.

Art + Lit Jurors

John Christenson Photographer and Curator

As an artist as well as curator I spend time creating a vision for a cohesive body of work whether it’s a single artist or a group show the focus of the work is integral in creating a successful exhibition. As a juror for a student show it’s a little different where it’s about narrowing down a larger pool of different types of work into what will ultimately recognize the strongest pieces and celebrate those individuals who have a strong point of view and execution of their vision.

Artist bio

John is a photographer born in Memphis Tennessee whose lived in Colorado and Alaska early in life then spending several years in New York City before recently moving to Saint Paul Minnesota. His photography primarily focuses on still life, portrait, and documentary and is inspired by the world around him capturing the energy and spirit of his subjects. He studied studio arts with a focus on photography at the School of Communication Arts and has exhibited his work in both group and solo shows. His work is part of private collections in Paris, New York City, Los Angeles, Portland, Seattle, Austin and Minneapolis.

Su Hwang Poet and Author

Su Hwang is a poet, activist, stargazer, and the author of Bodega, published by Milkweed Editions, which received the 2020 Minnesota Book Award in poetry and was named a finalist for the 2021 Kate Tufts Discovery Award. She is the recipient of the inaugural Jerome Hill Fellowship in Literature, the Academy of America Poets James Wright Prize, and writer-in-residence fellowships to Dickinson House and Hedgebrook, among others. Her essay “Why the Rebellion Had to Begin Here,” originally published in Literary Hub, was included in the anthology There’s a Revolution Outside, My Love, published by Vintage Books in May 2021, edited by Tracy K. Smith and John Freeman.

Mission & Policies

The mission of Iris: Art + Lit is to celebrate the diverse creative voices in our community and encourage engagement with the arts. Poetry, prose, and artwork are submitted via event participation, teacher recommendation of classroom work, and individual student submission. Professional artists and authors jury the work. The art juror ranks the top 20 works in each medium: drawing and painting, ceramics, and photography. Videography recommendations are made by the instructor. Iris staff remove names from the literature submissions and the judge ranks these works on a 5-star scale.

Iris: Art + Lit is an open forum for student expression. The ideas presented in the work, as well as the copyright of each piece, belong to the author or artist who created it. However, the magazine staff reserves the right to deny publication to submissions. The staff may edit pieces for length or typographical errors, with the goal of maintaining the integrity of the original work.

Awards

Columbia Scholastic Press Association - Gold Crown Award (2018, 2020, 2021), Silver Crown Award (2019) National Scholastic Press Association - Pacemaker (2019, 2020). All-American (2017-present), Best of Show (Fall 2019) - 2nd Place; Best of Show (Spring 2020) - 1st Place; Best of Show (Spring 2021) - 2nd Place. Best of Show (Fall 2021) - 4th Place.

NCTE: REALM - First Class (2018, 2021), Superior (2019)

MHSPA - 1st Place - Best of Show (2017-present)

JEM - All State Gold (2017-present)

2 Mugs (Ceramic - 9”x6”x5”) John Reinhart