STIR Magazine Spring 2016 by STIR Magazine

MOVE

SPRING 2016

Unconscious Movement

The Aftermath

Oblitus Mori (Forget to Die)

The Eccentric Life of Kai Wingo

Climate Justice

Vectors

Spring Break

I Can’t Move

18 Illusions

A New Focus

Time to Move On

Movement of the Hand

Stills from the Art of Movement

Light and Shadow

The Movement of Refugees

Moving, Loss, & Remembrance

Moved by Moving

I’m Sorry, Me

Inspiration Porn

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STAFF

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Rose Gallogly

PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR Dominique Pratt

HEAD COPY EDITOR Anna Spack

MANAGING EDITOR Skye Wingo

WRITING EDITORS Hunter Hoysradt Lance Yau Lloyd Schramm Luke Ballmer Mary Schiffer

CONTRIBUTORS

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Alyssa Pelletier Anela Layugan Chung Truong Dania Simoun Julia Schroeder Kaiomi Inniss Katherine Landesman Linh Vu Sophia Dzikas Skye Wingo Taylor Hopkins

COVER PHOTO BY KATHERINE LANDESMAN

CONTACT INFORMATION STIR Magazine 950 Main St. Worcester, MA 01610 clarkstirmagazine.com stirmagazine@gmail.com

LAYOUT STAFF Charlotte Bresee Dania Simoun Eve Tran Jenna DeFosse Mary Schiffer Rose Gallogly

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letter from the editor Despite having worked on or contributed to eight separate issues of this magazine, STIR never fails to surprise me. At the end of last semester, I was a bit burnt out, wary of starting the whole magazine production process all over again, especially with the pressures of my last semester of college weighing me down. But as soon as our very first brainstorming meeting came around, I felt that familiar energy return—the creative spark this magazine gives me was back, and once again I was sure that this final issue would be worth the all late nights and last-minute layout changes. And, as this semester comes to a close, I’m more sure than ever that the honor of running STIR is completely worth all of its challenges. Our Spring 2016 issue is once again a conceptual study of a theme, forgoing our previous model of sections. This semester, our writers and photographers explored a simple idea: move. As you’ll see, the range of approaches our contributers have found to tackle that idea is phenomenal. Some pieces play with the visual effects of light and time in photography, while others discuss the importance of social movements, or the physical movement of people across social and political boundaries. We have personal meditations and mathematical studies, as well as odes to art history and the art of handwriting.

The idea of moving on, clearly evoked by this issue’s theme, is an emotional one for me at the moment. I’m trying to come to terms with the idea of graduating, but it hasn’t always worked out so well: when putting together this semester’s layout, over and over again I caught myself thinking, “oh, I can’t wait to try out this design style in the next issue.” Of course, I know that I’ll be leaving this magazine in very good hands—Audrey, Abby, and the rest of next year’s editorial board is more than capable of guiding this publication into the future. Even so, I’ll miss STIR and its wonderfully creative community dearly after I graduate. STIR really taps into something special on this campus, and the hours and hours I’ve spent working on it have been some of my best at Clark. And so—thank you, once again, to everyone who makes this magazine happen. Readers, I hope you enjoy this incredible production.

Rose Gallogly Editor-in-Chief

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After serving as STIR’s Editor-in-Chief and Layout Editor for the past two semesters, I’m humbled by the dedication of all of the editors who have come before me, and deeply grateful to all those who have worked with me to put this magazine together. Our editorial board is semester is almost a full line-up of seniors, so I’d like to thank all of them for their contributions. Dominique and Lloyd: the creativity and energy you both bring to this team is astounding. You two are our longest serving editors, and for that, this generation of STIR is forever in your debt. Lance and Hunter: thank you so much for coming on as editors this year, and bringing your depth and range of experiences to this magazine. Skye and Anna: the two of you saved me this semester— I can’t thank you enough for joining our team, and being such consistent and reliable resources for all of us.

unconscious movement We tend to pay too much attention to what we should do and how we should act in order to appear socially acceptable. Most of the time, the movements we make when we are paying the least attention portray a better sense of our personalities. This series explores those unconscious moments. â&#x2013;Ş

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WORDS & PHOTOS BY LINH VU

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PHOTOS & WORDS BY TAYLOR HOPKINS

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oblitus mori (forget to die)

Oblitus Mori is a series of still life photographs taken on the commuter rail between Worcester and Boston. I modeled each image after Memento Mori still life paintings spanning from the Medieval era to the Post-Impressionist movement. The photographs, in addition to the poem, resurrect the idea of remembering our mortality to focus on our purpose and values rather than fleeting pleasures. The importance of making these images on the commuter rail is based on the the train’s path. It has a beginning and an end, mirroring the timeline of our own existence. By using the same mortal elements used in Memento Mori paintings, I blend classical subject matter with a contemporary process and setting, validating the relevance of the centuries-old paintings. ▪

0 mph

11mph Doors are closed and I can feel The momentum building, I can Hear the echoing fragmented welcome From the voice above. He’s the only thing I can hear, even without completely Understanding, I trust Him to tell me My destination Destiny Men dressed in black roam the Vacant hallways, taking your offerings And celebrating your penance by adorning The ground with pink confetti

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This is how all of us enter The world, a screeching arrival Never exactly when scheduled Sometimes early Sometimes late Everyone shovels into the same Cocoon, careers, Casket Shuffling to find their place Using compulsions of instinct Convenience and comfort

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43mph

56 mph

The weight of my body presses Further into this short, vinyl pew Where I am supposed to contemplate Sleep, pray or escape I watch the shadows of passing Trees photograph my cupped hands A thousand times every mile The pulsating steel-wheel drone Pushing me further into a meditative Moment of existential clarity, calmness Crisis

Every stop opens the doors To more baggage, people Souls If only we never stopped I wouldn’t have to be someone else’s Memory, momentary inconvenience Mirror We’re one in the same Created equally, all cursing the Polarization of blessings If we didn’t stop, I wouldn’t Be tempted to hop off early and Skip to the last chapter of King Solomon’s lamentations Vanitas vanitatum Omnia vanitas

Quickly I retreat to the ferociously vibrating Vessel of mass information that Serves constant reminders of my Obligations, my occupation My definition

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79 mph

With each fleeting moment, minute Year It passes faster, a smaller fraction Than the one before it My options, opportunities and dreams Narrow and with less time Greater actualization, more regrets, a clearer Revelation Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not ready for this last and final stop Naked and alone, stripped of my silver and gold My purpose, my pride, my temple Vanitas I arrived on time but the message came too late Memento Mori, Remember your mortality.

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CLIMATE JUSTICE WORDS BY ROSE GALLOGLY

Out of Naomi Klein’s entire hour and a half long speech at Clark this past February, that’s the phrase that has stuck with me the most. I looked it up shortly after the speech, and as fate would have it, the quote is actually attributed to a Clark alum. Quinton Sankofa, a graduate of Clark’s Community Development and Planning Program, seems to have said this at a climate justice conference in 2014, with renowned public intellectual and climate action advocate Naomi Klein in the audience. According to the internet trail I found, Naomi Klein tweeted the quote out during that conference and seems to have been using it in her public appearances ever since. That quote has stuck with me so much because it turns many of our most common narratives about climate change upside down. So often we hear that humankind is failing, that we’re so stuck in our ways that we’ll never manage to stop using fossil fuels and heating up our planet, and that we’re all equally doomed to a future forever altered by the effects of climate change. What we hear less about is the stark inequalities that can be found in the distribution of those effects, and the way that they fall almost entirely on the shoulders of those who are

” already most marginalized all around the world. And what you almost never encounter is the undeniable likelihood that those who already have the most power in our society—whether that power comes from race, gender, socioeconomic class, or any other social characteristic— will probably, in the end, find a way to survive the climate catastrophe we’re all headed towards. They just might not take the rest of us with them. It is for all of those reasons and many more that the climate justice movement is one that I’ve felt deeply called to in the past few months, so much so that I’ve come to see my whole future as being informed by it. Let me back up a little. This past December, I was lucky enough to be offered a job with the group of students and faculty at Clark who are trying to deepen our understanding and response to climate change, both on campus and in our broader communities. I entered this work as I so

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“

The transition is inevitable —justice is not.

often do: as the graphic designer for the group. For me, being a graphic designer is the perfect way to become involved with any organization or movement. It allows me to provide help using the skill set I feel most confident in. It also lets me engage in every part of what’s going on, from outside communication to the hard work of internal messaging and planning. This was my way into the broader climate change conversation happening on this campus, and luckily, it came at the exact right time for me, both personally and academically.

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Climate change is always something that I’ve cared about, but I’ve rarely felt any particular agency in discussing the issue. Sure, I try to make environmental consciousness inform my daily decisions—I compost, I don’t eat meat, I try to buy local food—but those actions have always felt so small and inconsequential in contrast to the magnitude of the issue this planet is facing. But, without going into unnecessary detail, my actions and stake in the issue of climate change have started to feel more and more substantial in the past few months. Just two examples: several recent classes have deepened my understanding of exactly what’s at stake and what’s already happened, and a dangerous natural gas pipeline extension was recently proposed less than two miles from where I grew up, throwing the cost and risk of our continued dependence on fossil fuels directly in my face.

So, when I got the chance to be involved with Clark’s Climate Change Teach-In, as well as with the broader effort of the New Earth Conversation, the issues we were dealing with had never felt more relevant to my life than they did then. The work I’ve gotten to do as part of the Teach-in has brought all those other details distinctly and substantially together, and all of a sudden, this movement feels like my own. Which, of course, is to say that I’m constantly learning more about it, and that I’m constantly feeling humbled in the face of those whose depth of understanding and action is much greater than my own. One of those people is Naomi Klein, whose book, movie, and speech are by far some of the strongest pieces of work I’ve encountered on this issue, and whose presence and

intelligence constantly blows me away. Another one of those people in Julius Jones, the founder of the Worcester chapter of Black Lives Matter, and a remarkable articulator of the way that the root causes of racial injustice and those of climate injustice are one and the same. This past March, the Climate Change Teach-In filled this campus with speakers, panelists, and dialogue surrounding the issue of our climate catastrophe. All of the events I attended that day enriched and deepened my understanding in one way or another, but none more so than a panel called “Making Black Lives Matter on Earth.” This discussion included a number of Clark faculty members and students, as well as Julius Jones. It became a wide-ranging exploration of the ways that racial inequalities have been caused by the same structures that have created climate change, and how our fight against climate change must include an active effort against racial injustice. This is something I’ve delved into many times before, but the insight and framing offered by Jones and the other panelists called me to action in a way few things ever have. The vision of a post-fossil fuel future offered by those panelists and by Naomi Klein is simple, in a way. It is a future that contains justice, equity, and compassion for all, and that centers itself around a kind of humanenvironment relationship that nurtures and sustains all living things, not just a lucky few. For me, the climate justice movement, in combination with the Black Lives Matter movement, the feminist movement, the queer rights movement, and any other social or political movement that seeks to uplift those who are marginalized by our current structures of power, offer a way forward to that future. The world will never be lacking for issues worthy of support, and I don’t believe that there’s any real limit to the human capacity for empathy within those issues. But I do feel very honored and grateful to have encountered a movement that ties all the deepest strands of my empathy and understanding together. The climate justice movement presents a deeply compelling vision for the future, and it’s something that I hope to spend the rest of my life fighting for. ▪

WORDS BY LUKE BALLMER

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spring break

a short story

The student broke from his room as from a timeless cocoon made of trash. He stumbled down an ever-dark hallway, took a mythically purifying shower, put on his favorite clothes, and went outside for the first time in days. His flimsy defense, a blue button-up shirt and fading suede shoes, couldn’t stop his eyes and ego from burning in the sun. The evening’s beauty was a weight his sickly-red skin couldn’t bear. Familiar trees were cut and pasted from a discarded draft of someone else’s bad writing. Reality had no depth, and the desperate metaphors crowded him out of linearity’s numb comforts. Nothing could be described. He sat against a tree, faced the sun, and called his mother.

away entirely. The student could say that hours passed, or days, or dozens of games, forty, thirty, and twenty minutes apiece. But time has no demarcations when you lose yourself in the caged escape of an addiction entirely indulged. Only from the other side could he tell his mother,

“Hey, it’s been a while! How are you, sweetie?”

Addictions poorly mask our unmet needs. We’re drawn to them because they blind us from consciousness of what we lack, but the return of this consciousness is as certain as the dawning of a painfully bright sun. During the few hours away from the screen, the student cried in bed, then on the dirty floor. Longing for the past wracked every nerve. He held his blanket tightly and replayed what had grown so dim. After the tears took their course, he laughed and muttered the word “bleak” to himself as if it could break a curse.

He was surprised his voice didn’t sound different. “You know, I had a feeling. What’s been going on?” — There are many ways to meet the earliest morning light, but one is most typical for those familiar with addiction. Five days before he called his mother, the student glanced up from his cluttered desk and dimly felt a crack in time hinted by the pale glow of the shadows in his room. He saw a blue creeping out from under a darkness whose permanence had seemed unquestionable. It was the first daylight of Spring Break, and his hand ached from clicking, his head from weed. His stomach felt fine, but he wished something or other would punish him for the sleeves of Chips Ahoy and layers of salted peanuts. He shut out the pale blue with plastic blinds and began another game of Defense of the Ancients 2. Those familiar with addiction have learned that the units of time that so readily structure our experience may slip

“Uh-oh, again?” “Yeah, and that got me in a really bad place.” —

“It was real bleak. That’s how I keep describing it.” “I’m sorry, son. Try to be kind to yourself this weekend. I think you get into harsh patterns of thinking without noticing.” — The hardest struggles are not ones of action. The hardest struggles are ones of representation and narrative. The student felt much better after talking with his mother. She gave very good advice, and he followed it as best he could. Then he spent a little more time outside, letting the trees be trees. He told others his Spring Break was good, because it was. ▪

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“Hey, Mom. Not so good. I’ve had a bleak Spring Break.”

“I played DOTA 2 for about 12 hours a day over break.”

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MOVE PHOTOS BY SOPHIA DZIKAS

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illusions

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time to

MOVE ON WORDS BY ALYSSA PELLETIER

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My hands move restlessly, circling my face as I gaze below at the fiery leaves and dying grass. There he is, I exclaim internally as I spot him once again sitting on a bench stories below me, the wind rustling his hair, his smile as crisp as the autumn day. He looks up at me, surprise washing over his face as he quickly parts ways with his friends. I want to follow him and speak to him. I want to hold his warm, vivacious hands in mine and ask him if he ever thinks about me in the same way that I remember his face in the early morning light or the darkness of night. My hands move steadily, chasing each other. I watch him rush to class, his form retreating from my fixed gaze. Please, look at me once more, I silently plead, but he disappears into Jefferson without another glance.

I remember the first time I saw him, a bewildered firstyear, lost. He gazed at me as if I was a shining beacon amongst the clustered buildings, a landmark pointing him in the right direction. Perhaps that is all he sees me as: just something to tell him where to go, when to be there. He has grown since then, matured into an adult; a man with a sense of his own direction and purpose. Every time he passes by the Green, though, he glances at me and I wonder if he can feel my stare following him as well: affectionate, unrequited. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even know his name. There have been many like him, many that have caught my attention. Yet it is always the same: my regard is

unanswered, unreturned. The others have come and gone, replenished by a never-ending cycle of new students. Is it my permanence or my loneliness that keeps them at a distance? Perhaps I am just too far away, too far above the conversations and happenings. I want to reach out my hands, to close the distance between me and the rest of the world. I want to be embraced, to be loved. I feel so trapped. The days trudged ahead and the seasons came and went as they always do. Autumn turned into a cold, desolate winter. The snow fell endlessly. People walked by me in drunken hazes, laughing in the frozen night, stumbling amongst the whiteness. He, too, walked by me every day in the stillness of the afternoon, the snow sticking to his coat, the winter light illuminating him and his rosy cheeks. I am so cold. Yet, endlessly, I thought of him. Soon the dying grass was again vibrant with life; the trees bloomed and the campus anxiously awaited the end of the academic year. So many days have passed where I have looked below me at the people walking by, noticing him all too fondly, familiarly, and hoped. For what? I am not sure. There are far too many things I wish for. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but think that he will leave soon. I have seen others slowly departing over the past few days. The warm embraces with friends, the lingering goodbyes that occur

MOVE below me: they only remind me that, like everyone else, he must go too. I wonder how much longer I have with him. How much time is left? Time: it’s a funny thing, isn’t it? It has no concern for anything, for anyone. I hate it.

That was the last time I saw him. The months passed and although I did not move, my hands never stopped chasing each other in their endless pursuit. I never stopped counting, measuring, ticking, wanting. Situated at the top of this tower, I feel so isolated. You would think that being on top of Jonas Clark, in the center of campus, I would feel included. But most people walk by without ever noticing me. I hope that someday he and all the others whom I have unrequitedly longed for will return, but I am almost certain they never will. I have been here far too long. I am tired. Such is the life, I suppose, of a clock: forever waiting as time moves onward and onward. ▪

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Yet there he is, below me, eagerly embracing a friend. He shakes their shoulders and throws his head back with laughter. Please, don’t leave. In this moment, I hope time will stop. I hope time will cease so that I may observe him unobstructed, so that I may capture this moment and relish it for the rest of my minutes, hours, days, years. He looks so happy. He hasn’t looked at me all day.

STILLS from

THE ART of

WORDS & PHOTOS BY JULIA SCHROEDER

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movement

Dance is the artistic expression of the human body’s natural capacity to move. Photography is the product of the uniquely human desire to pause and immortalize a fleeting impression. Dance is movement; photography is still. These images are intended to be simple celebrations of the joy and beauty of dance. I began by shooting more posed pictures but was not completely satisfied with the results because they failed to convey movement. So, I experimented with slow shutter photos. I was out of my comfort zone, but that is a common theme in dance. Sometimes you move in ways that don’t feel natural, but it captivates your audience. ▪ A special thank you to the talented and generous members of Clark University Dance Society featured in this spread!

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THE Movement OF

Refugees

Stories from the Largest Migrant Crisis in Modern Times

WORDS & IMAGES BY LANCE YAU

Is there something that can drive you more than love? Happiness? Sadness? Fear?

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How about desperation? The loss of hope, opportunities, or even the ability to live a normal life? These are the feelings that refugees face when they see their own country descend into chaos, when instances of conflict and death become regular occurrences. Pre-conflict, these refugees may have been poor, or they may have been more well-off. In most cases, it all became irrelevant when war drives them out of their homes, into tent settlements that are little more than unpoliced shantytowns, or the back alleys and outskirts of a town in another nation, where they often get unwelcoming looks and faces that scream of fear and ignorance.

No matter their backgrounds, circumstances have been bad enough to drive more than a million people from the Middle East to Europe in 2015 alone. If that feels like a high number, consider that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only a fraction of the 60 million people forcibly displaced around the world. Human society has not seen such a massive number of people flung apart from their homes since the Second World War, and yet, here we are in 2016, with the largest migrant crisis in modern times. Through looking at the tribulations of these people, we can see the faces of fatigue and longing, as well as the driving forces behind their trek to lands unlike their homes. In searching for the best life they can find, their movement can often be just as treacherous as the strife they left behind.

Although there are plenty of refugee settlements, shelters, and simple ways to enter countries close to the conflict in Syria and Iraq, millions have still decided to flee to Europe en masse. The reasons for not staying revolve around two simple yet immense shortcomings: deepening poverty across the region as a whole, and limited livelihood opportunities. In Lebanon, refugees may look at the high cost of living as a factor in deciding to stay or go. Those in Egypt may point to how itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s getting harder to pay rent, manage high levels of debt and afford their basic needs. In Jordan, the inability to provide for oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family was the most common reason given by people who knew someone who had left. The cumulative effect of four years in exile with restricted access to legal employment was also said to be taking its toll. In many cases, savings are long depleted, precious valuables have been sold off and many refugees across the region live in miserable conditions, struggling to pay rent, feed their families and cover their basic needs. Without the ability to work, many refugees have struggled to make a living. Lack of livelihood opportunities or access to the formal labor market has been cited as a problem by refugees in Lebanon, Egypt and Jordan. Syrian refugees in Iraq say the large number of internally displaced people has increased competition for

MOVE jobs, and meanwhile, work on construction sites in the region has dried up with the recent drop in oil prices. The lack of access to legal work leads refugees to resort to informal employment, risking exploitation, working in unsafe conditions or having payment withheld by unscrupulous employers. If caught working illegally, some refugees face sanctions, such as being returned to a camp. Does that sound so bad?

Now think about the fact that many families are faced with the prospect of living in camps for years. Years that would wipe away a bright future for their children, if that possibility hasn’t been taken away already. An entire generation of stateless children would grow up without a healthy conditions—and perhaps even worse— without the ability to receive a proper education. This is how the cycle continues. A cycle of conflict, poverty, under-education, and radicalization. Refugees love their homes and the traditions they carry with them, but it is no wonder why many see no future there. And so they leave. The image in the next column is a turn-by-turn map for walking directions from Syria to Hungary. There are families who have taken this 1,400 mile trek, crossing three or four countries to get to what they’ve been told to have a better life: the steps of Western Europe. It’s a mix of walking and riding on transports, all while carrying possessions, shepherding young children and stopping to look or beg for food. It’s a dangerous and unforgiving journey, but many still take it out of the combination of desperation and blind hope.

When they get there, they arrive at closed borders and crowds of other refugees who have taken to the same idea that they have. The countries in which they sought to find a better life in have decided that it’s increasingly hard to provide for all of them, and that the threat of being overwhelmed with refugees, spurred on by a mixture of economic or xenophobic reasons, is too much to handle. Frustration bubbles as the realization sets in that the life they’ve been running away from simply followed them here, along with the fact that even more people now mistrust them. They’re outsiders. Outsiders who have to home to claim and have no place where they’re welcome. When we look at the movement of refugees, it’s not just about how they physically move from one place to another. It’s about how a whole group of people with normal, everyday lives, have that ripped from them, and are being forced out their country for the sake of their families. Those without proper aid are increasingly driven by fear and desperation, ripe and vulnerable to the specter of under-education and radicalization. The onus of doing more to help is also on those who can prevent this vicious cycle, because what it all boils down to is that the movement of refugees also represents a movement to a more unsafe world. ▪

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Picture a few families trying to stay warm by burning trash (mostly plastic) in a camp settlement in Lebanon. It’s easy to think that providing shelter is all a refugee would really need. It’s easy to think that as long as they’re not injured or worse, they have something to be grateful about at the very least.

MOVED by MOVING WORDS BY KAIOMI INNISS

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As someone who has moved between three different countries, and essentially lived in two at the same time, I’ve always struggled to understand the concept of “home” and how it fits into my identity. Until now, that is. I’ve come to understand that moving has moved me. It has moved me as a person and shaped my life and identity in many ways that I now embrace. For the following profiles, I interviewed several other people who have moved many times in their lives as a way to explore how we are all moved by moving.

lisa musumba

linh vu

She was born in Kenya and lived there for three years. Then, Rwanda for four years, Kenya again for another year, Zambia for six and a half years, Kenya yet again for two years, and Costa Rica for two years. This is Lisa Musumba’s story. Lisa believes that she has “captured some sort of essence” from each country she has lived in. The place that has moved her the most is Rwanda. The Rwandan people’s ability to be uplifting despite a dark history instilled a sense of resilience in Lisa. After moving back to Kenya, like many other people in similar situations, she began to contemplate if she was “Kenyan enough” while questioning the meaning of “home.” Despite this, Lisa still holds on to her Kenyan identity and believes the person she is today is a result of her life of moving.

Linh Vu, who only left her home country of Vietnam when she was seventeen, has a slightly different story. Linh bravely decided to leave her “cocoon of familiarity,” her parents’ home in Hanoi, and move to the United States on her own. She initially told me that she hated it, but with more introspection she opened up. She claimed that her move taught her to be more independent and do “adult” things on her own. She was exposed to an entirely new world and was able to put into action the phrase “dream big.” Linh gained more traffic on her online clothing store, Psithuria, as well as on her YouTube channel and blog. Moving encouraged Linh to take more risks and step outside of her comfort zone.

lucas mccormick In our interview, Lucas McCormick said to me, “the world isn’t just America.” He was born in Hawaii, then moved to Puerto Rico for six years. Then, Florida for three and a half years, Germany for four years, back to Florida, then to Maryland, and now Massachusetts. Lucas recognizes that travelling and moving around has opened doors to different cultures for him, allowing him to realize that the world is so much more than the dominent culture of the US.

When talking about moving, the majority of people speak about the people they met and all the exciting things they encountered. These short stories show that the emotional effects migration can have are often much deeper than that; for anyone who has experienced many different parts of the world, the emotional effect of moving has a deep impact identity and sense of self. ▪

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“ ” inspiration porn WORDS BY HUNTER HOYSRADT

Often I find myself lifelessly scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed. Among the many statuses, trending topics, and shared links, I find videos, pictures, and articles that highlight how a person with disabilities “inspires” us to get motivated or makes us feel better as a result of their actions. While these posts might be shared with the best intentions, there is another side to these seemingly feel-good moments of inspiration. These posts use people with disabilities as a stepping stool for motivation, making the able-bodied feel good while objectifying those with disabilities. There is a term used to describe such a video, picture, or quote: inspiration porn. Inspiration porn has become a larger problem in recent years due to the growing use of social media. Inspiration porn can include pictures of people with disabilities performing mundane, everyday tasks with comments that congratulate the subject and tell others that there’s no excuse for someone without a disability to “try harder.” In other words, if a person with disabilities can do it, so can you. Recently, videos have been posted that show fast food employees feeding a

person with disabilities. These videos showcase the employees’ good deed, but disregards the person’s privacy— all for the sake of highlighting their disabilities for the purpose of “inspiring” others. I’m sure that inspiration porn on Facebook is posted with the best of intentions. Often, however, such posts create low expectations for how others view people with disabilities by congratulating them over everyday tasks as if these actions are all they can accomplish.

Social media has become an outlet for people to express and share information that has moved them. However, when thinking about what personally moves you, it can be easy to forget how such content affects others. While only just scratching the surface of this issue, I urge you to take the time to learn more about other types of inspiration porn and the different perspectives associated with it. I hope to initiate discussions and spread awareness about inspiration porn’s increasing popularity. As for those with disabilities, many share their opinions through thought-provoking blogs and online articles that I encourage all of you to take the time to read. A good place to start is by researching Stella Young, who was a leading activist for people with disabilities and has some great insight on inspiration porn and other matters regarding the image of disabled people in our world. By understanding the impact of social media, a constructive dialogue can be made to protect the individual when content distorts the reality of a situation. ▪

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Facebook, along with many other social media sites, has become a popular outlet for sharing emotionally moving posts. These posts vary in form, from videos of cute puppies learning to walk up stairs to throwback pictures of memorable moments with loved ones. Amongst the clutter of these social media posts, people dance a fine line between posts that are touching or adoring, invasive or disrespectful.

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

the aftermath

This series reminisces movement without having it pictured in the frame. When we think about a moving object, we notice only that evanescent moment when it swiftly passed through our viewfinder. Regrettably, we often ignore a huge number of remnants that the movement could have possibly left behind. Static and insignificant as they seem, they can tell stories. A vapor trail in the sky could draw the journey of an airplane, while droplets on a dustless leaf could remind us of the recent rain shower. I have no idea what happened the moment before I took these photos. It was my job to capture the aftermaths and it is your job to create your own interpretation of them. â&#x2013;Ş

WORDS & PHOTOS BY CHUNG TRUONG

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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the eccentric life of kai wingo

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

WORDS BY SKYE WINGO ILLUSTRATIONS BY ROSE GALLOGLY

A faucet left unturned. Next to a kitchen door that just stood.

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Drip. Drip. You may be saying, “Somebody turn the knob please!” “I’m drowning. I just want to live my life in peace.” But I can’t, so you’ll need to stop your praying. As much as I cry, scream, or want it to stop. That faucet runs this special kind of water, drop by drop. A story in the water that you may or may not know, one that is about the African princess named Kai Wingo. The least I can do is turn this faucet on so you can hear the wave of life she unleashed on us all…

CRASH! BOOM! SLAM! The noise of inspiration. The African princess runs from her back door, hands full of boxes that bang and boom as she moves. Her Afro BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCES, letting out the smell of cocoa butter behind her. Her mouth, exhaling excitement and causing every joyous energy in her body to stir.

Rushed footsteps thump down the stairs, pitter patter and sounds that scatter. The first is a young man in his early twenties. A thick Afro tied by a red bandana, not too tight or heavy. Clothes gathered from thrift, as people shift their heads to scream “WHERE did you get that?” With no avail or answer in sight, man they really want a piece of this Donald Glover look alike. The second is a young woman, 15 but with a pop in her right foot. The hair of her mother, but needs a few more years of experience, like what exists within her brother. She wears black Converse with yoga pants and a t-shirt. Minimal, an Instagram serial. “It makes me hurt that you’d say that sort of flirt,” the young woman says. “I’m your daughter, yeah, but you still got to be civil with me. At least tell me, then use that playful tease.” “Oh just come here and look! This is actually important, unlike that phone app that’s got you hooked.”

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

She says, “Hello? Come help your mother! Or would you rather me get you another?”

The two look down at the box Kai set on the table, amongst her slams and bams and loud ass noises. Expecting a book, or a nook, they get bumps and humps. Curves and blurs of different textures and furs.

“ They’re full of mushrooms, you see.This is going to make everything change for me.” You see there’s one thing you need to know about the Wingo clan. They’re true to their plan, never take any land or send people away without food in their hands. Because on that day, Kai set after her dream. She sold them: the mushrooms. Why? Well that’s something I can’t tell you. Who knows who would stop by to buy, but the requests never ran dry. Everyone asked for one, maybe a mushroom that could fix your stuck thumb or get you to trip just for fun. Because the mushrooms never stopped anyone but brought everyone around everyone. That’s what caused her excitement. That’s what sparked her smile. To Kai Wingo, that’s what she discovered would change and make the world go round. “Yuck,” the young man said in disgust. Helping his mother at market, with his sister handing out bags filled their number one target. “Shush. Have you even tried them?” The young girls said, like your confused second aunt, “The ones that look like umbrellas for restaurants? Uhhhh no thank you, is their another choice?” “You act like there’s no voice. No idea or plan. You see there are much better than that are hidden amongst our land. Oyster. Shitaki—”

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

“ OOOOOOOH. MOOOOOOM!”

A loud yell that misheard the “aki,” was none other than Seynabou, the youngest of the three that cared deeply about swearing. “Seynabou, that’s the name; it’s Japanese.” The last of Kai’s three, Seynabou just clung onto Kai’s knee. The darkest of them all, Seynabou’s skin was the tastiest of them all. You could lick it and feel the drops of love and fun that sipped out of her pores one by one. “I don’t care about your ashy knees,” she said as she looked forward. “Someone give her shea butter stat. . .” Seynabou then looked at her hand, holding the mushroom. She was lost for words. “I guess it kinda looks like a hat…” Her mom smirked. “With this we can change the world, boo.”

Kai did too.

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Seynabou took a bite.

Together, they saw the adventures that they would do. Building up her business as Seynabou grew older, and bolder. Taller and smarter. Kai saw the wavy colors of success and love within her daughter. When Seynabou looked at her mom, she didn’t see waves. She didn’t see anything that showed a future that paved the both of them together. The groovy lines of her own soul that surrounded Kai flew over to Seynabou like an unwanted letter from your bill collector. Shocked at first, then suddenly relieved, because Seynabou saw that the lines also surrounded her immediate family. In her brother and big sister, in everyone she held dear. She saw how Kai touched them, loved them, and cared. Kai gave a smile, and Seynabou dropped a tear.

SCREEEEEEECH. “There ya go! The faucet’s done leaking.” The repair man says, knowing he did the best he could. “Now your drain can take something else besides water going drip, drip, drip, down its throat, causing nothing but an overwhelming moat.” He picks up his tools, his wrench and plunger, to walk out the door that Kai did once before. What? Oh. The faucet’s been fixed.

It’s a disaster. But do know this, my friend. Sometimes things are abrupt, things may suck and things may just get fucked. But do remember the lives that were started, because those lives still exist. They will never die or be burnt to a crisp. They will live on, like a mushroom farm. When you plant a seed of your dream, success will grow. To quote her daughter: “Now take them with you and do something wonderful.”

The proof is in the eccentric life of Kai Wingo. ▪

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

Yet the water keeps running. It’s running down the lovely cheeks of Kai’s kids, down the withered cheeks of Kai’s mother. Screaming down the cheeks of her father and lifelessly falling down the cheeks of her brother. Yelling down the cheeks of her sister and crying down the cheeks of her friends.

vectors STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

WORDS & PHOTOS BY ANELA LAYUGAN

Humans have a complicated relationship with nature, and physics always exists at the heart of it. Every interaction between us and the universe, no matter how small, can be deduced to numbers and equations. This idea may dehumanize or diminish the magic of moments that nature provides us, but it grounds me when I cannot find any other explanations. I look around and remember that gravity plays one of the largest roles in how life on Earth works, or that the Sun does not rise and set but rather we live on a giant mass of matter that spins and revolves around it. The physics of daily processes is constantly overlooked, but I want to acknowledge these explanations of motion. The vectors drawn on each photo represent either the velocity at which the object is moving or the forces that drive a lack of movement but exist nonetheless. I hope to portray how a physicist perceives the world and the simplest interactions at various scales. â&#x2013;Ş

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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“

i can’t

WORDS BY MARY SCHIFFER

this is an article about being lazy. the rough draft was due three weeks ago and the final draft is due tomorrow. i’m just starting this now. for me, writing about emotion means experiencing the emotion. but whenever i was feeling lazy i didn't feel like writing the article. i’m still feeling lazy, but now it's due pretty soon so i kind of have to start. i’m too lazy to capitalize my letters. here goes my lazy life.

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

i wish my spirit animal was something cool, like a cheetah or an eagle. but my spirit animal is a sloth. i am lazy. i move slowly. i take my time. sloths are notoriously slow and so am i. i saw a movie with my best friend where one of the characters was a sloth. he talked slowly, moved slowly, reacted slowly. she laughed. “you’re totally that sloth.” she was totally right.

when you’re lazy, moving is a chore. getting out of bed. getting dressed. going to class. “come on, let’s go!” i hear it from my parents, my friends, my brain. i groan out my signature slogan: “i can’t move!” sometimes i’ll lie down on the floor because i’m too lazy to stand. i really like lying down. sometimes when i finally get my butt out the door, start my project, begin writing, i get in the groove. being productive feels awesome! i just need an initial kick to get me moving.

but the key word here is “sometimes.” much of the time, even when i start moving, i can’t move quickly or efficiently. i shuffle from my dorm and drag my feet into lectures. i yawn because clark’s campus is huge and the walk really takes it out of me. i take 12 years to fill my plate with salad because my arm struggles to battle gravity. sitting down is a godsend. standing takes too much effort. even my thoughts move slowly towards coherency, so it takes a while to get my point across. i must remember: be patient. starting is the hardest part. as long as i’m moving, at least i’ll get something done. slowly. eventually. sometimes, though, i really can’t move. my brain scoffs. “you want dopamine? that’s funny.” there’s no motivation to do the things that i want to do. here’s a sample weekend day: i’m lying in bed. it’s the beginning of a new day (is 1 pm the beginning?) i can do whatever i want because i have no plans. i have high aspirations. i’m going to finish my book. i want to plan out a story or write in my journal. i should really start my paper early, but that’s boring— playing video games would be fun. some pancakes would be awesome right now, maybe i’ll go to the kitchen. after i make breakfast, i’ll work out, lift some weights, do some cardio, some yoga. the sun is shining, why don’t i go for a walk? i bet the thrift store has some cute new clothes. before i go, though, i should clean my room. maybe do

move! i have many aspirations and dreams; i crave completeness and accomplishments. i want to be a writer, but i have trouble finding the motivation and focus to write. i want to be an artist, but i am too lazy to pick up a pencil. my laziness plagues my day-to-day efforts as well. “i’m going to get my work done tomorrow, it’s my day off.” the next day i stay in bed because it's my day off and nothing is forcing me to move. self-motivation is hard. i need deadlines, even though deadlines are just as hard. i procrastinate because i can't self-motivate. i do nothing until the deadline screams, “hey, if you don’t do this now you will fail!” my entire high school career was one big mess of tardies, late grades and missing assignments. homework was done

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exclusively in class the period before it was due. staying up all night to write papers we’d had weeks to complete was the norm. but hey, even if my life is last-minute, at least the deadlines make me move. i like to sleep. i like to relax. i like to lie down. i don't like to rush. i don't like to be busy. i don't like to commit.

my inner sloth is the nemesis of productivity and peace. when i relax for too long, i have to rush. i’m always late because i don't want to move. being busy sucks because then i can’t relax. i’m lazy and i hate moving. that’s why i hate commitment—then i have to move, even when i don’t want to. i tell you on wednesday, “yeah, a party this weekend sounds great!” come saturday evening, i’m in my pajamas, in bed and feeling extra lazy after a day of doing nothing. aren’t i bored? shouldn’t i want to do something? yeah, probably. but as per newton, objects at rest tend to stay at rest. at least that's how it is when you’re lazy. i hate schedules, i hate deadlines, i hate commitments. but they are a necessary evil. i am creative but lazy. passionate but not driven. i won't work without external pressure. it’s a curse—the lazy curse. i’m lazy and crazy and my life is hard to understand. i exist in wobbly limbo between relaxation and panic. that’s what you get when you can’t move. ▪

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

some dishes or laundry. i have so many hopes, ideas and goals. there are so many things i want to do. but when you’re lazy, desires are difficult to transform. to make desires a reality, you need effort. and when you’re lazy, effort is hard to muster. so i lie in bed and succumb to the internet. i scroll aimlessly and eat dry cereal out of the box. (i have milk, but i don’t want to wash a dish.) i look out the window and it's dark. my roommate comes back. “have you been here all day?” yeah, and i accomplished nothing. i wanted to get some stuff done today, but i didn’t really feel like moving.

”

a new

FOCUS STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

WORDS & PHOTOS BY KATHERINE LANDESMAN

Do you ever feel a change within yourself? Or maybe just a shift of focus to something you are truly interested in or always wanted to try? If you’ve experienced this, you may even describe it as “finding yourself.” For me, I would describe it more as creating myself. Our passions, our interests, our things that make us, they aren’t just “out there” for us to go find. They’re within ourselves to bring out. “Yourself” is not something you find, but rather something you create. When we find what we want to focus on, it’s in our power to bring that out in ourselves. When we discover what we like and what we don’t like, we are forced to pull our passions into focus. That shift in focus is what defines who we are at any given moment. An image is usually blurry when you look through the lens. It’s not until you pinpoint an object and turn the focus ring that it becomes clear. I pass the same broken-down house on Oberlin Street at least twice a day. One day there was a man outside painting the house. Since then, I’ve seen him out there every time I pass, extremely focused on his task. When it

started getting dark earlier, he would be out there with a headlamp and a paintbrush. One day I noticed how nice that part of the house was starting to look, so I complimented him on it. He was very appreciative, and I could tell in his voice how much this project meant to him. It wasn’t just a chore for him to fix his house. He wasn’t even fixing much of it structurally, just making it look better. But it didn’t matter to him, because it was clear he enjoyed the outcome. In this photo series, inspired by Kenneth Josephson, I shot double exposures with a film camera. The first exposure was out of focus, while the second was the same exact subject, in focus. These photos make the viewer extra aware of light. Did the pictures come out well? I’ll let you decide that. However, I do know that while taking these pictures, I was in a good place; I was a version of myself that I was happy with. I let myself become a little unfocused, distracted from “real” work and thinking about my future. I was able to re-focus on what I wanted out of life and what I wanted out of myself. ▪

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

m o v e m

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e n t

o f STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

In this technology-oriented world, seeing someone’s handwriting is both rare and special. Written words are physical evidence of the movements of the hand. Each person’s handwriting possesses a unique shape and form that reveal a peek into his/her personality. ▪

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

t h e

h a

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WORDS & PHOTOS BY LINH VU

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n d

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LIGHT AND SHADOW

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

PHOTOS BY DANIA SIMOUN

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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& STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

moving, loss, remembrance

The idea of moving house has always been pretty foreign to me. My life up until recently has been defined by a distinct solidity of place—I’ve always been rooted in my neighborhood, in the same house, in all of the other physical places that defined my childhood. And so, when I found out this past summer that my grandparents, at 90 and 93 years old, had finally decided to move out of the house I had always known to be theirs, I was devastated. It was a strange kind of devastation, considering that I knew this move was the smartest possible decision for them, and that I supported it fully. I also knew that nothing would change, really, except for the extra stress they experienced trying to keep up a full household all by themselves. I was happy for them, but for me, this move came with a deep sense of loss. It meant the loss of a beloved childhood stomping ground, and of the deep comfort and calm I had always felt between those walls. Of course, regardless of my feelings on the matter, my grandparents had made their decision, and set up the first stage of their move to coincide with my family’s annual early-July visit, so as to tap into the energy and willingness of the granddaughters to help pack up the family home. Theirs was a second marriage, for both: after later-in-life divorces, my grandmother met Daan when they were both in their sixties, and they had spent the past thirty-odd years adorably and completely in love with each other. Despite all of the joy the joining of our two families had brought, it also brought the distinct downside that this house was now full of not one, but two collected family inheritances, and it had just enough storage space to support the pack-rat habit sustained by

WORDS & ARTWORK BY ROSE GALLOGLY

both Nana and Daan. So packing up and sorting through my grandparents’ belongings was not so much an enjoyable vacation week task as it was a full-scale utility operation. Walking up and down from my grandmother’s attic to carry more and more boxes of musty old books did, at least momentarily, relieve some of the sadness I had at the idea of leaving all this behind. So, pack we did, at least to the extent we could. Stacks of old boxes and bags, never fully sorted after the move into this house twenty-plus years ago, were brought out onto their front lawn, as to not send any of us to the emergency room with dust and mold exposure. There were plenty of fun surprises to look through (a box full of my mom’s childhood books, a handwritten Valentine’s Day card from my great-grandfather to his new sweetheart, my great-grandmother), but also plenty of containers I wished could have remained closed (that is to say, I discovered a phobia for old, musty animal fur that I never knew I had). My dad and sister made at least five trips to the local Goodwill over the course of our few-day long stay, and my family’s minivan kept getting packed more and more with little trinkets and old mementoes that we just couldn’t bare to part with. The whole process was cathartic, in a way. I got to say goodbye to that gorgeous house, and feel the relief that my grandparents would soon be free of all this stuff that had been weighing them down for so long. My family visited them next this past Christmas, and as bittersweet as it was to arrive at their new apartment instead of that old, wonderful house, I could tell that this move had been for the best. They were both still adjust-

MOVE that this was her choice, that she had looked back on the ninety years she lived so, so fully, and had decided she would be happy to live out the end of them in comfort, surrounded by loving family. Just like we had when moving out and on from that wonderful old house, we all got to say goodbye to her, and feel the bittersweet comfort that the great weight of pain this cancer was causing her would soon be lifted.

Honestly, the only regret I’ve felt for them in recent weeks has been that they didn’t get to enjoy that new, worry-free lifestyle for just a little bit longer. During the second week of March, my grandmother finally went to see her doctor about back pain that had been plaguing her for the past few months. That, along with a noticeable increase in her memory difficulties, had gotten us all worried recently. And so, it was with great sadness but little shock that we found out the back pain was cancer, and that the prognosis wasn’t good. At 90, Nana just couldn’t see herself going through the pain and trauma of cancer treatment; she decided that she would rather let the disease take its course, and chose palliative care instead, so that she could reach the end of her days in comfort instead of pain. The end, both mercifully and tragically, came sooner than any of us could have guessed. At the doctor’s urging, my mom rushed off to see her mother just a few days after the diagnosis, with the rest of our family driving out just a few days later. Every day that we were there, she declined a bit more. By the time we had to drive back home and resume our normal lives, Nana was sleeping for most of the day, speaking just a few sentences and eating just a few bites. It’s a strange feeling, sitting with a dying person. For me, there was great peace and solace to be found in knowing

What I painted in that sitting was not a childhood photo or a beautiful landscape, as I had painted for her so many times before. It was her house. That afternoon (and well into the night), I spent hours and hours translating from photo to oil on canvas the red brick and white porch of the place that contained so many of my memories of Nana, so much of the life we had lived together. I poured every last ounce of my love for her into the piece, and in doing so found a deep sense of calm, of security in the strength and perpetuity of both my memories and her love. Though the paint was still a bit wet when I packed the piece into my family’s car the next day, I decided to risk it and bring the painting with me to Nana’s hospital room. We arrived just in time, getting there on the last day she was clear and still able to talk for more than a sentence or two. The look of pride on her face when I brought out the painting for her to view is completely indescribable—it contained all of those ounces of love I had poured into the piece, and then some. The process of painting it had been purely my own, but in that moment, I was so glad that my mediation had produced something physical I could share with her, something with which I could express some part of all that she means to me. The painting is back with me now, propped up on a bookshelf in my run-down Worcester apartment. I’m not sure how it contains her spirit, just as I’m not sure how the physical walls of her house could contain so much of Nana’s love and caring—but it does, and they do. And, even as I move on from Nana’s house and from this loss, they always and forever will. ▪

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

ing to their new life at Valley Manor senior apartments, but we were all so grateful that this life didn’t contain the never-ending worries about keeping up an old house and shoveling out a driveway during Rochester winters.

Since Nana died, just about two weeks after her diagnosis, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how I might honor her in my life going forward. I’m still working out what all of the details of that might be, but I know big piece of it, for sure: Nana was a dedicated art-lover, a watercolorist, and the biggest supporter of my own painting practice in the entire world. And so, after first learning of her decision to enter hospice care, I set aside all of the demands the outside world was pressing on me and headed to my studio, my safe haven.

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016 64 PHOTOS BY DOMINIQUE PRATT & LLOYD SCHRAMM

STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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STIR MAGAZINE // SPRING 2016

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