The Burr Magazine Spring 2022 by The Burr Magazine

SPRING 2022

DIGITAL ISSUE

Meet the Staff EMMA ANDRUS

HARUN MILLER

PRESTON RANDALL

FINORA REILLY

Editor-in-Chief

Managing Editor

Art Director / Illustrator

Assistant Art Director / Copy Editor

ALEX MILLER

ANASTASIA LAWRENCE

GRACE BURTON

JENNA BAL

Photo Director

Senior Editor (Writers)

Senior Editor (Bloggers)

EMILY ROBINSON

MAKENZIE DUTTON

Promotions Director

Assistant Promotions Director / Designer

Web Editor / Designer

STAFF ANASTASIA KOPF SARAH THOMPSON KATIE FLACK SOPHIE YOUNG

Designer Illustrator Head Copy Editor Copy Editor

NATHALIA TEIXEIRA MARIAH ALANSKAS JEN KELLY ASHLEY MCCORMICK

SPECIAL THANKS TO KEVIN DILLEY Director of Student Media KARISA BUTLER-WALL Faculty Adviser to The Burr

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Writer / Blogger Writer / Blogger Writer / Blogger Blogger

Letter From The Editor D

ear reader,

“Peace is always beautiful.” This is a line from Walt Whitman’s poem “The Sleepers.” When The Burr set out to produce a digital issue this semester, we couldn’t have anticipated what was in store for us. With a significantly smaller staff than that of previous semesters, we knew the task was momentous. From the very beginning, each and every individual poured their hearts and souls into their respective work, regularly going above and beyond in their contributions. This semester was also uniquely different in that we put out a call for student submissions in writing, poetry and photography. We received submissions from students of all academic years, areas of study and from across Kent State’s eight campuses. One common theme that revealed itself as we brought these stories and submissions together was the idea of peace and healing. So many stories you will read within the pages of this issue are personal or shed light on larger issues in society. We found peace within ourselves in writing these stories, and we hope you will find peace in reading and sharing them. Thank you for supporting student-produced media.

Emma Andrus Editor-in-Chief

INSIDE

Food of Tomorrow

Mama’s Boy 4

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Banning Books ≠ Banning Problems

Fast Fashion Needs to Slow Down

The Patriarchy Didn’t Ask Our Permission

Happy Trails, Happy Animals

Submissions 37 Contributor Introductions 39 Psych Ward Deceptions 46 My Father Took My Punches For Me: Living Jewishly in Ohio

50 Ping Pong Prodigy 5

FOOD OF

TOMORROW PHOTO PROJECT BY Anastasia Lawrence

ave you ever wondered what it would be like to see into the future?

What will life look like? What will we eat? What will the food look like? In Photo Director Anastasia Lawrence’s photo project, “Food of Tomorrow,” she parodies 1960s posters predicting what the future would look like – this time, with how we might predict the food of the future. No real food was used as her subjects in an effort to mirror the reality that everything we consume one day may be artificial and plastic.

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Morning Nutrition Pills! This isn’t a hard pill to swallow. These nutrition pills are packed with all the necessary vitamins for your daily needs. With the micro-slices of fruit and the shiny coating of the capsules, these pills are quick and easy to ingest. Just take one in the morning as a substitute for breakfast. No more worrying about waiting for fruit to be in season at the grocery store when these pills have the natural flavors of the real thing.

The nutrition pills provide all the necessary supplements without having to worry about getting the right amount or intake of vitamins. These pills come in different colors and flavors, but they all provide the same amount of nutrients. Why waste your time setting up a meal when you could take a pill and continue with your day stress free? It’s time to start thinking about your future.Your body will thank you!

Grab-&-Go Packets! These grab-&-go packets are perfect for those busy days when you don’t have enough time to make a meal. Just pop one of the cubes out when you are feeling hungry, and you will be energized in no time. What makes these cubes different from the competition is that they come in different textures as well as flavors. Pick and choose; it’s up to you.

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The jelly ones are chewy, the detailed ones are crunchy and the mossy ones are creamy. These packets are a picnic in the park with none of the hassle. These packets come in a variety of flavors: fresh jelly sandwiches, fruit tarts and crisp greens.You don’t even need to worry about refrigeration. This food is ready for wherever the future will take you.

Organic Flower Cubes! It’s time to start eating more plants, and we are not talking about fruits and vegetables. These flower cubes taste as good as they look. Now, when it’s time to stop and smell the roses, you can eat them, too. Calm down with a chamomile cube, pep up with a pansy cube or stay focused with a lavender cube.

These cubes have a burst of flavor that will leave you hydrated and ready for whatever you plan to spend your day doing, whether that is getting ready to sleep, exercising or studying, these flower cubes are ready for you. Start making the wise decision on where your energy might come from.

Memories of May 4 & Ukraine WORDS BY Harun Miller

s May 4, the 52nd anniversary of the Kent State shootings, approaches, it is important to remember not only the lives lost, but the cause for which those lives were lost that continues on. May 4, 1970, was a day in which Kent State students took part in an anti-war protest and called for a student strike; the protest was put down in the harshest manner, ending in four students losing their lives. The anti-war protests were against expansion of U.S.

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involvement in the Vietnam War, a conflict that was largely unnecessary and cost many young Americans, and Vietnamese people of all ages, their lives. Specifically, the U.S. bombing of Cambodia was the catalyst for protests across the U.S. The war was geo-political in nature, aimed at propping up a dictatorship in Vietnam and stopping the growth of a socialist bloc of countries. With the ongoing war in Ukraine and May 4 approaching, anti-war protest and sentiment remains

an important factor in public discourse, in the U.S. and especially in Russia. Ukraine is no doubt comparable to the U.S.’s Vietnam, a geo-political and unnecessary war that is deeply unpopular within the countries perpetrating it. In Russia, as in the U.S. during the Vietnam War, anti-war protests and its crackdown are evident; Russians and Ukrainians both are victims to pointless conflict. On Feb. 24, after years of tensions when Russia annexed Crimea in 2014, Russia invaded Ukraine; since then, millions of refugees have fled to Ukraine’s neighbors and thousands of lives have been lost. Questions have been raised about possible Russian war crimes, including genocide. In an interview with Al Jazeera,Volodymyr Zelenskyy, the president of Ukraine, said,

“Who are they killing? They are killing ordinary citizens, adults and children … Out of the 500,000 population of Mariupol, something like 400,000 have either been evacuated or killed.”

In addition to the horrific Siege of Mariupol, it was discovered that over 500 civilians in the Ukrainian town of Bucha were massacred by occupying Russian forces. In Russia, the unwarranted aggression by the government has caused widespread dissent. According to the BBC, almost 15,000 Russian anti-war protesters were detained from the start of the war in Ukraine to March 15 alone. In a shocking, telling moment on Russia’s state TV news channel, Channel One, Marina Ovsyannikova, a Russian-Ukrainian editor for the state TV, appeared behind the newscaster holding a sign that had “NO WAR” written on it. Of course, such actions are not without consequences; Ovsyannikova was arrested and fined heavily for her protest. Since the March unrest in Russia, Russian president Vladimir Putin signed into law legislation that would allow the government to imprison persons who distribute “false news” for up to 15 years. Simply making a stance against the invasion of Ukraine could cause one to be imprisoned for three years. With Kent State’s history of anti-war protest, students should, perhaps, continue the anti-war legacy and support those who stand against unjust, violent action. This does not just mean changing one’s profile picture to a Ukrainian flag, but instead, educating and organizing against war at the grassroots level.

Banning Books ≠ Banning Problems WORDS BY Jenna Bal ILLUSTRATION BY Sarah Thompson

oni Morrison’s “Beloved” follows an escaped slave being haunted by the ghost of her deceased child, who she killed to save her from the horrors of slavery. Morrison received both the Pulitzer and Nobel prizes for her work. However, some people seem to think the book is not as important as its prestigious awards prove. During the 2021 election, Republican candidate and now-Virginia-governor Glenn Youngkin ran on the controversial issue of banned books, specifically “Beloved.” His campaign included an online ad featuring a mother, Laura Murphy, who attempted to have the book banned from her son’s advanced placement English class. She claimed it was due to “graphic scenes.” When her attempt failed, she supported a bill that would allow parents to choose alternative books for their children’s reading lists.Virginia’s General Assembly passed it. Governor Terry McAuliffe vetoed it twice, hence Youngkin’s decision to focus so heavily on the issue.

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“It was disgusting and gross,” Murphy’s teenage son told The Washington Post at the time, referring to “Beloved.” “It was hard for me to handle.” This is exactly why the book is so important for young people to read. Slavery is disgusting and gross. It should be difficult for readers to handle. No one should enjoy reading about the torture slaves went through in America.

In fact, everyone should feel bad reading it. It’s called “empathy.” "That book was the book that made me realize what fiction could do," said National Public Radio Senior Editor Barrie Hardymon on NPR’s podcast, “The Stacks.” “Beloved” informs young readers about the horrible past of slavery and teaches them empathy. Students

need to be challenged in this way as the world is a messy place. In many cases, a controversial book is a child’s first glimpse into a world different from their own. Literature like “Beloved” can also help children make sense of the difficult parts of history.

LGBTQ content were obscene. However, just because a person does not identify with what is seen as the norm does not mean their representation in literature or education is obscene. Everyone has a right to learn about their own body.

As a child, I was able to read whatever I wanted. This exposed me to what some may consider “mature content” early in life. However, as I went to a private Catholic school for my first years of schooling, books were also the only content that exposed me to tough, real-world issues. Without exposure to such literature, I may have grown up in the dark about issues such as child poverty and sexual assault.

The Washington Post cites several reasons for banning books, but they can all fall under two main categories: moral and political. For example, some parents do not want their children to read books with curse words, violence or sexual content, as these qualities go against their moral or religious beliefs. However, other parents, like Laura Murphy, have book banning beliefs fueled by political stances.

While the recent race for governor in Virginia drew much attention to book banning, it was not the first case of books being challenged in 2021.

Paul Ringel reported for The Atlantic that 52% of books challenged in the past 10 years feature some form of diversity, whether it be with race or sexual orientation. While violence in literature rarely leads to a book actually being banned, books discussing race and sexuality still commonly appear on banned books lists. Why does diversity raise more questions than brutal violence?

In York County, Pennsylvania, students and teachers protested the local school board’s ban of hundreds of books and films relating to racial issues. The board claimed the works could make white students feel guilty for their privilege and therefore should not be allowed. However, this is simply untrue. Uncomfortable feelings defined as “guilt” should instead be defined as empathy. It is natural to feel upset when our favorite characters experience hardships. Instead of teaching children to hide from these feelings, they should be explained by teachers and used to cultivate understanding. The Katy school district in Texas banned books by award-winning Black author Jerry Craft because parents claimed they promote critical race theory. This is not true, as Craft’s goal is much simpler. “But through it all, what has not changed are my goals for my books: helping kids become the kind of readers that I never was; letting kids see themselves on my pages; and showing kids of color as just regular kids,” Craft said in response to the petition to ban his books. In Campbell County, Wyoming, public librarians were in danger of facing criminal charges after patrons claimed certain books dealing with sex education and

Kat Messner, author of “The Seventh Wish,” wrote for her blog, “When we say ‘This book is inappropriate,’ we’re telling those children ‘your situation … your family … your life is inappropriate.” Children need to see themselves represented in literature as a tool to help them understand and cope with everyday issues they may face. It proves to them that they are not alone in their struggles. Even if no one they know personally has the same problems as they do, a book character can provide the guidance they crave.

As Toni Morrison said, “Not knowing it was hard; knowing it was harder.” While it may make children uncomfortable to learn about discrimination, it is vital that they are informed about real-world issues. Stop banning books and start teaching children about tough subjects instead, because being able to deal with real-world problems is so much more helpful than being blind to them.

The Patriarchy Didn’t Ask Our Permission WORDS BY Nathalia Teixeira ILLUSTRATION BY Sarah Thompson

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“I feel challenged using hijab in the United States.”

hat’s what my roommate, Aliza, told me in an ordinary morning conversation.

After hearing that, her approach hit me differently. I remembered when she told me about the times she had faced racism. An older man from her work said she should be strong, because people back in Pakistan are used to it. Female co-workers questioned the use of her headscarf and said it was oppression for women. And I remembered all the times her eyes filled with tears saying how people looked at her differently when she used a hijab. It made me see the world through her lens. If Muslim women started to wear hijabs to follow Muhammad's wives and are obliged to wear hijab in Islamic countries, wearing a hijab in a country where you are not required is revolutionary. It’s a choice. But apparently, this choice is not favored in a country of so-called “equality.” The French Senate voted in favor of adding an amendment to the "Separatism Bill" that banned women under 18 from wearing a hijab in public. This change is part of the French government's growing campaign to depict the burqa and hijab as anti-feminist and incompatible with France's secular ideals. The French government's deliberate measures to limit

religious exposure during the last few years contradict their rationale that legislation, like the new separatist bill, is meant to uphold France's essential liberal values, including religious freedom. While the government professes to preserve French national identity by enforcing Republican secularist ideals, Muslims in France are denied their right to religious expression, and therefore, their cultural identity. The history of the hijab reveals it as a symbol of faith. It is a vital component of Muslim cultural identity and has great religious importance. The French government is threatening the fundamental freedom of religion for the 8% of their population who identify as Muslim. In the attempt to apply the idea of secularism to the public and safeguard an individual's freedom from religion, France wants to overturn peoples’ rights of expression. This was not just an amendment to ban hijabs. It dictates how women should dress. The bold narrative of a country that praises freedom, equality and fraternity is directed toward people that should be able to privately express themselves. Celebrities who are not Muslim, such as Julia Fox wearing a headscarf and Kim Kardashian covering her face at the Met Gala Ball, shocked audiences with their act of choosing to wear these clothes. Is it about what women are wearing or the statement

they are making by wearing those clothes? It’s not about Fox or Kardashian, but rather, about the patriarchal narrative behind their decisions to wear such clothes. This is a structural system that oppresses women’s bodies and their freedom of religion.

It’s a system that mutes women. In my personal experience as a Latina, if you visit countries in South America, the same official mindset exists. In most of them, wearing shorts or skirts is rebellion. Men look at you differently when you wear shorts or skirts. Men talk to you differently, too. They whistle and objectify women with sexual commentaries. These men feel free to act in this way just because a woman is wearing a skirt. They do so against the backdrop of this harrowing statistic: four women are raped every hour in Brazil. I grew up with my mom cautioning me not to wear short clothes. I remember constantly changing clothes when getting to my friend’s house so I could wear what I wanted. My mother came from a conservative family and grew up hearing that wearing short clothes would be an offense to people. Apart from her fear of how men would act toward me, she believed in the

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patriarchal narrative that said we should not wear what we desired. I understand why Aliza’s approach hit me differently. It should be our choice. We are still facing the consequences of men's standards that dictate how we should act. It’s about Fox and Kardashian choosing to wear clothes that cover their whole body and Aliza’s and my choice to wear comfortable clothes.

It’s about Muslim women’s choices. It’s about Latina women’s choices. It’s about every woman’s choice. Today, Aliza feels challenged by wearing her headscarf. And I, my skirt. Every day, this feeling persists just because we are women.

Scribbles Coffee Co: A Place for Women & Artists How This Local Coffee Shop Has Supported Groups Locally and Abroad WORDS & PHOTOS BY Mariah Alanskas Artists and women are what local Kent coffee shop Scribbles is built on. From the meaning behind the name “Scribbles” itself to the products they sell, owner Beth Budzar talks about the shop’s beginnings and mission. “Scribbles came about in 2007. I didn’t actually start Scribbles; my friends did,” Budzar says. “I was here with them. They had a coffee company in Cincinnati, and they were moving this way so they wanted Scribbles this way [here].” Budzar explains she was an employee from the very beginning and has very fond memories from the start.

“When they were done with Scribbles, they did it for about six years,'' Budzar says. “So they approached me like, ‘You’ve been here, the longest employee; do you want it?’ And I bought it from them.” Once Budzar took over, she explains she decided to embark on a new journey with Scribbles: to roast beans with a purpose. “We roast coffee here, and that's new to when I took over,” Budzar says. By attending coffee conferences, Budzar met women from some of the farms they now source Scribbles’ beans from.

“Making those connections really drives us, like yes, this is what we’ve got to be doing,” Budzar says of meeting the women from the conferences. Scribbles’ website emphasizes it is a business built, owned and operated by women, one that serves coffee from a fully employed, female-run coffee farm in Uganda. “It’s important to me as a woman in business and this industry to support farmers that either have equal pay as women, or women-owned farms,'' Budzar says. “It's important to support that, as women aren’t treated equally in some of these countries.” Although the emphasis on supporting women-owned farms is new, supporting local artists is not. In fact, it is the foundation of the coffee shop’s name. “Scribbles started with the name being geared towards artists, to calm and to get the mind going and creativity going,” Budzar says. Walking into the shop, you see a lot of handmade products with price tags and information included.

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“We highlight a couple artists a month here, so any local artists, really,” Budzar says. “What they do is sign up on my schedule. They can sell the pieces, too. We don’t take any commission for that. It's a way to get some pretty art on our walls; it's a win-win.” Scribbles’ merchandise is also locally made. “I order my stuff through a lady who works out of her garage in Kent,” Budzar says. “She does the hats, shirts and sweatshirts for me.” Kent State students like Angela Caruso, a senior exercise science major, have expressed their thoughts on the shop. “I like supporting small places,” Caruso says. “I like how they also sell people’s artwork.” Caruso explains how this artwork attributes to the atmosphere and overall feeling of the coffee shop. “I just like the feeling,” Caruso says. “It's comforting here.”

Happy Trails, Happy Animals A Ravenna Farm Sanctuary’s Past, Present and Future WORDS BY Mariah Alanskas PHOTOS COURTESY OF Happy Trails Farm Animal Sanctuary

ith muddy pastures and ice-covered roads, Happy Trails Farm Animal Sanctuary located in Ravenna, Ohio, is business as usual during the off-tour season.

However, they couldn’t always house the volume and range of the animals they do now. The farm’s humble beginnings included a pig in need and a concerned homeowner.

With adoptions and new animals coming in weekly, the farm is filled with a variety of animals. Ranging from cows, goats and chickens to alpacas and much more, the farm has a capacity of 150 to 200 animals at any given time.

“Our founder lived in the house up there and came across a severely neglected potbelly and named her Janis,” says Lindsey Koon, donor stewardship coordinator. “She built a whole log cabin on the sanctuary, and since then, we’ve grown and expanded to over 11 acres.”

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One notable program of the farm’s is the Amish Horse Retirement Program. This program gives Amish families the opportunity to retire their horse to the sanctuary itself. Illona Urban, coordinator of education and outreach, explained how Amish horses are normally put into auction to be bid on by both personal buyers and the meat industry. “We encourage our Amish neighbors to not use the auction, but to just turn those horses to us,” Urban says. “We’ve had great success with that.”

rehomes and rehabilitates animals,” Koon says. “We were founded on taking in animals in criminal cases. In recent years, we have opened our owner relinquent program for families who have fallen onto hard times where we can step in and find good homes.” Koon introduced some of the animals that came from these programs, starting with a Cresten Peaked duck with a neurological condition named Littlefoot. His condition affects the mobility of his legs, causing him to sometimes need a wheelchair.

The 11-acre expansion has led to the farm being able to take in multiple animals from varying situations and health backgrounds.

“He can stand, but he’s very wobbly,” Koon says. “He’s been getting better and better. The problem is when he walks, he wobbles and has difficulty standing. The wheelchair has only been here a week, but he has been making a lot of progress.”

“Happy Trails Farm Animal Sanctuary rescues,

Littlefoot came to the farm after a concerned

Some of the last animals Koon introduced were a group of roosters, who had previously come from a criminal cockfighting case. “They came here in 2016, and it was a really large raid,” Koon says. “We have had them find homes throughout the years.” Koon also showed other roosters that weren’t involved in the raid and explained why many of them had to be kept in separate enclosures. Koon says, “It's in a rooster’s nature to fight naturally, and then the cockfighting industry capitalizes on that.”

community member found him when he was only a few days old. He wasn’t alone for long though, as support came in the form of a fellow duck named Pierre. “This is his buddy. We have his friend in here like a support for him. And they’re both doing water therapy together,” Koon says. Littlefoot and Pierre aren’t the only animal duo at the farm. Another came in the form of a blind pony and their “seeing-eye” horse. The blind pony named Nomad came from one of the auctions the farm goes to. “So if we have any open stalls here, and we aren’t having any calls for relinquishes, and there’s no calls for any criminal cases needing attention, we can go over to the auction. And we only bid on horses being bid on by the meat industry,” Koon says. “We never bid on personal buyers because that's what we want; we want them to go to awesome homes.” According to Koon, Ruby, another horse at the farm, immediately took to Nomad and has acted as a guide and friend to the pony.

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There are many other animals with varying stories and backgrounds in addition to the ones Koon introduced. When asked about what she believed the farm’s vision is over the next few years, Koon emphasized the desire to give back not only to the animals, but also the community. “We’ve kind of got everything set for the animals right now, so we would like to start building for the people, our community,” Koon says. “We’re always looking to improve and expand.” To learn more about Happy Trails Farm Animal Sanctuary, visit www.happytrailsfarm.org.

The U.S. Through Nathalie’s Eyes WORDS & PHOTOS BY Nathalia Teixeira

hen I first heard the announcement that international students could travel to the United States, and I could be here in the fall 2021 semester, I felt a mix of emotions. For a year and a half, I had been studying in virtual classes. I was excited, but I also felt scared about leaving my country of Brazil during a pandemic. I started questioning if it was the right time to leave. After receiving an audio message from my friend encouraging me to go, saying that it would just be a moment of adaptation, I started thinking of traveling to the United States as a possibility again.

What had seemed so far away, or in the worst case, would take so long to happen, was about to occur. A year and a half into the pandemic, I’d created new habits and developed a new lifestyle to handle the tough time; leaving my family and friends seemed intimidating, but I knew I was supposed to go. It was time to go. In about one month, I organized everything: my trip to the city I would be interviewed in to get my VISA, signing the lease for living in Kent and packing for the two years I would be staying far away from Brazil. At that moment, it felt like it was something crazy to

do during a pandemic with the COVID-19 situation being so hard in Brazil, but something was pushing me to stand for this dream and let all the fear go away.

It was the rescue of my adventurous soul. I can picture the image of my farewell, my parents and siblings crying and saying, “I trust you; make the best of your time.” It was hard saying goodbye; however, I also felt the relief of a new beginning. I played the song “Vienna” by Billy Joel when I arrived in the United States. I used to listen to this song when things got hard during the pandemic and I was feeling stuck. If you don’t know the song, I suggest you play it right now, and you can connect more with this piece. When the plane arrived, I felt like a flame left my

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chest, and I breathed. It was time to go, and I’d just realized how prepared I was for it. It was time to get out of my comfort zone. It was time to experience. It was time to make a new home in the world. I was prepared, even with being afraid of what would happen. I remember feeling butterflies in my stomach when I got my Uber at midnight from Cleveland to my Airbnb in Stow and realized how small I was in the world. But because of that, I felt a desire to explore. When waking up, the house smelled like an American breakfast. I was in the United States in 2014 to visit Disneyland for a quinceñera, and it reminded me of the smell of my hotel. I felt how much I had grown throughout these years. After one week in Cleveland, because international students were supposed to do one week of quarantine before going to Kent, I arrived on campus. Looking at how huge it was and surrounded by

compliments on the streets, in my job and in my friend group. People value you. I am a privileged human that has good living conditions in Brazil, and studying in the United States is one of the biggest privileges a Brazilian can have. I know this, and besides learning how to cook, do my laundry and take care of my finances, I also learned how to be strong.

beautiful nature, I knew it was time to start a new phase in my life. I felt alive. The classes started, and everything looked so different to me: wearing masks, making new friends, adapting to a new culture, the struggle of improving my English to feel I was expressing myself well, the food and a lifestyle totally different from what I’d been used to before. I was not eating fruits as fresh as the ones from my dad’s orchard, I couldn’t hug my mom in the mornings anymore and I couldn’t get into my backyard. However, I had a chance to live an experience that would make me grow. I accepted the challenge. I believe a new perspective always makes you grow, and my eagerness for self-growth and learning made me search for adventure.

Being away from Brazil is an experience. I had to improve my English skills, figure out a way to communicate in another language, learn different habits and adapt to a new culture. I’ve learned about my power. I can’t forget the angels put in my way. My friend group is called “brigadony” in honor of a Brazilian sweet that I made all of them try. My roommates are always caring and help me on the hard days. My boss always validates my work, and my professors remind me to be confident. What makes this journey worthwhile is connecting: with people, with different life stories and with y ourself. Learning is the result of this process, and learning comes from genuine presence while you connect. When you are open to the experience, unimaginable things happen to you. I was, and I still am.

The United States won me over because of the connections I’ve made with people here. People are worried about you. I’d never received so many

Mama’s Boy WORDS BY Katie Flack ILLUSTRATIONS BY Preston Randall

When Maxwell was five years old, his mom decided he was going to be in the NHL.

babblings about nonsense. Always nonsense with that child.

She told him a few months after the funeral, while he was playing with his little lamb, stuffed with white wisps of cotton, a pink bow around its neck, shimmering black beads of eyes.

They parked on a side street. His mom sneered at the cold, chilling her straight through the skin and flesh and into her bones, freezing the nerves and blood vessels to ice. Of course it had to be cold. She grabbed Maxwell from his car seat and found crumbs left behind. Setting him down on the sidewalk, she lowered her dark brows over her eyes. “What did I tell you,” she began in her warning tone, “about eating in my car?”

Azrael could have done it, she told him. Didn’t he want to be like his big brother? Maxwell very much wanted to be like his big brother, so he decided to cooperate with an incantation of excited child hums. It was winter when she decided Maxwell was going to be in the NHL, so their hometown had a little, square rink set up. His mom took him by the armpits and stuck him in the car and off they drove. Her son tried to sing along to the Christmas songs on the radio, but he was getting all the words wrong, not to mention the tune, so she shut it off. She was just so tired — she couldn’t handle the onslaught of another headache. They arrived in silence, minus Maxwell’s

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Maxwell shook his head. “Sorry, Mama.” But he was smiling. The boy was smiling. He pointed up at her face. “Y’know, Mama, your glasses kinda look like goggles. I miss when we used t’go swimming at that big place with the rock wall and tremills and we’d wear our flip flops and they squeaked on the floor and you liked to yell at me and Azrael! Azrael was there, right?” His little fist might as well have squashed her heart. It all overcame her in shock waves of numbness — of

muffled aching. She clenched her teeth and narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not nice to say things about how Mama looks.You came from Mama and one day, you’ll wear goggles just like her.”

After several more falls, something started to make sense to him — like a baby bird pushed from the nest — and he gained confidence. His form was embarrassingly shaky, but he glided. He glided rather than stepped.

“Sorry, Mama.” She took him every day that winter. She took him by the hand and dragged him over to the rink, sitting him down at a peeling bench. Maxwell’s mom pressed her lips together tight, choosing to focus on that before her eyes. Her solitary son bouncing in place with oblivious energy. He and the promise of what he would become — the skill, the prestige, that he would grow into like his baggy coat. Still, his mom throbbed with the memories of what was. But raw potential sat before her — she of all people could shape it. Resetting her jaw, she walked up to the skate rental counter. Her son’s feet were abnormally small and the rental woman warned that they might not have his size. Maxwell’s mom scowled. He was going to be in the NHL and they didn’t even have his skate size. The girl came back and smiled, saying they managed to have one pair left. His mom snatched them from the counter and returned to the peeling bench. She covered Maxwell’s pink ears with a blue knit beanie too big for his small head. It fell over his eyes. She forced it back up his forehead. Azrael was tall for his age. Azrael was a child who exceeded expectations in every category. And Maxwell: a slight, little boy lacking even Azrael’s pretty blue eyes. Maxwell was as dull as they came. But he would be in the NHL. Maxwell would be in the NHL. She laced his skates as tightly as their forms allowed and set the child on the sheet of ice — fortunately rather empty. Meanwhile, she stood by the door — watching.

Maxwell whined after a long time. “I just want to play with my toys, Mama.” And she would scoff, frustration scalding her throat. “Azrael wouldn’t complain about doing what his Mama asked. Azrael wanted me to be happy.” “I do want you to be happy, Mama, but my Lamby and my books…” She tore them from his hands. “Hey!” “Don’t worry,” she assured him as she relocated the things to a high shelf, “you’ll get them back after you listen to your Mama. We’re going skating.You’re going to improve if it kills me; do you understand that, Maxwell John?” He nodded weakly. “Yes, Mama.” They arrived again at the cold rink and Maxwell had still learned scarcely a thing. “You can go faster than that!” she urged him, standing straight-spined by the door. Her throat was tight and slick with desperation. The feeling sat in her chest like a fistful of wet pebbles. “Maxwell, make Mama proud and go faster than that!” His little legs moved like wind-beaten twigs beneath his tiny body, scrambling over the ice and around the few others on the rink. But he tripped, fell with a thud! and slammed his head into the boards.

He fell after mere moments. “Maxwell.” “Don’t step,” she ordered. “You glide, Maxwell.You glide.” But the boy fell again. She grit her teeth and barked the same instruction.

He didn’t get up immediately, and his mom scoffed. Girlish, dramatic boy. Always had been. Constantly looking for attention. Seeking a performance like a theatrical. Well, he would never be a theatrical. He would be in the NHL, and he needed to learn.

A few people on the ice crowded around him, looking her way. She did not move — she knew what they wanted and they wouldn’t receive it, no matter how her cheeks burned or her legs wobbled. Her son wouldn’t deceive her that way. Clutching at his head, Maxwell managed to get up in tears, a young man and girl leading him over. Maxwell fell through the door, landed in his mom’s arms crying. She patted his back, but she was sneering. She sneered lest she crumple beneath their looks — their all-encompassing looks.

For Christmas, she got him a hockey stick and real skates — she set aside money from each shift that winter to afford them. He was past those sweaty, communal things — this was an investment in his future. Maxwell smiled when he received them, and cried when she baked the skates, molding them to his feet. He complained they were too hot — that fire was curling around his ankles like snakes. She snapped at him. “They’re supposed to be hot — that’s the point, Maxwell. Now, do you think Azrael would cry about his skates like this?” “No,” her son whimpered.

“You should really get him a helmet,” the young man interrupted. “You know, while he’s still learning.” Her eyes flashed to him, as cold and hard as stone. “Don’t tell me my business,” she hissed. “Maxwell, don’t be a pain for Mama. Get back out onto the ice.” “Mama, my head…” “I said get back out onto the ice. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. It’s just a bump. Remember, Maxwell,” she said as softly as she could without breaking, “you just have to skate for a while longer and you’ll get your toys back. Wouldn’t you like that?” Still crying, he nodded and wobbled out. The man and girl gave her a look of surprise or disgust, and she glared like she glared, setting her gloved hands on the boards to watch Maxwell stumble around the rink. When they were out of sight, she found herself a little hollow. A little sad somehow. She was thinking of Azrael with that NHL player — that nice young man that visited him in the hospital. And Azrael was barely more than skin and bones, but his blue eyes glowed. His bony face lit up for that short, sunny afternoon. A dark tremor through her core: he never lit up like that again. She shook it off and focused back on Maxwell.

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“Exactly. Now, what would he say about you acting this way? Do you think he’d call you a baby? Because you’re being a baby.Your mouthguard is next.” His mom threw him on a team, and he lagged, barely standing up. The coach claimed he was doing well for his age, but she just scoffed. Well for his age, well for his age. As if Wayne Gretzky skated like a footless toad at five years old. She got Maxwell a new coach, a better coach, one who understood. She had to. Maxwell improved — not enough, but he improved. And his mom worked herself to exhaustion. She pulled her son out of bed at four each morning to drive to the rink before school. The puny boy would pass out in the backseat of her beat-up car while she sucked down liters of black coffee. It was a struggle not to think a thought throughout a forty-five-minute drive, but Maxwell’s mom didn’t have the choice. He would step onto the ice at 5:30 and his coach would give him drills and his mom would stand at the boards — watching. Watching each crossover, each pass, each shot. She watched until the clock struck seven and he needed to leave for school. Then, again, they’d drive. And Maxwell would go to school and his

mom to work. And they did it all again in the evening. It was a busy blur, but that was exactly what Maxwell’s mom knew it should be. Small as he was, Maxwell grew fast, and when he was eight, his gear stopped fitting. His mom was burning through each paycheck on coaches and ice time and gas, and she realized with a jolt while shuffling through her bills one day that she was bankrupt. Bankrupt and alone while Maxwell watched her. “What’s wrong, Mama?” And she had to decide between dinner and gear and a second mortgage on her house. The bills shook in her hands and she broke down crying and Maxwell was staring at her and she screamed at him to go away — just go away — just go away! He stood still, mouth agape. “Go away!” she shrieked, crumpling into the kitchen tile. “I don’t ask that much of you! Do you know what it’s like? Just get away from me!” Maxwell ran off. On the floor, she bit into her palm, loathing that the costs of Azrael’s illness outlived him.

his daddy already left her poor? No, of course he didn’t. The frown on his face concerned her, so she bought him some ice cream after school that day. She knew he was working hard. She wanted him to remember what this was all for. Maxwell grinned. He laughed. His tongue lapped up chocolate swallow after chocolate swallow. She let herself smile at her son — just for a fleeting moment. Maxwell kept playing. He didn’t do a thing but play. He played when it was sweltering hot, when it was freezing cold, when it was raining bullets, when the air was a drunk man’s unbound breath. And Maxwell got good. But not good enough. His mom knew he needed to be further ahead. Did Sidney Crosby get passed up for captain on his 14U team? Highly unlikely. “Mama,” he argued, “I’m still assistant captain. Coach said that maybe next year—” “Alexander is two months younger than you — there’s no reason to make excuses, Maxwell. ‘Next year,’ ‘next year,’ bah! Next year is far away, Maxwell, and you’re already falling behind, don’t you see that?”

Maxwell kept playing — she did absolutely everything so he could keep playing. It made her frantic. Because he was not Azrael, but he would be somebody and she would have made him.

She told him to practice harder. And she would stand by the boards and watch. She watched him before school, after school, on the weekends. If he made a poor move, she would point her crooked finger harshly to the door and he knew what it meant — he made a mistake. Maxwell would get off the ice and hear what she had to say. And then he would get back on. He would get back on and skate until she was pleased.

When Maxwell was in middle school, he asked to quit hockey. Taken aback, she told him he already invested too much time in a rich man’s sport — did he want to waste the money his mama invested in him? After

When he was in high school, she found journals in his room. Scrawled over with black and blue ink, they told stories. Stories. Of dragons and wizards and superheroes. She had a son who wrote stories. Made-

She got her bank account in order with overtime shifts, with some loans, with the second mortgage.

up, fantasy stories. As if dragons were what was killing them. As if wizards could cure the world. As if superheroes would always just swoop in and carry through on a good-hearted promise to a sagging single mother — as if they could be trusted. The stories were so sickeningly sweet Maxwell’s mom nearly gagged. When he got home from school, she confronted him, told him that such a sensitive girl would never make it to the NHL. And she tore them up. He ran to his room crying. But he would be better for it. He kept skating. He made the triple A team his junior year. And his mom grinned with pride. Finally, a place where scouts would keep their eyes on him, where he would be noticed. At last, he was on his path, on his way. She bought him a little puppy named Champ as a reward. And Maxwell smiled. Maxwell thanked her. Maxwell was happy — just as she knew he would be. Yet, a month later, he brought home a girl. A girl with messy pink hair and a nose ring. A girl who played Call of Duty and wrote fantastical nonsense and encouraged Maxwell to do the same. She called him ‘Max.’ Max, cutting out half of him, only keeping the bit she liked. He called her ‘mom’ in front of this girl. Mom. “Too good for your Mama?” she questioned as they stood uncomfortably in the doorway. “Too good to be yourself around this … female?” Maxwell frowned at her. “I’m not too good. I just wanted you to meet my girlfriend.” “Girlfriend? Girlfriend?” She laughed out loud — the reverberations carried through her cracking chest. “You’re a child! This girl doesn’t like you. She wants you to play a part, don’t you see? You can get out of

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my house if this is your choice of —” She wrinkled her nose. “— company.” Maxwell dropped the girl. He kept playing hockey. He was getting good. Like Azrael would have, he was getting good. Maxwell’s mom throbbed with pride, with the lingering pulsing of something lost and regained. Minnesota State offered him a full ride to play on their team. She nearly screamed with joy — he was on his way. Maxwell wanted to go to Berkeley and write. She forbade him. Berkeley, Berkeley! She scoffed. He didn’t belong at Berkeley. Could he really bear to leave his Mama alone here? Could he really bear to stop speaking to her? Maxwell went to Minnesota State. But he fell behind. He was hardly the best on the team anymore. He didn’t even make assistant captain. They had him on defense. She insisted he push back for center — captain material, NHL material. He said he liked playing defense. To like playing defense! His mom told him to talk to his coach, to work his way up. Maxwell didn’t. His mom seethed. She went to all of his practices and scowled at him from behind the glass at every fumble, every missed opportunity. He told her she was suffocating him. She told him she was all he had — would Azrael treat his Mama like this? “Azrael is dead!” he shouted. The words reverberated throughout the cold, gray living room, throughout the walls of his mom’s boiling heart. His mom froze. Staggered. Nearly collapsed. The world blurred and spun and tightened around her

throat. She swallowed. She blinked. She pursed her lips. Narrowed her eyes. “You shouldn’t speak of your brother that way,” she warned with a desperate melancholy in her stomach. “Your only brother and you speak of him that way!”

feebly, watching the IV drip liquids — cloudy liquids — into the tube in her arm.

“It’s been fourteen years and you still compare me to him. It’s not my fault he had leukemia; it’s not my fault you lost him. And, Mom, I’m not Azrael! I’ve tried to be, but I’m not! I’m not athletic, I’m not brave, I’m not tall or handsome, I’m not him!”

“Look at me when I speak to you.”

She looked at her short, bony, brown-eyed, freckled son. She remembered her blond-haired, blue-eyed, white-skinned boy — her Azrael. “That much is evident.” For some weeks, there was a tension in the air as thick as fog, but it dissipated. She kept going to his practices. She kept giving him tips. Her long-standing influence persisted. After college, he played with the AHL. At first, his mom was pleased. She traveled with them on the road. She told everyone — absolutely everyone — that her son was on the Chicago Wolves. But then he started getting traded around and not up. When he was twenty-eight and had skated still no ice grander than the Charlotte Checkers’, Maxwell’s mom realized he failed. She had failed.

“I don’t think they’re going to,” he said from his chair, to the floor.

He looked up emotionlessly. “I want to quit. I want to go back to school.” “You’re too old.You’re going to be in the NHL.” But then, she remembered. Then, she glared at him. “Or at least you could’ve been if you’d worked harder.” “I put everything into this career,” he insisted with a trembling voice. “I did it for you.” “And you still couldn’t make a thing of yourself.” “I’m a professional player; isn’t that enough? I won the National Championship with Minnesota, made it to the playoffs with the Wolves and the Monsters and the Admirals; how is that not enough?” The old woman rolled her eyes, leaning her dying bones back into her pillows. Enough, he talked of being enough. Pathetic. So theatrical. So attention-seeking even now. Never learned a thing, the stupid child—the child she put everything into, only for it to turn out she’d been stuck with the wrong one. “Maxwell, you never had it in you to be enough.”

Soon, she got sick and then sooner, she was in the hospital and one day, they told her she didn’t have many days left. She scowled at the white ceiling, at the stale air, at her frail body. Her frail, frail body that no longer looked a thing like Azrael’s. She was crumbling away. Maxwell came to see her. “Have the Kraken given you a call yet?” she asked

Fast Fashion Needs to Slow Down WORDS BY Finora Reilly ILLUSTRATION BY Preston Randall

ast fashion has had an immense effect on our world in the last few decades. We cycle through trends quicker than ever, and because of this short trend and garment lifespan, quality has also decreased. There are so many obvious issues with fast fashion, yet we can’t seem to get rid of the impact it has on our society. There are three spotlight issues I personally see with the fast fashion industry — the impact it has on workers, the environment and consumers. First, and most importantly, what is fast fashion? This term is a new one which has swept the globe by storm and refers to cheap, mass-produced garments that copy trends seen in higher sectors of the industry, closely following trends. Fast fashion is exactly what it says: the high speed pushing out of new garments. Fast fashion prioritizes speed, not the well-being of its surroundings. A very time-sensitive issue within fast fashion production is the impact it has on workers. The fashion industry is one of the few female-dominated industries in the world, and it employs just over 16% of the global workforce. The garment industry has historically had issues with treating workers ethically, from the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire over a century ago to modern day labor rights violations of the Chinese Uighur population by at least 83 companies such as Zara, Nike, Adidas and Gap. The violations of human rights go further than just these placeable, large-name events, with zero percent of garment employees in Bangladesh and one percent in Vietnam making a living wage.

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The fashion industry exploits these countries that have incredibly low wages as a means to produce more and more profit. Wages are a major issue in the realm of workers’ rights, but this is in combination with poor working conditions. Many factories are not up to date with fire or health safety, lack ventilation and then on top of the unsafe building conditions, and many workers face physical and verbal abuse. Employees of these companies are expected to work upward of 16 hours a day, seven days a week while surrounded by toxic chemicals. Even more, they are sometimes not allowed basic human necessities like food, water and breaks. These workers are not treated like humans, but rather machines, and this is exploited by the garment industry. All this is partially due to the demands of the fast fashion industry, which are unrealistic and unreasonable. The speed of new trends in combination with how fast they die out is a recipe for disaster for both humans and the world around them. The environmental impact of fast fashion is also an incredibly pressing and important matter.

Pollution is one of the biggest worries we have about the globe as a whole, and the garment industry is a major contributor to that.

The industry is responsible for 10% of global carbon emissions, which is only predicted to increase. Along with emissions, water pollution is a major issue within the textile industry specifically. Dyeing and finishing, yarn processing and fiber preparation/ production are some of the major contributors of the industry’s pollution. On top of the fabric production itself, for wools and leathers, we also require an excess of water and food to keep the animals alive for their eventual demise to the garment industry. Another issue we are only becoming more aware and informed of is that of microplastics. Synthetic fabrics and fibers, such as polyester, contain chemicals that take centuries to fully biodegrade. Fast fashion ties in with all of this because of how expedited the process has become over the years. Because brands have become reliant on meeting new trends head on and instantly, the process must be done in as little time as possible, meaning it is also done with minimal care to the environment and waste.

Fabric waste, water pollution and overuse, carbon emissions, energy usage and so much more are killing the planet at a faster and faster rate. As consumers, it doesn’t feel like there is much we can do to fight against the atrocities that corporations are committing. We know this is a major issue, but many of us are also trapped within the confines of budget. Not everyone can spend hundreds of dollars on clothing a year when there are similar options

they could get for far cheaper. We are forced to make choices, ones that will in the end impact the environment and real people. But why do we have to? Why don’t manufacturers and retailers put more thought into their processes or put more consideration into the lives at stake, both of their workers and the world around them? Why are we as a society so invested in being constantly with the trends, despite the fact they change so rapidly? Maybe it is the fault of those at the top. There are a select few people at the height of the fast fashion chain who are profiting immensely at the expense of everyone below them. Their employees, the consumers and even the world are levels under their control, and they want us to know that. We are left to feel like there is nothing we can do, as those in control feel unreachable and unstoppable. But bringing them down comes in steps. Whether you buy secondhand more or simply shop less, there are so many places to start. For those looking to becoming more educated on the global effects of fast fashion and the garment industry as a whole, a good starting point is the Fashion Transparency Index, which reviews and outlines the statistics of 250 brands, covering five main categories: policies & commitments, governance, supply chain traceability, know, show & fix and spotlight issues. To put the global fashion industry into perspective, the average overall score by brands is 23/100. One of the things I personally noticed in my research of the index was that many brands choose one element to hyperfixate on, pushing all their donations and advertising efforts onto things such as their water usage, employee diversity and equality, fabric waste or material quality. This shows false care from the brands, as it lures consumers into a sense of security that their brand is helping the world, when in reality, they are not.

Destination: South Korea WORDS BY Jen Kelly ILLUSTRATIONS BY Preston Randall & Sarah Thompson ith the end of the spring semester approaching fast and finals just around the corner, I find myself with quite a lot on my to-do list.

But I’ve also always been a lover of stories of adventure, whether they’re video games, movies, books or shows.

What I’m most excited about from said list is working out all the details I need to in order to lock in my study abroad for the next academic year.

I decided to study abroad in Seoul, South Korea, at Ewha Women’s University.

I’ve always been a bit of a wanderer at heart, and I’ve always desired to travel anywhere and everywhere I could manage. The word “wanderlust” has always been a favorite of mine, and it’s easy to see why with how much I love to explore. Most people who’ve known me growing up are probably thinking, “What? Jen isn’t an explorer, she’s a homebody!” and that’s probably because I am a very introverted person. I find comfort in being alone in my own space, and that just happens to have always been home.

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I picked South Korea for a number of reasons, including but not limited to: my love of K-Pop and K-dramas, interest in learning more about the country and culture, an interest in learning Korean properly and, obviously, my endless desire to travel in general. I know it won’t be easy adjusting to a 13-hour time difference, new language and completely unfamiliar culture, but I am so ready to jump in the deep end and just do it.

Life is short, and I want to enjoy the time I have, however I am able. Studying abroad is an exciting prospect and all, but first you need to actually decide where it is you want to go. For me, it was pretty simple. I picked South Korea because for the last few years, it has been the location my brain has been stuck on. When I was younger, I was hooked on Japan, then Ireland, then Greece, so I always knew my destination would have more to do with how I felt at the time I could actually go rather than any particular location. Now that I had a location, it was time to figure out where I would apply and how long I would stay. I’m of the mind that if you’re going to do something, you should go all in. As such, I wanted to go for as long as I could, which turned out to be a full academic year (2022-23!)

only did I need to apply through ISEP’s portal, but I also had to register a separate application through Kent as well. After acceptance, I had to file a third application with my host university in Korea, Ewha Women’s University. The waiting is always the worst part, in my opinion. While I was waiting to hear about my application and if I had been accepted or not, I was taken back to senior year of high school and applying for colleges. It was a lot of nervous anticipation and pretending I wasn’t as stressed as I was, both then and now. A way to keep your mind off that agonizing wait period is to look for and apply for scholarships. For me, I only ended up putting out one application because my financial aid would likely cover the rest.

There are plenty of programs to apply for and plenty of organizations to go through. For my part, it was between applying directly through Kent State or going through ISEP instead.

The scholarship I applied for is called the Freeman-ASIA award and entailed not just applying for aid but presenting a service project proposal meant to encourage other students to study abroad in East Asia. Being the Gen Z young adult I am, I went right for how I could use social media to my advantage. I have yet to hear back as of writing this, so fingers crossed I get good news when I finally do receive a response!

In the end, I chose to apply externally with ISEP because there was an opportunity for much more program flexibility with regard to my major than Kent offered. This, naturally, meant I was in for a few extra steps since I picked an external organization. Not

I did indeed get accepted to my chosen program, and it was a moment of many smiles and giddy jumping around my dorm room when I received the acceptance email. I even recorded myself opening it, since I knew I wanted to document as much of my

experience as possible. Of course, now that I’ve been accepted, I get to do the oh-so-fun part of sorting out all the logistics. Since I’ll be abroad for the better part of a year, I’ll need to apply for a student visa as well as make sure my passport is valid! Additionally, ISEP requires students to obtain insurance through them, and Korea wants a secondary insurance through the country’s resources. The thing with visas is that I can’t actually apply for mine until roughly 90 days before the program starts, so I’m largely just sitting in limbo and twiddling my thumbs for the next month and some. So in the meantime, I’ll be getting a head start on my Korean skills when I can and doing a lot of daydreaming about all the fun things I hope I’ll experience. And I definitely won’t be thinking about the long flight to get to South Korea, because if I do, I might just want to forget the whole thing entirely (that’s a joke … kind of). With my program being run by ISEP, I’ll have to schedule my own flights. Luckily for me, my dad is an experienced flier and has been traveling all over for as long as I can remember for his company. So I’m pretty confident that flights, at least, will be an easy thing to sort out. The visa … well, that’s a little more i ntimidating. At least the embassy is in Chicago, where one of my sisters lives, so if I need to go in person, I’ll have somewhere to stay! I have so much to say about studying abroad and my own experience as I go through the process, but for now, I can only really discuss the application part! I’m genuinely very excited to go abroad, and although I have my concerns and anxieties, I know that as long as I endure, I’ll never regret this journey for the rest of my life.

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Do I wish I had at least one friend coming with me? Undoubtedly, I do, but I also know that I can handle myself and that I’ll make friends when I go. I am as scared as I am excited, but I refuse to let fear hold me back from going and enjoying this experience. I hope that the world doesn’t fall apart before I get to go and that my confidence in my ability to push through hard times is not misplaced. This trip, this adventure, will be long, and I know that at first, I will struggle a lot with my mental health. I’m making sure I have the resources I need to get through the culture shock and probably depression. Given how long I’ve been working on my mental health, I’m pretty confident that I know how to keep myself going even when I want to do everything, but a couple ways I help myself stay afloat in the mess that can be our inner thoughts are as follows:

• Take it day by day, one step at a time. • Make small to-do lists, things like “drink water” and “shower” and “go for a walk” to keep me moving. • Have something to look forward to, an outing with friends or a trip to a cool place. • Stay in contact with friends and family back home as much as possible. It certainly won’t be an easy adjustment, but it’s one I am willing to fight to accomplish for all the benefits I may reap if I do. I’ll be doing my best to record my experience for the year I’m abroad and sharing it online. I think that will be another way to keep me motivated to push through the rough parts. Seoul, I’m coming to see you and I can’t wait to live the next chapter of my life.

About Our Student Contributors Max Bleich is three things: a professional

copywriter, proud antizionist Jew and Game Boy fanatic.

Sara Evelyne, a disabilities advocate and brain

injury survivor, hopes her writing will impact others by inspiring people to embrace their vulnerability and compassionately embrace life and themselves.

Alyssa K. Gelet is a graduating senior majoring

in and tutoring for English who wishes to be a poet/ writer and regards writing as one of her greatest life forces.

Jacob Martzaklis is an English major who, along-

side reading and writing poetry, enjoys spending time with his family and hopes to become a teacher and/or published writer in the future.

Madison Swartzentruber enjoys capturing the beauty of nature with her camera wherever she goes.

Lukas Zehetner is an 18-year-old transgender

student hoping to educate others on topics that need more awareness.

Gabrielle Heath is a VCD student at Kent State University minoring in Photography.

Interested in getting involved with The Burr? Email us! 37

cherry on top WORDS BY Alyssa Gelet ILLUSTRATIONS BY Preston Randall For my dad: Just like I promised, I can finally share my dream with you. This is ours. I love you forever.

It is sad to me how we are born into this world— creators— but, you see, we too grow to be natural-born critics, voting upon the beautiful renditions of each other’s souls…shutting down so many artists and entrepreneurs just for the sake of upholding this age-old curse— expectations— when in reality —we are all the product of the sun, setting as it settles into the burning horizon, slumbering to give way to the ever-silent night littered with stars and the cherry-on-top moon.

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see, it is not your ability to clone the crying world that makes you magnificent… love, when did we ever agree that clockwork was the prettiest existence known to humankind? No. It’s the flora that paints the world rainbow Or the fauna that glitters the world with life or the LED wonderland that comforts the night. The freethinking world is beautiful (The Wonderland we seek). My dear, your passion is what makes your art incredible, not your ability to fade into black and white.

Psych Ward Deceptions WORDS & ILLUSTRATION BY Lukas Zehetner This story contains themes of mental health and involuntary commitment.

re mental hospitals actually doing more harm than good to their patients in need?

After experiencing a mental hospital firsthand, along with looking into surveys and research from professional sources, there is more evidence pointing to the negative. After being discharged, the negative stereotypes surrounding psych wards have become more apparent and need to be corrected in today’s society. Mental hospitals, often referred to as psychiatric wards, are facilities made to better patients who are struggling heavily with their mental health.

Their purpose is to take time away from one’s overwhelming life situations to focus on well-being and coping mechanisms. Although this is the case for some mental hospitals, the majority do more harm than good. Currently, the shortest stay is around one week, and this can increase depending on the patient’s situation. These hospitals are supposed to be a place of healing. Many patients who are admitted, willingly or not, come out in a worse state than before and are treated differently due to stereotypes created by society. These harmful stereotypes are seen across all types of media, even in children's shows.

I put together a short survey to observe how others viewed mental hospitals, the types of media they’ve seen and personal experiences. The individuals are all between the ages of 16 and 22. I posed the question, “When was the last time you saw a psychiatric ward represented in media?”

feeling neutral on the subject.

Many individuals mentioned “American Horror Story,” a popular anthology horror series, which featured mentally insane characters portrayed in strait-jackets along with an unhygienic environment and uneducated staff.

Although not all of my participants had been in this situation, six of them had considered admitting themselves or felt as if they should go for their own safety.

Many also mentioned South Park, an adult comedy. Psychiatric wards have been mentioned twice in the entire series, both instances including insanity and isolation.

One response in particular read, “There’s good staff and bad staff. The last time I went, I had pretty decent nurses. But the bad staff can treat you like you’re stupid. I also feel like they over medicate you.”

The last question I asked was why these individuals didn’t end up admitting themselves. Many responses included fear of judgment, cost and the environment itself. One response that stuck out read,

Overall, the participants talked about the negative representation seen in media. One individual mentioned television shows “showing people as dramatically ‘insane’ rather than realistically mentally ill.” I then asked what imagery came to mind when hearing “psychiatric ward.” Many responses included lack of color, restrictions and hospital-type settings. There were some positive responses, with one participant writing, “I think of it as a safe place,” but overall, the imagery was negative. Another important piece of research I found was experiences from other individuals, all that were admitted to different mental hospitals around the country. Out of my 18 participants, nine have experienced this environment before. Five of these people mentioned having a negative experience, while one mentioned

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“I was 100% ill enough that I should have been sectioned for my own safety, but I lied my way out of it because I was scared/embarrassed that I was so ill.” After gathering input, it's clear that many psychiatric wards and the stigma around them are not a safe place for the people that need them most. When thinking about my own firsthand experience, it directly contradicts what mental hospitals are supposed to stand for. I was admitted unwillingly due to a pink slip on Feb. 15, 2022. In simple terms, pink

I arrived at the psychiatric ward at around 3 a.m. and had to immediately give up all my belongings, including my shoes and pants. I followed a nurse to the area where I would spend the next week. The nurse asked me questions and made me point out all my scars to mark down on a piece of paper. I was soon put into a bedroom with a woman sleeping next to an empty bed. She woke me up around 7 a.m. for breakfast. I ate rubbery eggs and cold toast alone and soon after, met some of the other patients.

slips mean a person is to legally be held for at least 72 hours as they cannot keep themselves safe. My 72 hours didn’t count until I arrived at the psychiatric ward, even though I was held at a hospital and Coleman’s, a mental health facility, for the entire day. During my stay at Coleman’s, they had all doors locked. The only freedoms I had were to either go to a small outside area surrounded by a tall fence to smoke cigarettes or the vending machine down the hall from my room. I made phone calls to my friends and parents to let them know the situation, so I wouldn’t disappear with no trace. After waiting around 14 hours in total, an ambulance arrived at Coleman’s around 2 a.m. The paramedics strapped me into a stretcher all the way from my feet to my shoulders and drove me an hour away from where I was held.

The staff immediately put me on Abilify, an anti-psychotic medication that wasn’t appropriate for my illness.

The medication took all of my energy, heavily blurred my vision which led to dissociation and made me lose my appetite. Throughout my stay, I was discriminated against for being transgender by some nurses and patients, and even had to sleep in a room infested with ants as they couldn’t room me with any cis patients. Another uncomfortable situation I had to endure was some of the older male patients sexualizing me and making inappropriate remarks. The days went by slowly.

We tried to keep ourselves busy with coloring books, board games and movies. None of the patients received therapy and only had the chance to talk to the doctor for a couple minutes on weekdays only. One of the more frustrating aspects was that none of us were told any information relevant to our situation or discharge days. Many lost patience and had violent outbursts, attempted escapes and screaming fits.

During my time there, I wasn’t able to go outside or do any physical activity, which left me feeling drained. After what felt like the longest week of my life, I was finally discharged. Even though that week is over, I still have nightmares and panic attacks due to my experiences. Overall, the most painful part of my experience was what I put my mother through. I still vividly remember the phone call I had with her before being taken to the psychiatric ward. Being someone who tries to hide their mental illness, I felt my heart stop for a moment when my mother told me, “They told me you want to hurt yourself.” Even to the present day, I still feel an overwhelming anxiety when expressing negative emotions. What can be done to alter the harmful stereotypes

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planted in everyone’s minds? The hard truth is, people will always think of these stereotypes. It’s hard to change the mindset people have had for so long. What we can do is put in the effort to raise awareness of these damaging environments. Different media will continue to produce content contradicting the truth, so the most we can do is educate people on the matter. We can still enjoy our favorite shows and movies, as long as we have the ability to acknowledge some of these situations are fake and purely for enjoyment. General Resources: SAMHSA’s National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255) Crisis Text Line: Text “HELLO” to 741741 Kent State Resources: The Counseling Center at White Hall: 330-672-2208 Counseling and Psychological Services (CAPS): 330-672-2487 or at kent.edu.caps

Audacious Grace WORDS BY Sara Evelyne

When is the last time that you stood in the darkness, the stillness of it all, And felt the strength of your vulnerability? When was the last time that you held space for your tears, and the sobs that echo through the night? Has fear stolen your power? Your voice?

Ripples everywhere. Catch and release. Holding and letting go. Strength in the fire. Love in the darkness. And a vulnerable open heart to hold both at my center.

The woman inside me cries for the child I still am While the child inside me mourns for the woman I should be. I question my power. Do I have any?

To share your pain and your courage To hear your story To facilitate and add to your hope And I, too, share in your courage Our tears blend, our stories merge Our power grows, and In the darkness, we see our strength.

Perplexed by my intensity and innately vulnerable spirit, I often wonder if I am the light or the darkness. I hold space for them both. My heart calling and reaching out To the women, The children, The unheard, The crying, The wounded. Grace becomes gratitude, and as my strength grows, I harness my power. My light grows stronger within me. The space around me filled the darkness with compassion and sensitivity. I hear your tears, though silent as they fall. I see your cries as they pierce time and vibrate through the air.

When was the last time that you stood in the darkness, In the stillness of it all, And didn’t feel alone? The woman inside of me calls to the parts inside of you, Hold space for your power Believe. Embrace your vulnerability. The space Of expression, Your strength It isn’t as far as you think. Sometimes our power comes from the darkness. More often than not, Perhaps our strength comes from knowing we are more.

God’s Creation PHOTOS BY Madison Swartzentruber

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My Father Took My Punches For Me Living Jewishly in Ohio WORDS BY Max Bleich 46

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he weight of generations could be felt in my dad’s words of recollection as he toiled through some of the toughest realities of being “the other” in America.

For my dad, his identity to his peers would become reduced to his Jewishness from the very beginning of his life.

For my father, Timothy (Tim) Bleich, his Jewishness is something that has defined him throughout his life to his friends and neighbors, classmates and coworkers and everyone in between. Despite his other identities — his whiteness, his masculinity, his love for Cleveland sports or his status as a business owner — he is often reduced to his identity as a Jew.

My grandparents settled in the then-rural town of Chesterland in the late 1950s, around the time my dad was born, where he and his four siblings would grow up as one of only two Jewish families in the area.

This essay is a brief exploration of culture, identity and what it feels like to navigate two worlds where you are a perpetual traveler, yet never a resident.

“When you grow up as a Jew, you have to take shit. I don’t like taking shit, and I don’t want you to either.”

Growing up, I was lucky to not face much antisemitism until I went to college in 2014, where someone in the dining hall joked about there being “numbers” on my arm when he learned of my Jewishness — a cruel and obvious reference to the tattoos forced on prisoners in the Nazi concentration camps. Weeks later, my dorm room door would have a quickly painted swastika on it. Not too long after that, a game of Cards Against Humanity ended when one of the players whipped out “Jewish Fraternities” and “in Auschwitz” as his round submission. Until college, I didn’t really think of my Jewishness as anything more than something about my identity; but when I found myself in college, it became everything about my identity. Importantly, it wasn’t until I left my safe, little Beachwood bubble that I would decidedly present myself as being more proudly Jewish now that I wasn’t to be constantly and exclusively around people who are just like me.

Young Tim Bleich was picked on for being Jewish, so much so that my grandfather would tell him,

My grandfather would teach my dad everything he knew about boxing, and my dad would indeed use the knowledge to protect himself from the cruelty of a largely racist, xenophobic, homophobic and antisemitic town that he would grow up in. In contrast, the Bleich household was not one where bigotry was allowed past the front door. My grandparents would simply not put up with it. “The big thing [my parents] instilled upon us was acceptance of everybody. Where we grew up there was none of that. In fact, there was so much antisemitism, racism, bigotry, homophobia, everything you could imagine, very redneck. That’s what these kids were being taught in their homes, so they could walk around and call you a dirty Jew and use the standard jokes [against us]. The thinking that others were somehow less than — we were never allowed to think that way,” my father says.

Most notably, my experiences with antisemitism would Other than the unfortunate, pervasive bigotry in be extremely more mild than those of my ancestors. Chesterland, my dad does speak fondly of the things

he had in common with his peers: growing up in the countryside, playing outside and exploring nature and playing sports. The Bleich family would eventually leave this rural town and move to Lyndhurst, where they would find more Jewish friends and face a lot less trouble for who they were. However, that didn’t mean Tim would avoid antisemitic attitudes altogether. In college, he recalled someone in his dorm at Ohio State University asking where his horns were on his head — falling for an age-old antisemitic stereotype that asserts Jews are actually demons. He would also face the embarrassment of being kicked out of his girlfriend’s holiday party once her Catholic father learned of my dad’s Jewishness, saying:

“He told me he was sure I was a good guy, but that I had to leave and that he didn’t send his daughter to Catholic school just so she could end up with a Jew.” Those were my father’s experiences with his neighboring community and culture. What struck me during our interview, however, was his experience with the Cleveland Jewish community and with our shared Jewish culture and heritage.

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The Bleich children would be sent to Temple in Beachwood for religious school on Sundays, where my dad recalls feeling like he didn’t fit in with his Jewish peers. He and his siblings felt so embarrassed by their financial status that they would hide away from the other students at the pick-up area around the temple and hope those other, more wealthy kids didn’t see them pile into my grandfather’s beaten-down car of the era. This feeling of not fitting is one my dad attributes mostly to how kids at his temple treated him and his siblings for not having as much money as they did. But also, it could likely be because of the approach to Judaism that each of my grandparents would take. “My father did not grow up with any religion, but he read books on Jewish thought and philosophy later in life. My mother grew up in an orthodox family where her parents were immigrants. When she was able to get out and move away from her parents, she pushed away from that lifestyle of orthodox Judaism. When she got older, she tried to bring it back — I remember she would light candles every Friday night. She was looking for her own reconnection [to Judaism],” he says. While approaches have become refined over the years, the concept of liminality is an apt construct for explaining Tim’s experience growing up. While he doesn’t live on a physical border, he is forced to traverse the invisible walls between the Jewish and non-Jewish spaces he occupies.

Anthropologist Viktor Turner defines the experience of living as liminal or “threshold people” as “neither here nor there, they are betwixt and between various cultural positions.” Despite my uncertainty as to whether it is appropriate to label him (or anyone) as a liminal person, I like this description because I feel it captures how he conveyed his experience to me and how he has depicted his life to me throughout the years. Interestingly, my father continued to return to this idea of “not belonging” in either place throughout the interview, and it seems to have made a large impact on how he navigates cultures even today. Approaching my dad’s experience with a critical perspective on identity, we can bring in the important context surrounding the identity formation of the Jewish American (or, the American Jew, depending on one’s own preference). If we accept that identity is dynamic in nature, then we also may analyze my dad’s struggle with identity contextualized by the history of Jews in America.

This interview has given me a priceless opportunity to reflect upon my family history and also my own experience with bigotry. Ultimately, I feel that this conversation has rejuvenated my sense of hope that, despite recent events (namely, the Tree of Life Synagogue Attack in 2018), the collective attitudes in America towards Jews and other marginalized groups are trending more positively. I don’t live with the same type of fear, uncertainty or experience with hatred as my ancestors did. And yet, there is still much work to be done to ensure that this is the case for all those who feel unsafe in this country. All said, I feel lucky that I grew up surrounded by people who were both like and unlike me, that I was able to foster relationships with others and embrace our cultures instead of being beaten up for mine. My dad took all those punches so I wouldn’t have to.

At the time when my dad was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, Jews were still subject to antisemitic attitudes and behaviors, sometimes involving violence.

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PING PONG PRODIGY PHOTO BY Gabrielle Heath

Cell WORDS BY Jacob Martzaklis ILLUSTRATION BY Preston Randall

The stinging sensations of the mind have ceased. All that remains are specks of flashing, Burrowing in my eyes from pixelated faces Twisting and turning, passing me by. Static mutters percolate from the screen. Though it seems close to the touch, It remains withheld, practically being A simpler shadow from the seeing. Texts coagulate in a fervent mess Ridden in cold fonts facing My very being to be unfolded Into an electric speck of speech.

Moonlight enchants through its mystic gaze A path more forgiving to the idle man. Its roads know no bounds From where and to it can be found.

The daylight creeps its weary head through the blinds I wonder what it wants today. The outward in is the only way At least that’s what they always say.

I suppose I’ll search on in belated breaths Staunchly riding a rolling couch To the far depths of my bedroom. “Living room” is much too vivacious. Trek through the conversing dots, Widening in their view, To places more exciting on the Buzzing board before you.

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The Burr Magazine Spring 2022

Articles inside

Contributor Introductions

My Father Took My Punches For Me: Living Jewishly in Ohio

Psych Ward Deceptions