The Cardinal Review Vol. 4 No. 1 Sentiment

Note From the Editor:

On behalf of the Literary Magazine Club, we hope you enjoy this collection of student writing. We want to thank everyone who put themselves out there by submitting their work and applaud them on their new status as published artists! Sharing your art with others requires a commendable amount of bravery and we are so proud of each of you for taking that step.

The theme of this issue is “Sentiment,” a consistent element in the works we received. We hope that reading the pieces in this issue allows you to connect in some way with the effort and emotion put into them.

If you are inspired by the work in this magazine, please submit your own work for the next issue. We hope to work with you soon!

Thank you for reading and enjoy!

- Rocket Davis

First Days

By Cory Gennari Pratt

I remember my first day at SAAS. My little feet in bright sneakers touching against the cement. My wide eyes staring at the Temple doors. Streams of students rushing over me.

I remember excitement, Or maybe it was fear. I remember…

I remember block 1. No, A block; Latin, or Writing?

I remember loving Elin, even that first day.

I remember math.

‘Mike’ was his name.

All I remember is rushing to get my meds, Wishing I could shove myself inside my locker, Or maybe that was a metaphor someone in Elin’s class used.

This year I stand tall in front of the gym, Pushing through the crowds, Saying hi to friends , Dangling my legs off of tables, Rolling my eyes at underclassmen.

It’s been six years.

The child I was is simply a distinct memory, Details wiped by time. They were so small and idealistic; I felt so big and world-wise.

I enter senior year now. An adult – almost.

Unrecognizable from the grimace of my eleven-year-old face. I think little-Cory would like me, trust me, No, I think they would fear me, I think they would be in awe.

Time has passed.

I see it in the landscape, The way buildings have grown, Classrooms shifted.

I see it in the way the staff has changed, New policies, new people, new schedules.

Time has passed within me, In the smile on my lips, The pitch of my voice, The scars I have gained, The way I hold myself, I’m older now.

But I wonder if in another six years, As seasons past, and I move forward, I wonder if I’ll look back on this now, If I’ll see myself as oh so young, Naive and anxious, Such a child.

In six years

This shall be a fragment; Words to remember the details wiped by time

The Last Christmas

By Ripley Vernoy

I counted down the days, wishing and hoping Christmas would come faster. A grin wore my face as the air slowly grew colder one degree at a time, knowing that the day was getting closer evermore. Today was that day, Christmas morning! My smile had not even begun to fade since I awoke at 5 AM that morning. Nothing could beat this feeling; I was pure, innocent, and joyful. As freshly-fallen snow decorated my backyard, I was in awe at its beauty. My tailbone ached as I slouched toward the table, resting my elbow on my raised knee. I observed my four siblings quietly talking amongst each other, huddled together in the opposite corner of the table; even they couldn't muster the oh-so familiar frowns that often characterized teenage faces. I was utterly joyous.

That Christmas was in 2016, the last year my family and I lived in Idaho. The snow was never-ending. It measured at a whopping 6 feet. Unlike most other families, our traditional Christmas festivities began in the early morning rather than later in the night. Ever since I can remember, my mother has always made everything bagel quiche--a recipe she discovered while pregnant with me--that my whole family would scarf down like hungry wolves in the early hours of Christmas morning. The rule was that we had to eat breakfast together, take pictures of my siblings and I in our matching light blue sock monkey pajamas, and then, and only then, could we finally go into the living room and open presents.

My hand moved furiously up and down my arms and legs, working furiously to soothe the itch these blue sock monkey pajamas

caused. Only one thing could rain on my Christmas day parade: these damn sock monkey pajamas--the itch was incurable. My mother always wrote me off as a drama queen; the pajamas were “soft as a baby’s bottom,” she lovingly expressed; I have never felt a baby's bottom, but if they feel anything like that, I am never having children. Still, despite my highly vocal complaints every year, I am forced against my will to put them on and undergo this torture. I looked to my left and saw my father doing the same. I smiled internally; at least he had to wear them, too. I felt more content in my agony, knowing I was not alone. As my mother brought out the sleek black pan filled to the brim with a steaming, everything bagel quiche; the smell immediately embraced my senses and my pajama dilemma faded. As the pan was set down in the middle of the table, I reached for the spatula, but my hand was quickly slapped--very aggressively, I might add--by my brother; he shortly stated "Seniority!" as if it was some god-spoken law. Being the youngest sucks. Although I was the last to get my serving, I was the first to finish. I devoured it at a blinding speed; the faster everyone finished, the quicker we could take these stupid pictures and open the presents. I lightly kicked my sister's shin and eyed the living room; she got my point and devoured her last few bites of food, announcing that she and I would be waiting on the staircase and that everyone else should hurry up. They didn't. I sat on the stairwell for what seemed like centuries. Finally, one by one, every sibling began to join, and soon we were taking pictures.

*click* I squinted. *click* My siblings groaned; the sound resembled that of a cow getting branded. *click* "Only a couple more," my mother stated. *click* My heart sped. *click* I wore an oversized grin, hoping that it would somehow speed up the process

of these never-ending family photos. *click* Smiling so wide my face ached--at this point, it must have resembled that of the Joker, the D.C. villain's daunting, tormented smile--as I not so patiently awaited my mother's permission to run down the staircase and grab my stocking.*click* "Last one." I'm surprised I didn't scream; wait, no, I did. I released a sound one can only describe as a tortured pig's squeal. The suspense is killing me. "Ok, Ripley… GO!" I rose from the gray carpet-covered steps and rushed down every stair; excitement overtook my body. I scurried onto the wooden floors. Leaping down the hall as fast as my tiny body could carry me, I stepped into the living room and spotted my target, a fuzzy white and red stocking hanging on the wall with blue masking tape stuck to it that read "Ripley" in horrendous handwriting. I snatched it from the wall and dumped its contents onto the floor, digging into the Christmas goodies. This was my moment.

Reminiscing on that last family Christmas in Idaho, I realize that it has been ingrained in my memory; every detail of that day will forever haunt and excite me. It was the last time we had an actual Christmas blizzard, the last Christmas before my siblings graduated, before we moved to Seattle, and it was the last time I truly felt like a child, absorbed in my immaturity and innocence. Everything was so fantastical. The novelty of childhood is something nothing can ever imitate--it is unlike any other feeling--and that Christmas was the last time I truly felt that way. During the years that followed, I wanted nothing more than to grow up, and I tried so hard to catch up with my siblings despite our significant age gap. My childhood peaked during that moment before I began the journey of growing into the person I am today.

Pine Needles and Eggnog

By Joey Oshins

With a sharp crack, I slam an egg down on the side of a bowl. I open the shell and begin the balancing act of passing the bright orange yolk back and forth between the two shell halves. The egg white slides away, and I have successfully separated the golden pearl. I then whisk the yolks and sugar into smooth, rich ribbons that glisten in the yellow light. Carefully, I ladle hot cream into the egg mixture while whisking vigorously until the eggnog base is finished, and I let it slowly cool.

The tradition of me making eggnog for my family members as we decorate a sparkling Christmas tree has continued since I was eleven years old, the senses so comforting and nostalgic that I will never forget them. For instance, the way the impenetrable darkness of winter makes my home feel like the only safe place on earth—the lights from the newly collected tree sparkle and gleam as they reflect on metallic ornaments. I sniff and smell peppermint and baked goods mixed with the earthiness of pine needles. As I take a rest from my cooking, my family and I decorate the Christmas tree. The world feels at peace as we place elves with fluffy beards and plastic birds with real feathers that look almost captured in flight from the tree branches. I watch my cat Edna, a weathered and old cat on the lookout for danger, see the green needles as a threat and pounce into the sharp branches. She tumbles to the ground and, embarrassed, prances around the living room while we all laugh uproariously. While I wish I could stay in the living room full of the gleaming yellow light from the

ree, a fierce crackling fire, and my family, I reluctantly leave to check on the eggnog.

I check if the eggnog has thickened enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon, and then carefully, I pour the liquid through a sieve to ensure the eggnog is silky and smooth. I place a lid on the pot and sink into the warm couch by the tree. As we wait for the drink to cool, I feel stress-free and comfortable and seem to fall into a world of sparkling lights and the smell of sweet peppermint. As the minutes go by, my family and I tell stories, share jokes and laugh at our cat, who, with her back legs poised to pounce, hisses, and growls at the Christmas tree. After what seemed like an eternity, we rise, and I give each of my family members a ladle full of eggnog. I sparkle each glass with a touch of nutmeg, and I raise my cup of warm and fluffy nostalgia. The mixture tastes so rich that I feel more tranquil and at ease than at any point of the year. I feel like a small kid again, with no worries or cares, as the deep tangy flavor brings back memories of Christmases many years ago. The nostalgia so intense that I forget all my worries and live in a world of pine, sparkling ornaments, fake icicles, and a warm cup of creamy eggnog. I look around at my house and see the room filled with firelight orange like the sunset; I feel more tired yet more optimistic than ever before, filled with a euphoria that I hope to carry for the rest of my life. I hear the clock ticking above the fire, and I sink deeper into the light couch cushions. The talk amongst my family quiets as we all fall into a trance, too dream-like for discussion.

The walls of my house seem to hold back the winter darkness and the presence of my family members holds back any stress that my mind may uncover. Suddenly I feel intensely optimistic. If serenity and happiness are achievable through a mug of eggnog, the earthiness a Christmas tree brings, and, most importantly, my family, then life is simpler than I realized. For at this moment, I have no wants or desires to be anywhere but exactly where I am, sitting on the warm couch with my family.

The Scent of Fast Food

By Parker Schweickert

The wheels rolled to a stop, and he pulled out a stack of cards that probably looked identical to everyone but him, insisting that a few of them could grant him free desserts. The world ceased to exist outside the spotlight of the fluorescent lights beaming through the cashier window. The scent of fast food weighed down the air in the compact car. It stuck itself on everything like a layer of film. I looked up and over at my stepdad, wishing to go home.

After a few minutes of wrestling for a discount, the poor worker who had to be at a Wendy’s just before midnight reluctantly passed four medium-sized Frostys through to him in a cardboard cup holder. We sleepily finished the drive-thru route. He and I had spent the entire evening at the hospital, comforting my mom through a gallbladder attack. She had described the pain as a lot like labor and winced every time we hit a pothole. Our car sped through side streets and snaked between vehicles on the highway to get her into emergency surgery, and I silently panicked from the back seat. The harsh hospital lights drowned out the natural glow from the moon shining through the window and outlined the empty benches in the waiting room. I bit my nails while waiting for good news and bounced my leg when they told us she’d have to stay overnight. Reluctant and concerned, we left the hospital to get food and sleep. He chose Wendy’s since it seemed to be the only thing on his mind lately. He often went through strange phases of this sort; his ice cream making one had been my favorite, and his triathlon phase had been my least.

We received our food and then drove for a little while longer, eventually pulling into a large lot outside of a grocery store whose silhouette loomed over the sea of empty parking spaces. The dim gleam from the lights about ten times the size of my ten-year-old self just barely highlighted the white painted lines on the asphalt. When he opened his door, the cold air from outside flooded into the car. He told me he would be back soon and that I could have all the Frostys if I so pleased. Then he walked away. And so, like any other small child with a sweet tooth, excitement swelled my heart, and I took the Frostys as he closed the door. Picking up a beige plastic spoon, I watched him fade into the darkness while he walked further and further from the car toward the store. I hummed to myself and looked around; the parking lot looked back, barren. I finished off an entire Frosty. Then a second. He disappeared for about 45 minutes, which gave me an abundant amount of time to wolf down the third of the frozen treats. I began to feel ill as my stomach churned and faltered, and the ice cream sat heavy in my gut. The world blurred around me, and only the car remained; my heart began to beat quicker. I took on the role of a parent, telling myself that I did not have to eat the fourth Frosty and that if I needed to throw up, I would be sure to open the car door first.

My stomach and I sat uneasily in the car until he returned, where I did my best to conceal the anger that bubbled like oil in a pan when I’d been forced to take his place as the responsible one and forfeit my final Frosty for my well-being. He paid no attention to how long he’d been gone upon his return, only pretended that nothing had happened and put on a song. I noticed he had not bought anything on

his time away but didn’t think to say anything. I never thought about the exchange much until far after he left for rehab. When I realized I had probably been dragged to a drug deal, I didn’t feel angry, not like I felt in the car. I only felt grateful I didn’t realize it sooner.

I held the last ice cream in my lap on the drive home and gazed down into the soft white swirl. The car rolled away with one remaining Frosty, three leftover paper cups, a child more mature than he used to be, and an adult to drive it all away. The car did not contain my mom. I missed her. The car contained the scent of fast food. The parking lot became empty.

It’s All In My Head

By Mimi Linden

The wind howled as we walked along the beach toward massive piles of driftwood. “Look up. It’s gotten closer!” said one of my friends, pointing in the distance. A massive gray cloud covered the sky threatening to dump loads of rain on us at any moment. Turbulent waves made the scene melancholy as they crashed into the shore, not helping with the anxiety from spending too much energy and time with the other campers.

I had been on a two-week YMCA backpacking trip at the Olympic Coast for the last week. I had been to many camps before and knew that this year I definitely didn’t want the stereotypically energetic, always extroverted counselor or group dynamic. At other camps, I had expressed my need for space and alone time, and the counselors had brushed it off, but this time I decided to change my experience.

My stomach churned like the ocean in front of me. I could almost taste the oily pancakes we had for breakfast while I grappled with two distressing thoughts. “Should I follow the rest of the group or take time for myself and maybe face judgment?” It felt like I was being pulled in two separate directions. I needed a break because I was overstimulated by too many people, but I feared judgment because I always needed to connect with and be there for people, so I put myself last. I wouldn’t judge someone for separating from a group, but it felt rude if I did the same. I’ve always been a “people pleaser,” so I try to predict what people want me to do or say, which sometimes causes me to ignore my needs. I worry that taking time for myself will be seen as selfish and that people won’t want to be friends with me. I

judge myself a lot, so sometimes I project and think that people will judge me the same way.

While this was going on in my mind, we walked to Toleak Point on white sand covered in seaweed and piles of driftwood. Most of the group rounded the corner of the point to collect drinking and cooking water. Last minute I decided to stay at the point and collect wood for a fire. The beach curved to a point, forming the letter c; waves crashed against scattered rocky islands that rose above the sea. Serenity. A peace never felt before washed over me as I stood and watched the waves. Alone. I was finally alone.

I started collecting firewood. Some of the wood lying on the beach was bigger than me, some only small twigs. I found some huge tree branches and started snapping twigs off them. I held on to one end of the branch, put my foot on the other, and folded the branch until it snapped in half with a loud crack. I did it again and again in a meditative state that relieved all of my anxiety and worries.

Off in the distance, the group walked towards me like loud marching ants. I remembered all my fears again. Panic rose in my throat, filled my head, and compressed my chest as I hurried to make the piles of dry wood as neat as possible, so I could carry them to the campsite. Fear whispered in my ear, “What if they think I am weird for not going with the group? What if the counselors yell at me for being alone?” making my head spin. The clouds seemed more menacing than before as they hovered above my head. My thoughts were crowding around me like a fast-rising tide. Every step the group took sounded like a deep, loud drum in my head. The wind felt like shards of ice as it touched my skin. I looked down at my hands and noticed beads of sweat formed and felt my heart palpitating quickly.

My thoughts circled and repeated the same few phrases. Again. Again. And again.

“Have you been here the whole time?” one of my friends asked. Another friend told the group, “Let's help her carry the wood back.” The whole group cheerfully rushed over to help carry all the driftwood, large and small. I felt relief like a wall of anxiety crashing around me. I had not noticed the tension in my body until this moment. My head was pounding, and my brow was strained. The belief that people would judge me had become so strong that I had made the situation much worse than it was. I had been acting on the primal sense that this was a fight or flight situation, thinking of the worst possible scenarios but not really thinking through them. My brain had been running laps around my head, catastrophizing a situation that wasn’t a catastrophe. Taking a moment to breathe, I realized that the worst-case scenario I had invented was fictional and only hurting me. I understood in that instant that taking time for myself isn’t selfish and that friends don’t judge friends for doing that. The invention of what people might be thinking about me was all in my head and does not have to control my actions.

Hawaii Epiphany

By Casey O’Donnell

I'm sitting in the warm salt water with the bright sun heating my back. The sand here is white and delicate, not one shell or sharp rock. It's almost like a thick white blanket is laid over the beach, creating a soft cushioning for my feet. I am digging my fingers into the sand, combing through it gently. I pick up fistfuls of wet sand and drizzle it onto dry sand, resulting in little sculptures that eventually get swept away by the waves. The landscape is lined with big black lava rocks on each side of me. They look rough and dry, with black noddy birds perched on each sharp edge. Large green weepy willow trees gently sway with the salty wind bordering the back of the beach. I float on my back, spreading my fingers and closing my eyes.

I feel weightless; my body moves with the current. I haven't felt this at peace in a long time. My rosy cheeks and sand-coated skin are precisely what I needed. Being in the ocean provides comfort like no other. My auntie and I acknowledge each other, floating by and smiling, but we give each other space to flourish in our own headspace. She is the most beautiful soul. She thanks the water for letting us swim in a beautiful Hawaiian chant. I go to sit on the part of the shore that allows the gentle waves to break over me. With each wave that approaches, I think of something I wish to be gone from my presence: worry, doubt, even insecurities. I let the wave brush over me, taking my concerns along with it. As my anxieties crash on the shore, I'm left with a lighter spirit. As the water draws back from the sand, it brings hope, happiness, and gratitude.

My worries aren't as big when I'm sitting in the sand, letting the light blue sky and crystal clear water take me over. Things I dwell on can be healed by nature's warm presence. I walk up to my towel that's gently placed on a limb of the weepy tree, and we prepare to leave the beach. I take a deep breath and get one last look at the alluring landscape, the blue water swirling and falling onto the sand. We walk back to the parking lot and get into my Aunt's old red pickup truck, sitting down and resting from our long day at the beach. The drive home is a few hours, so I curl up in the rough blue beach towel and restfully stare out the window. I look at the lava rock coating the grounds, dry, sandy fields with sparse bushes and little red flowers. Beautiful mountains with water trickling down the vast mossy crevices.

My Aunt breaks the restful silence with a question. "Did the ocean tell you anything?" I sit for a moment, reflecting on my experience at the beach. I replied, "It told me my worries are not as significant as my mind makes them out to be." A short, silent moment passes by, I glance over at her, and she's smiling. "It told me the same thing," she says. My eyes widen, and I fall back into my seat. A little rain starts falling, dusting the light gray pavement and turning it black. Hawaii is so beautiful; nature and love are powerful and vibrant here. My eyes flutter shut, and I fall asleep, dreaming of the beauty and significance of my day.

The Possibility of a Final Goodbye

By Logan Vaughan

16 soggy shoes step on the dry dirt hiking path on the way back from the frigid mountain waterfall of the Olympic National Park. Squidgy sounds produced from Crocs make nature sound like a sci-fi movie and the melodic whispers of multiple conversations fill the otherwise silent forest except for the occasional camper passing us in the other direction. Each person walks next to someone else to maintain the quiet talking, making us look like a marching band at a football game. The light that comes from the beaming summer sun shines through the ginormous trees that tower above us all, looking like little ants walking through grass. There is a feeling of excitement for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that are waiting for us back at the campsite, made by those who didn’t want to get into the cold mountainous water. The water is the closest thing to a shower out here, so relatively speaking, everyone that braved the cold temperatures is somewhat clean compared to others on the trip. After lunch, a long drive ahead awaits us, through the windy road and back across the lovely ferry with magnificent views. The Olympic mountains, one of our favorite camping destinations in the Pacific Northwest. This time it was for a PEPS trip which is a group of parents that met when their babies were born so they could share their parenting tips. We are some of the only people I know that continue to meet with our PEPS group because we have been doing it for such a long time. The people with us are basically family at this point, although some I am more fond of than others.

The group is very interesting, around 6 families of all different types. Most of the kids are around 13 years old while the others are just around 8 like me. The so-called camping isn’t quite what you might imagine, as it is very connected to life back home. But being in the outdoors is what counts. For us city people, it is all you can ask for. This was on the second day of the camping trip, when we decided to make the 2-mile trek through the forest to the waterfall to swim as a way to get a break from the extreme temperatures. A couple of the parents didn’t come with us because it was “too far”, but we still decided to go. My two parents along with five other children and I set off from the campsite, all saying goodbye to those that stayed back. This could have been the last time that those parents heard those words from their kids, but how would we know that?

Most of the kids are around 13 years old while the others are just around 8 like me. The so-called camping isn’t quite what you might imagine, as it is very connected to life back home. But being in the outdoors is what counts. For us city people, it is all you can ask for. This was on the second day of the camping trip, when we decided to make the 2-mile trek through the forest to the waterfall to swim as a way to get a break from the extreme temperatures. A couple of the parents didn’t come with us because it was “too far”, but we still decided to go. My two parents along with five other children and I set off from the campsite, all saying goodbye to those that stayed back. This could have been the last time that those parents heard those words from their kids, but how would we know that?

A crack that sounds like a firecracker, louder than ever, is heard above as we are encapsulated by the Olympic trees that are hundreds of feet tall. Everybody stands still and looks around. “It's the feds,”

the slightly immature teenage boy says. As my eyes shift up to see the canopy of trees, reality sets in; this could be my last two seconds on earth. A 60-foot top of douglas-fir is barrelling down towards us at a rate that can’t be imagined. My dad being the one in the middle, yells “run,” and pushes people out of the path of the falling tree. In reality, it has been two seconds, but it feels like two minutes. I look forward, and notice that the tree caused a rift in our group, 4 people stand ahead of the tree and 4 people behind, including me. The girthy 8-foot wide tree has bark thicker than a textbook, but something shocks me. My mom’s hat, squashed like a fly that was smacked with a flyswatter, lies under the tree, and my heart skips a beat as I look up to find her. Thankfully, she is 10 feet down the path and safe with the other people in our group. Nia, the youngest, starts bawling , her cries echoing through the dense forest. Somehow, after such an intense moment, no one says a word because the adrenaline is still surging through our veins.

Returning back to the campsite, there is a sense of shock along with gratefulness. As the story is told, the parents that did not come along with us rush to their beloved kids and give them a long hug. Some of them even shed a tear. After that, each time we say goodbye, the hugs have gotten a little tighter, and every “I love you,” has gotten more frequent, knowing that the next day is never guaranteed.

Search and Rescue: Irony

By Ben Wilmot

The wind whipped and rain flew at us sideways. My uniform was quickly drenched, and my hands began to seize up. Drops of water splashed into my eyes from under my rain hood, and I couldn’t help but think of that one monsoon scene from Forrest Gump— “Sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath. Shoot, it even rained at night.” Suddenly, our tarp shelter collapsed, and the few minutes I had spent tying knots around trees in the biting cold and wet had been useless. I looked at Melbourne, and he stared back at me with a frown.

The sound of boots marching held no power, muted, as it was replaced with the sound of a lonesome rock displaced on the trail. They were displaced, exhausted, yet motivated footsteps that echoed intermittently throughout the dense greens and browns of Hawk Mountain, Pennsylvania. The tranquility and silence gasped for air amongst the army of voices calling in cadence along the path, as we passed by our fellow squadrons, who were resting, yet eager to push past us. “Get outta the way, get outta the way, move! Bravo Squadrons coming through!” we shouted, watching the frustration on the other squadrons' faces. “Get outta the way, get outta the way, move! The best squadrons coming through!” our driven voices echoed on, cheering on our squadron and fueling the competition between us and our other Search and Rescue adversaries. This was our first training mission, and we reigned supreme. Melbourne, Kerns, Kreiger, Angelo, Wenks, Burnett and I held a pattern in the twin column lined path. We sang cadences, made impressions, and generally talked about anything that could allow us

to take our minds off of walking 40 miles in heavy rucksacks across mountainous terrain in a very clearly not “14 degrees upslope”. The terrain got worse. Infrequent rocks dotting the trail turned to flattened boulders surrounded by ankle breaker-sized holes. We jumped across as chief King and our medics urged us to be careful. Burnett and I began to talk, and he kept talking about his duty position in Singapore, same as he had all week. “Yeah the Marines over there are the funniest dudes ev-”

A string of cries erupted from behind me in the line “Medic!” The flurried cries brought on an impending worry. A grimace washed over my face and my mind raced back to something our team commander said: “Bravo, we are officially in rattlesnake country.” Each rut we passed lingered in my mind—they were the perfect hiding spots for a rattlesnake. Somebody must have been bitten by a rattlesnake. I sat in anticipation, my ears tuned for any information. The radio next to me crackled to life, “Somebody rolled their ankle real bad,” came the words across in a fuzzy static. Relief washed over me like a wave on a warm summer day. My friend was not gonna die in the middle of rural Pennsylvania.

“Who?’

“Pike.”

Not a moment later we moved to a beaten path and ate our MREs as we sent out Brunsman and Krieger as runners to go find Captain Gundy and help him get up to our location. The search and rescue trainees had just started their first rescue mission. We loaded Pike onto Gundy’s Bobcat and sat waiting for orders. As they arrived, there came no relief– “Packs up everyone, we gotta make it to our campsite in 20. We’re way behind schedule so you guys

better hustle!” Called Chief King. We all hastily stowed our eating gear messily in our kits and threw our packs over our shoulders. We jogged over large rocks, testing our legs’ suspension. We kept moving and everything became a blur. Our team commanders and chiefs yelled at us to keep moving. They told us that we could call a cadence, which was answered by the sound of busy panting. As we lumbered on, the air carried tumult, hostile with the sound of boots trampling across rocks, heavy breathing, and yelling. We neared the campsite, only we came eye to eye with a hill. Glaring at us with its jagged stones and steep incline, we stared back solely with hatred. Angry and motivated, we pushed up the hill. Burnett began to slow, clogging the path. I pressed my gloves up against his pack and began to push him up with my bodyweight. Our eyes cleared the brown stone-littered hill, locking eyes with a familiar face. Marked on our maps, and laying before us, was the Helo LZ, the checkpoint before AT/PT on the Appalachian trail. We laid our packs down and slowed to quench our thirst and fight the ungodly heat inside our blouses. “Put your rain gear on! There’s no time to wait, we have to set up camp.” The words went in one of my ears and simply breezed out the other.

I bailed my arms out of the hot warmth of my raingear, feeling the cool breeze of the Pennsylvania evening. Small droplets of water began to fall on me, cooling me down and reassuring my skin that our run was over. “Monty what are you doing, put your rain gear on” came a yell from my left, and I spotted Chief King staring at me. A smile came to my face, “Just enjoying the Seattle weather sir!” I shouted with a dash of pride in my voice. As I stood, arms free to the open air, rain couldn’t meet me fast enough, nor with bigger hands. The suffocating warmth emanating from me brought no cold, as if it

were fighting off any true refreshment to myself. I wished the rain would pick up, so I could meet it with open arms. Out of the blue we heard a shout, “Packs up! We’re moving. Come on, we've gotta beat this storm! Rain gear on everyone!” I sighed, picking up my rain coat and moving wearily over towards my packs, like a magnet reluctant to meet its opposite once again. Flash. Thunder. The deafening irony of the situation met me like a brick wall, as I realized that I would definitely be getting some cooling rain in the future.

Taking a Leap

By Bella Jones

My heart pounds violently. I suddenly become in tune with my body. The intense pulse of my blood pounds louder and louder the closer I get to the edge. I see the water below, but the longer I peer, the farther away it seems to get. I became a tree root in the ground, unable to move. Frozen in place, oxygen comes in, but it's not enough. I let it out, but seconds later, it comes back in, unable to slow it down. During a one-week overnight camp in Oregon, every day seemed filled with adrenaline-rushing activity. Every day brought fun and lasting memories, from white water rafting to zip-lining. Excitement coursed through me as I learned what our activity for day 5 was going to be. Cliff jumping. Cliff jumping had been on every bucket list that I had ever made. Even though I had never done it before, I‘d say, “I love cliff jumping,” with eagerness and confidence. Little did I know that in the next 3 hours, my lively spirit would be swept out from underneath my feet. Taunting me as I fell into the darkness of terror and panic.

The sunlight gleamed through the trees as our feet carried us through the greenery. As we walk down the trail, words flow easily with unbreakable smiles on everyone's faces. Excitement danced through the air as we neared our destination. That's when I encountered the beauty of the land in front of me. There is a waterfall striking water, sending tiny ripples vibrating throughout, with various-sized boulders surrounding it and a lake of pale blue water in the center. Even with all the dull-colored rockets, lavish greenery gave the area a fantastic life, like energy.

I suddenly became a part of it as though another component of the site made it sing. But all of a sudden, my head turned towards a piercing scream, my eyes catching a person taking the leap off the edge. Seconds later, a splash came from down below. Suddenly, my body did not feel like my own; caged butterflies fluttered within my stomach, knowing that it would be me within minutes.

As I walk over, my feet suddenly become heavyweights the closer I get, the slower I become. My legs trembled wildly as I edged closer to the brink. Higher than 80 feet at the edge, adrenaline coursed through my veins. My toes wrapped around the edge in a final desperate bid to survive. The coolness of the rock beneath them sent a chill throughout my body. I almost passed out as my entire life flashed before my eyes as I stared down the tremendous drop. Every nerve ending in my body tingles, furiously sending my brain the message that jumping is not a good idea. I give myself a mental countdown one, two, three. But I’m still there on the edge. I have not moved an inch. Cheering words of encouragement surround me, but fear takes hold of me, yanking me away from those motivating words, making me unable to use them as pillars of support. I breathe in and out, knowing this time I will finally leap to my fate. One, two, three. I jump. My whole self became numb as I let myself free fall, plunging into the abyss, giving up control. But suddenly, time begins to slow. For a split second, I am like a feather gliding down on a smooth path unaffected by my surroundings. I hold my breath, plunging beneath the surface of the water. Quickly I swim to the top, gasping for air as I break the surface. Electricity runs through me, and a grin turns into a big smile that never leaves my glowing face. The only thing right I know at this moment is that I want to do it again.

I must have hallucinated, but in reality, I just jumped off an over 80-foot cliff. As I swam to the edge, the chill of the water started to settle into my bonds. Despite all my fears and self-doubt, I still wanted to do it again. And I did. I jumped off that cliff, 4 more times, the voices of my fears becoming quieter the more I went. As we began to pack up, I begged my concealer to let me jump one more time, even though part of the group was already heading back. She did, and as I took my final jump, I ran off the cliff free as an eagle flying high above, never needing to come back down.

Solitude for Two

By Dylan Koa

As I stared into it, the window revealed a dark oasis, dotted with warm orange-yellow lights and varied movement below. Bright, multi-colored lights tear at my vision from its place in my reflection, distracting me from my ponderous view of the city. I turned around and sat in a chair, rubbing my eyes and feeling the pulse of the booming music on the other side of the doors. I sank into my leather throne, nauseous and lonely, with only the grooves of the stitching and the sounds of my body interacting with the leather to keep me comfortable. My head pounded like a fist punching the inside of my head, and the thought of doing anything hurt. Finally though, with much pain and delicate care, I got up. A disruptive vibration swept through the entire room like a bomb and everything shook. I stumbled to the ground, my face falling flat onto the carpet, my eyes staring straight into the space under the door sill as the multi-colored lights from before flashed at my eyes from the other room.

“What’s wrong?” I thought. An overnight birthday party at a hotel on a beautiful summer night. Seemed like it could be a great time. Yet I labored in an unwell state of mind.

I got up and walked towards the doors, gently opening them and swiftly entering the piercingly loud room. I needed to clear my head, but I wanted to bring someone with me, someone who wasn’t high on the fumes of the party, who wouldn’t exacerbate the pain I was already in. I wandered the scene, looking for someone who I could bring. Pain shot through my legs with each step I took, bounced around inside my skull with every loud beat and flash of light.

I dodged bodies which swayed to the orchestrated chaos which gave everyone euphoria and me sickness. Disoriented, like a wheel delicately bent on its axle, I moved about in a curvy line. With each step I took I worried I would fall. Finally, I stopped next to someone who met my qualifications. Face neutral and expressionless, eyes pacing the room, Jason’s boredom glared at everything, daring the life around him to come near. I took a deep breath as I sat next to him, my eyes scanning his emotions. He didn’t seem as disoriented as me, but we were both definitely equally unintrigued with the scene.

“Want to take a walk?” I asked.

He slowly turns his head towards me, as if barely conscious I am there, and I could see my voice coming to focus in his mind, and he slowly nods. Simultaneously, we get up and leave, to no one’s notice, and we enter a quiet lonelier area:,; the halls. As we walk, only the light patter of our footsteps, and the occasional booming bass from the party, fills the hallway like a menacing beast bellowing at us from behind. My actions became transitional, like I was doing everything half consciously. In this state of mind a pathway seemingly highlighted itself in front of me, guiding our footsteps. We eventually found a hollow set of stairs, which seemed infinite and mysterious in both directions. The pounding fading, my head became lighter, as if two magnets were pulling me up and down at the same time, ripping my nausea and leaving me clear and awake. I start heading up, and Jason follows. Suddenly Jason starts whistling, which shocked my senses with its volume as well as its pitch. The bellowing party music slowly fades, overcome by the piercing sword of Jason’s music. I kept glancing down, shocked at how high we were, and how dark the abyss seemed.

I stupidly started sprinting for my life up the stairs, and tripped on a ledge. This one hurt much more than my previous fall, and I laid there for several minutes, feeling the shock of pain go through my body like a wave crashing through a sand castle, while Jason patiently caught up with me. When I got up I realized we had reached the top, and found a door which was perched directly in front of us. I contemplated walking down but found it natural to open the door. It led to an ominous, sharp, cage ladder that ascended about 15 feet, which we climbed. On the other side of that ladder we found ourselves in another world: the roof. Glittering and small, the stars smiled down on us. As I climbed up on top, the cold air greeted me and I could detect the sweat from my sprint. Lying down, the clear air and sky astonished me, and I started breathing heavily to take in the beautiful air.

Jason finally joined me, and we gazed at our surrounding landscape. I sat still, but my mind was racing, taking in every thing my senses picked up. I heard the quiet hum of an AC unit behind us, the cars below making it sound as if it were cutting in and out, like a bee flying up and down. Thousands of tiny lights waved at us below. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, tasting the air in my mouth, and feeling the relief in my bones, like a big stretch after a hard run. This was the perfect moment, just for the two of us, away from everything, in a moment of peace and quiet.

A Rainy Tuesday

By Kyliah McRoy

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. The clouds covered the sky like a fluffy blanket as the sound of the rain hit the bus roof. The bus abruptly stopped, and the doors swung open like they were trying to hit a fly. "WEST SEATTLE" I grabbed my bag and stepped into the aisle. I kept my head up, closely following the girl walking as slow as a turtle in front of me. I reached the front and thanked the bus driver. I hopped off the school bus, bag in hand, shoes unlaced, and more than ever, ready to go home. The doors closed behind me, and the bus started moving. The roaring engine of the bus faded into the distance as I stood there looking for my umbrella. The light rain dropped from the sky, landing on my face. My brows narrowed, and a faint sigh escaped my mouth. I couldn't find my umbrella; I zipped up my bag, tossed it onto my shoulders, and started walking home. The day long and tiring, filled with schoolwork; I didn't get much sleep the night before. My stomach growled, begging for food because lunch failed to satisfy my hunger. I looked down at my sports bag. And realized how today I am home earlier than usual. Most days after school, I spend my time in the gym. Running and dribbling a basketball with my teammates, passing the ball to the open corner for a quick three. But today wasn't like most. My coach didn't feel too well, so he canceled practice. And now I am home earlier, stepping off the bus. While it's still light out, I'm used to leaving the school building around 7 when it's dark. Because it's winter, it gets darker faster.

My little feet splashed in the puddles on the sidewalk. The sidewalks covered in wet leaves. When stepped on, it had no crunch but a sponge-like sound. I walked past the rundown corner store with a flickering dim light. The chipped blue paint uncovered the old oak wood, barely holding the store together. I continued to walk on the broken and chipped concrete sidewalk as the rain colored it into a darker gray. The trees swayed back and forth, allowing raindrops to trickle onto and down my face. Cars pass by, honking and splashing in the puddles. I reached the crosswalk, the orange hand illuminating in the rain. I stood there waiting for it to turn to the little man that signaled me to walk. "beep boop." The orange hand disappeared, and the white man appeared in its place.

I started to walk along the white-painted bars that showed the path to safety. Skipping every few, it seemed like a game in my head. Halfway through, it started pouring. Coming down, and of course, today, I had forgotten my umbrella. I bolted for the end of the crosswalk. The white man had disappeared, and now a countdown to my demise began. Each step trying to cover myself from the rain. I made it safely across with three seconds left. The rain still poured, pouring, so I ran the rest of the way home. Through the secret passage, the trees gave me cover as I stopped to catch my breath. The air dense as fog as I panted, barely holding onto the oxygen I had left in my lungs. My hands were numb and freezing, and my shoes soaked from running through the puddles. I caught my breath, and I began to run home.

I ran up the stone steps turning my bag around to my front, the rain crashing down on my roof. Under the safety of my porch, I searched for my keys with one hand. I came up empty-handed,

baffled. I started using two hands to dig and claw around the pocket where I always put my keys. But nothing turned up. "Could I have possibly put it in a different pocket?" I started searching my other pockets but still nothing! I let out an angry grunt as I dropped my bag and pulled out my phone. I dialed my mom's number and let it ring. The rain started to sound like hail, still pouring and hitting the roof. My shoes so soaked I could feel it seeping into my socks. The buzzing of the phone stopped as my mom didn't pick up. I let out another furious grunt. This one, the air escaped my mouth, forming clouds in front of my face. It seemed as though the entire world turned against me today. School was long and tiring, practice canceled, and my stomach cried for food. To top it all off, forgetting my keys just made it worse. I sat down, soaked and upset, and. And started to cry, cold and wet from head to toe. I locked myself out with no idea how long it would be until my mom and sisters came home. The rain hitting the stone driveway comforted my soft weeping and sniffles. Tears rolled down my face as I picked up my phone to call my mom again. This time she picked up!

"Yes, dear, what do you need?"

I started crying even more.

"Mom, I left my keys inside, and it's pouring rain, and I'm soaked, and I'm cold. When are you going to be home." Tears ran down my face, and snot left my nose.

"I won't be home for a while. I'm in the middle of a meeting, Kyliah." I started crying even harder.

"Wow, it's okay, though; your sister will be home soon. Her practice is just finishing up. I will give her a call, okay?"

"Okay,"

I managed to get out of my mouth. She hung up the phone, and there I sat.

Tears ran down my face. As though rain perfectly landed on my face. I sat there listening to the showers of nature. The trees move with the wind. It seemed as though time had stopped moving. Hearing the sound of nature comforted my sorrows and seemed to have washed away my worries. I listened to the purifying and calm rain, which brought me peace. My tears had dried, leaving my face crusty as I sat . Sitting on the previously cold stone now warm under me. It seemed as though the rain hitting the ground and the trees moving with the wind. And the soft songs the birds sang. Was the world telling me, "We are not against you."

The Start of a New Path

By Alyssa Boden

It’s Friday morning, January 25th, 2019, and the big day has finally arrived. I can almost taste the sweetness of the pop tarts, donuts, and treats, the sugary taste melting on my tongue. I am becoming a Bat Mitzvah and will now be considered an adult woman in the Jewish religion. I have been studying for this weekend for nearly all my life and I am feeling so excited that this milestone has actually arrived. All the planning, lists of to-do’s, and timelines were in fast-paced mode to execute every detail.

I woke up at the normal hour but did not go to school in order to save my voice and rest before the big weekend. Friends and family flew in to help celebrate my important religious transition with a weekend full of events and festivities. My mom had been planning this day since my birth and no detail went unrecognized. We worried about pelting rain in January and developed contingency plans if the weather became an issue. But instead, I rose to the sun shining into my room, the sun an omen of the good to come. I hear my parents talking about weekend details, and my sister was still sleeping. As I climbed up the stairs, I saw boxes pilled up, clothes laid out, everything organized by day, and my dad beginning to lift and load into the mini Uhaul truck. I couldn’t imagine all the details that go into planning this type of milestone event. I had several hours to go until all the festivities started so I took my time to get ready and took in the joy and happiness of my family’s feelings.

It’s 5 pm and we leave our house headed to the synagogue where I will lead my congregation in our traditional Friday night Shabbat

service. Wearing new clothes and shoes, my nails painted, and my hair professionally curled, I felt as shiny as a new car. My palms became sweaty as I started to feel anxious and get nervous. All the eyes were going to be on me. What if I made a mistake? What if my voice went dry? What if something went wrong? Taking a step on the hard and echoey concrete of the synagogue, I saw my name on the billboard saying “Alyssa Boden’s Bat Mitzvah.” My sweaty palms dripped, my face turned red, but I started to smile, and my family and I couldn’t have been happier at this moment, as becoming a Bat Mitzvah became real. Within a few minutes, friends and family started to arrive and I became distracted with talking and catching up until I hear the booming voice over the microphone say, “Alyssa, it’s time.” I proceeded eagerly down the stairs and entered the bimah with the sun shining in through the stained glass windows. After the first few guests caught my eye, the butterflies in my stomach calmed down and my legs became a little less shaky. At this moment I knew why I had been preparing all my life, I couldn’t stop smiling and looked around at everyone's emotions supporting me, this was my day to shine. I was front and center with my friends and family right by my side.

The Friday night service came to a conclusion and the freshly baked challah and the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies started to fill the room. My family and friends moved into the synagogue social hall to feast and celebrate bringing in the Sabbath. My stomach rumbled quietly as I started to stare at the deliciously prepared food. My Bat Mitzvah signified my coming of age, a time to celebrate, a lifetime achievement. Tomorrow I would be called for the first time to read from the Torah.

The day I would become a Bat Mitzvah and be called to the Torah for the first time has finally arrived. I had cold feet, but I came prepared and ready to chant. The Rabbi gave his sermon, otherwise known as the charge to the Bat Mitzvah and tears of joy rolled down my face when my parents spoke about my growth from childhood to womanhood and the expectations that I am now accepting. I read proudly from the Torah and after I completed my portion an outburst of song and cheer from everyone made me feel like I reached the top of the mountain. I had accomplished my goal and accepted the next steps into womanhood as a Jewish adult. The celebration could begin and the glitzy, loud, and most amazing party started. The most spectacular party was filled with high-energy dancing, bright lights, and loud music, large amounts of food resulting in the best night of my life.

With beautiful services behind me and the love and support of my family and friends, my Bat Mitzvah weekend represented a special time in my life that I will never forget. It was a roller coaster of emotions. While many view their Bat/Bar Mitzvah as the culmination of learning, to me this embodied a cornerstone and landmark for what comes in the future. I love being Jewish and the traditions and rituals of my Jewish background that my parents have given me and I will them carry forward to my children someday.

Women’s Sufficiency and Mental Disorders

By Jordan Ross

Charlotte Perkins Gilman once said, “A house does not need a wife any more than it needs a husband.” Gilman, an author and feminist from the 19th century, argued for women's rights through her writing and had personally undergone the ‘rest cure’ treatment in her own life. In her short story, The Yellow Wallpaper, Gilman gives the reader a view of her postpartum depression through the protagonist named Jane, who is prescribed the rest cure by her own husband to supposedly heal her depression. Perkins Gilman shows the inequalities of power that devastated women in her time through symbolism of the windows in the nursery and the irony of John and his medical position.

The dramatic irony of John prescribing Jane the rest cure, as she is clearly in a mental state where she is in need of exposure, suffocates Jane even more into herself even though John is a physician. Although Jane is aware of her postpartum depression diagnosis, she becomes unsure about the treatments John is suddenly telling her to abide by, and she says, “I lie down so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can. Indeed, he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal. It is a very bad habit, I am convinced, for, you see, I don’t sleep” (Gilman 18). Jane is diagnosed with depression rather than broken legs, and is instructed by a doctor, who did not provide her diagnosis, to stay in bed, lay down after eating, and being reassured that this is the proper thing for her. All this contributes to her isolation and loneliness. She says, "I lie down so much now," as symptoms of clinical depression include lying

down, isolating, skipping out on things. Her own husband exacerbates these symptoms, and instead of letting Jane out into the world and taking things slowly with her, he isolates her as if she did something wrong. An example of how an emphasis on the physical, unlike the mental, is apparent when John forbids Jane to write; he claims that it worsens her condition because it makes her tired, and she says, “I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little, it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me. . .But I can write when she is out” (Gilman 14). Jane feels as though writing provides mental comfort but her husband does not understand this, and the effort of keeping her writing hidden exhausts her more than the writing itself. She feels constrained even to keep secrets from the housekeeper as John dictates what happens around the house even though he is never there. One final example of John's poor treatment is when Jane longs for the companionship of others, specifically John and her socially stimulating relatives; Jane says, “When I get really well John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit, but he says he would as soon put fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now” (Gilman 14). But John informs her that it will exacerbate her condition and that she should rest alone in the nursery. Of course, John is blinded by his smug physician title, to the mental threat of his wife being secluded imprisoned away from society, slipping her into lunacy. The irony continues in that John's physical shielding of his wife from social interaction only serves to deepen her psychological misery. The title and position that John holds exemplifies the dramatic irony of how unwell Jane is and how his care has a negative impact on her health and plays a role in her seemingly inevitable spiral into insanity.

The barred windows in the nursery Jane lives in symbolize an intersection between opportunity and reality. The window is one distinguishing feature of the house that represents not only her potential but also her sense of being trapped. The representation of what Jane can view out her window is the initial idea of what her life could be like; she says, “Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees. Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate” (Gilman 13). Through the analysis of the outside life in comparison to the isolated, inside life that Jane is thrown into, the reader can create images of the beautiful scenery around Jane, the gorgeous trees and flowers in the green garden as well as the glistening bay that depicts what opportunity is like for white men in her time. As Jane looks out of the windows and sees beautiful landscapes surrounding her isolated, alone, trapped self as a woman, it shows how women were meant to stay at home and men were able to experience the beauties of life. The feeling of not only being trapped within the walls of society as a woman but also as a mentally ill woman living in a man's time goes to show not only how John viewed the narrator but also women as a whole. As Jane becomes so sick of staying secluded in the small place from which she is trying to escape, she says, “I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try” (Gilman 21). In this quote, Gilman plainly communicates to the reader that the narrator's longing for freedom is held in her room by the bars on her window, as these bars are directly related to her relationship with John. The bars in the narrator's window act as a

gothic symbol for the narrator's relationship with her husband because they both limit her independence and authority. This symbolism shows Gilman's critique of patriarchal society, as she draws attention to the physical restriction of Jane in society. This implies that Gilman blames the way matriarchy limited women's freedom and power at this time. Traditionally, windows in literature represent a vista of possibilities, but now through them, Jane sees everything she could be and have through them. But she says near the end, "I don't like to look out of the windows even if there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast" (Gilman 22). She knows she has to conceal and lay low in order to be accepted by society, and she does not want to see all the other women who have to do the same as she sees them as a reflection of herself. She discusses how women must move in order to be seen in society. For her, the window does not signify a portal. She can't enter what she sees outside the window because John won't let her, but also because that world will not belong to her and she will be oppressed like all other women. She will be restrained and forced to suffocate her own speech. Through the windows in the nursery and the irony of John and his medical position, Perkins Gilman depicts the disparities of power that destroyed women in her time. The symbolism of a window, which offers a view from the outside to the inside, also represents a society in which women are not accepted due to their standing. The dramatic irony in this story highlighted the authority men have over women, both in terms of say and decision-making; not only were women unable to speak up about how they were treated, but no one with a voice did either. The Yellow Wallpaper, through Gilman's writing and

her ideals of feminism and equal rights, acts as a window for the reader into a time of division and stereotypes.

Jailed By Society

By Ellie Walters

The term female hysteria is rooted back in Ancient Greece and managed to remain in medical records until the 1950s. Female hysteria was thought to have been caused by the movement of the uterus, with symptoms including anxiety and several other things people did not want to think of a different reason as the cause. In modern times, it is easy to see these symptoms were likely due to the social pressures of the time and the frustration in the idea of a perfect subdued wife. In the 1890s, the case was different. Women had just started a movement of expressing their opinions and wanting voting rights publicly. Many, such as Charlotte Perkins Gilman, wrote newspaper articles and stories conveying their disdain for the mistreatment of women. Charlotte Perkins Gilman highlights this message by condemning the containment and control of women through symbolism and characterization in her short story “The Yellow Wallpaper.”

In the short story, Perkins Gilman layers many symbols to show the containment of women in the 19th century. A clear example is “The Yellow Wallpaper,” specifically the heavily described pattern. In Jane's writing, she discusses the images she sees in the design by saying, “At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be”

(Gilman 18). There are two key symbols in this quote, the bars in the wallpaper pattern and the woman's figure. Bars throughout history have been an indicator of physical confinement. Often associated with

jails and cages, it is clear that the woman behind them is trapped. Through the story, it becomes further evident that the bars also represent the society that the woman, truly a reflection of Jane, is bubbled into. When describing the woman’s activities, Jane comments, “By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still” (Gilman 18). In addition, Jane mentions, “in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard” (Gilman 19). A key difference in the woman's activities is when they take place. During the day and in the light, the woman is described as “subdued,” “quiet,” and “still.” In contrast, she is active at night and in the darkness and shakes the bars. Darkness and night are often associated with the subconscious and hidden, whereas light and day are what is seen and intentional. The fact that the woman is subdued in the day represents what people see and the outward presentation of women as perfect and obedient housewives. At night the woman shakes the bars, trying to escape the entrapment of society. Notably, this occurs at night in the subconscious and out of view of people. These symbols largely support the idea that 19th-century women were jailed in their society. Perkins Gilman characterizes the main character and narrator, Jane, to show women's diminished capabilities due to social control. The story of “The Yellow Wallpaper” is told from the perspective of Jane, who writes in a diary manner. At the end of one of her entries, she writes, “There comes John, and I must put this away - he hates to have me write a word” (Gilman 13). Furthermore, when discussing her sister-in-law, she relays, “I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick! But I can write when she

is out” (Gilman14). Jane finds her writing to be a comfort, but many of this time would be in opposition. It is necessary that she hides her writing from her husband “hates” to have her write at all. Even women of the time would uphold the values of the repressive society. Jane’s sister-in-law characterizes the ideal women of the time as being content and compliant, distinctly different from Jane herself. This trophy wife and societal standard of a woman believe Jane’s writing is the root of her illness. Another example of societal repression is demonstrated when Jane states, “I tried to have a real earnest reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia. But he said I was not able to go” (Gilman 16). In this passage, Jane attempts to communicate her needs with her husband, and even though she thinks something will vastly improve her health, he says no, as it is not what he believes to be best. This is a precise moment where her opinions are invalidated, showing societal norms control her.

Through symbolism and characterization, Charlotte Perkins Gilman emphasizes her contempt for the control and containment of women in her short story “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Though not the only voice to speak out against these things, she rose to fame and became a well-known speaker and writer. Gilman helped dismember the stigma enforced by centuries of systematic sexism. Her popularity breakthrough, which women’s activists had not seen, pushed the population towards more progressive thinking and, eventually, women's suffrage.

Our Team

Editor in Chief:

- Rocket Davis (2024)

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Hannah Conn

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Dao Ming Chau (2023)

Calvin Lundin (2023)

Colson Struss (2023)

Elena Skirgaudas (2023)

Cory Gennari Pratt (2023)

Nura Ali (2024)

Michael Rosales (2026)

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