The Late Night Library Review Vol. 1

The Late Night Library Literary Journal Issue 1 Vol. 1

OUR MISSION

The Late Night Library review is a literary journal sharing written work about all things college. We want to call attention to the experiences of students who have participated or are currently participating in higher education. It is our hope that through these stories, students can relate to and take comfort in shared college experiences, elements, and emotions. This may include failed relationships, struggling friendships, homesickness, academic pressure, and more.

Acknowledgements

We are incredibly grateful to our writers who submitted thoughtful pieces in such a short amount of time and to Valley Publishing for bringing our vision to life. But more specifically, we are most notably appreciative of Sonya Huber who inspired this project every step of the way. @latenightlibraryreview

POETRY

Saturdays

Crisp early mornings, Roommate snoring

I think I’ll get a coffee. Saunter through leaves birds flying, Flitting turkeys conversing Through the empty quad I go Absent of last night’s revelry Nothing is more satisfying … Maybe an empty line at Dunkin’.

Movie Night

Thimbles of butter, Over our fingers

Stomach pop pop popping too much popcorn

Lungs wheezing Stop making fun of my laugh, I have asthma, you asshole!

Did you do the homework yet? Stop asking questions! Me neither. Who’s this guy? Mind fuzzy Bliss

Roommate mishaps

A misplaced leg Beds raised too high a bit too much laughter The Lava lamp takes a swan dive and there go Liz’s shoes Shit.

Cubicles

Through the doors, Past the shelves, Down the stairs, Take a right, Steal the one next To the outlet.

Beat you to it.

Headphones on, Let work take you away. Mind sifts through clouds, Equations, Thesis, Research … Carry on.

A mindless, productive drone. No time to waste.

Bellarmine Hall

Watching for Jupiter

Cold dew soaking through my hair It’s late Class can wait. The stars, Barely visible Sink through my pores Into my nerves

My heart beats To the sound of Earth’s axis My blanket fits just us Us two Under the cosmos

MEET THE AUTHOR

Mia Haberman is a junior English major with a concentration in Creative Writing at Fairfield University. She is currently taking a Poetry 1 class this semester with Profes sor Davis, so she wrote some poems about her experience at Fairfield.

Mia primarily focused on her relationships with her roommates and friends, highlight ing some of her favorite moments from sophomore year. She hopes you enjoy them!

I Am Not An Adult

It does not make sense That I am an adult

When I have barely been a kid. There is so much I do not know So many things my parents Have not And cannot Teach me.

College is such a daunting word A word synonymous with the future Something I do not yet have To worry about. But The thing is I do.

College is now I am going To college I picked this university But I made this choice as a child Because I am not an adult.

The world is giant And I am so small I have lived in one town And I feel so safe there. How am I expected To leave this town.

How am I expected To love another town. But I have to Because even though I do not know I have

To pretend To know.

The only thing I know Is that my parents had To know Even if They really didn’t. This is the only thing that provides me solace The fact that they Did not know But now they do.

Though I do not know The only thing I Can do Is learn. So I will learn I will learn how To be an adult Even though I do not think I am.

But maybe that is Adulthood, after all Acceptance of The unknown.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Liana is a current junior at Fairfield University, studying Marketing with a double minor in Mathematics and Classical Stud ies. She is the Editorial Director of The Point Magazine, as well as a writer for her university’s stu dent-run newspaper The Fairfield Mirror. Liana also takes part in many business-oriented clubs on campus, as she hopes to pursue a professional career in fashion marketing.

Liana is honored to have her work I Am Not An Adult published in her first-ever literary journal. Her piece is centered around the uncertainty that transitioning to college tends to bring, with so many questions about life and the future. She hopes that everyone who reads her piece will al low it to resonate with them in some way, as we can all use an occasional reminder that even those who appear to have it all figured out often do not have the answers to life’s difficult questions.

Ryan Sodora

At Cider Hill

As the sun rises from the east light sweeps over a green garden

The devout dog yaps from the yard secured on a once chrome chain weathered and rusted in the hands of white walls standing shoulder to shoulder

A stream that once roared has entered a state of idleness as its thirst has been quenched Wherein the gray clouds once gathered now hosts a spotless stratosphere Pine needles and crab apples garnish the ground and a doe dashes to reap the seeds of the storm

From the patio, I see the swing set ever so familiar, now faded by the years What was once scarlet and spry has not seen attention in ages and had been beaten by fallen branches And my favorite seat now creaks and cracks when I sit where my parents used to push me

The sun shines triumphantly, bright beams of light and yet I am numb to this newfound warmth To be embraced by those white walls once more To taste the tang of a fresh, garden tomato and to hear the roar of that same stream Back when the bed beside me was warm and there was no need to call you

Pale moonlight covers the quad

A star-peppered sky evokes shades of Pollack Students assemble in the densest of dorms and strangers sing songs sincerely as one

smiles sewed on their faces

They raise their red cups and guilelessly vow to drink ‘til dawn

Vacant paths pervade campus like veins

The new day’s gleam greets the masses starved and strung-out The promise of Tully pancakes entices them and they migrate together toward this Mecca New friends tell treasured tales of the night bonds being made over the moving and mundane

Outside my window, I see a coal-colored car the most modern model, a novel of the new year The bronzed bottle opener on the current keys a relic of the once crashed caravan

At the wheel, my dad sits, smiling back at me now geared with glasses and further grayed hair Despite all that is different, his presence soothes my soul

On the way home we talk about it all Golden helmets that go over generations The murmuring mutt, that same dog that still yaps How we are embracing this unaccustomed emancipation on this ever so erratic-feeling earth

In times of uncertainty, I yearn to return to Cider Hill so he stands by and embraces me like those walls did

MEET THE AUTHOR

Ryan Sodora is a junior at Fairfield Uni versity but is originally from Upper Saddle River, New Jersey. During his free time he enjoys listening to music, watching sports, and spending time with friends and family. He has always enjoyed writing in his classes and for his high school’s newspaper--because of this, Ryan recently decided to change his major from Accounting to Digital Journalism with a minor in Film, Television & Media Arts.

Being a Child

When I was young, I felt I would never get old Now that I’m old(er) I think back to when I was young Why did I rush so quickly to get old? Oh to be young again…

Jumping in puddles

Climbing up trees

Building forts

Imaginary friends

To look back on my childhood brings me joy

Thinking about playing from sun-up to sun-down Tangled hair, sticky fingers, and full of laughter

Kids being kids

Playing pretend, playing princess Listening to bedtime stories and drifting off to sleep

As a child, I had never ending dreams And saw the sky as endless And now I am grown I am older

No more jumping in puddles and climbing up trees No more building forts and imaginary friends No more playing from sun-up to sun-down

Now I look after myself

No more asking for permission It’s all my choice

All the good and bad that comes with being old(er) Being an adult

But some days I wish I could go back to being a child Seeing the ordinary as magic And magic in the ordinary

Pick up a stick, and it can be anything

A captain’s sword used to fight off pirates

A pen to doodle in the mud

A magic wand to cast an enchanted spell

The drum stick used to jam out in your air drum solo

I walk by a stick now and just see a stick There is no sword, or wand or drum solo

The excitement burnt out Christmas no longer has the same feeling Every birthday passes feels more somber

All the midday naps I fought Now I wish to have those midday naps back

A lemonade stand will no longer suffice Resume, applications, and interviews Working a 9-5

Soon there will be no more summers to toil Or school breaks

Soon there will be bills to pay And worries to be had

Oh to be a kid again Young me don’t rush to get old

MEET THE AUTHOR

Kendall Miller is from Long Island, NY. She is currently an undeclared freshman at Fairfield University looking to declare a major in Psychology and minor in Education. At home she lives with her parents, brother, and dog Clover. Since her dad has always been amazing at writing poems, she was influenced by his interest to give poetry a shot. Now, Kendall is taking Professor Davis’s Poetry I course.

Kendall wrote Being A Child to reflect on her childhood, as many people don’t recognize how quickly time flies by. A person’s childhood is one of the biggest parts of their life so she thought it would be important to emphasize this to others. She hopes you all enjoy her poem and relate to it as much as she does!

Grace Willis

September 4th

A new day breaks through the horizon

Fear, excitement, sadness – they consume me

One last car ride, breakfast, and hug

That is until October of course

As we approach the gates, I let a tear slip

How am I supposed to do this without you?

What if no one likes me?

What if I cannot find classes?

Where do I go if I need a break?

Endless questions meet endless possibilities.

Marching up the stairs, I find my groove

Met with smiling faces and anxious excitement

I think I am going to be okay. No, I hope.

Arriving in my room, my worry fades more

Everything is blank, my own canvas in Regis.

Dad is still there with me, I am okay.

Hours pass, too quickly may I add

I do not want to say goodbye.

There is nothing left for him to do That dreaded goodbye has ensued I do not make it out of the lobby

As I know if I leave now, I won’t go back in The quickest and saddest goodbye. Yes, phones and FaceTime exist

But nothing beats your safe hugs.

Okay, goodbye for now.

I turn around and walk up those stairs

Hiding my tears behind an iron wall façade

Later on, I meet my friends for dinner

I notice I am not alone in my feelings

We find comfort in each other’s sadness

Breaking bread over tears in the Tully

Those tears slowly turn into laughter

My pain subsides, I still miss you dearly

But I know now that I am going to be okay.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Grace Willis is originally from Malvern, PA, and is a current sophomore Communication major and Digital Journalism minor at Fairfield University. Writing has always been a passion of hers and is something she hopes to turn into a career.

September 4th retells those feelings she experienced on her first day at Fairfield. Grace remembers these feelings vividly and found that poetry was the greatest way she could have expressed them.

Emma Jardin

College

Entering into an uncertain future, Presenting your lack of self-image,

To equally flawed souls, Hidden by a confident façade. The short-lived fulfillment, Of a conversation.

Of something that makes you feel, As though it’ll all work out. Wandering through long days

Waiting till the feeling will strike, The one that’s been, Embedded into your plans.

Finally a sense of hope, A person, your person.

One turns into five, And you feel a brief release.

Things start to click, And the face in the mirror, Begins to appear again.

Calls to the past grow shorter. A sense of place begins to set, Individuality consumes, The curtain falls, And you’re still there. hopeful.

And yet years will go by. That uncertain feeling returns.

You’ll stand alone in a room full of people, Most of whom you don’t care to know, Music blasting and you’re no longer heard.

Numb and lonely, You’ll long for what once was.

Thoughts of the past will keep you up, And you’ll dream of going back, But you can’t.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Emma Jardin is a junior at Fairfield University. She grew up in Stow, Massachusetts and has had a passion for writing since she was seven.

Emma primarily enjoys writing poetry and fiction short stories. She is currently working on a double major in Film, Televsion & Media and English. Emma hopes to one day be a screenwriter and author.

Almost Adulting

As a college student, legally speaking, I am an adult. But in practice, that doesn’t seem quite right.

I am not a kid anymore But I don’t feel like a real adult either. I am almost adulting.

I do my own grocery shopping And I buy fruits and vegetables To make healthy meals. But I also buy Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I am definitely way more excited about the Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I am almost adulting.

I know how to cook. I am actually really good at it. But that doesn’t stop me from sometimes putting Dino Nuggets in my airfryer And calling that dinner. Don’t forget the ketchup. I am almost adulting.

I bought my own plates for my townhouse But they were one dollar each at Target, They are rainbow colors, And they have divided sections With animal characters on the bottom. I am almost adulting.

My room decor includes a mushroom shaped lamp, Some posters of dancing frogs, Color-changing Christmas lights, And a windowsill full of ceramic dinosaurs from the dollar store. Somehow that counts as a valid sense of interior design. I’m almost adulting.

Legally, I am allowed to drink.

But when I go to a store

And see a middle-aged woman

Buying wine that costs more than eight dollars And talking to her friend about tasting notes and cheese pairings

I feel like I am not supposed to be there. I am almost adulting.

I own a 120-pack of Crayola Crayons. I say “Hi buddy” out loud whenever I pass a dog. The only video game I like is Mario Kart.

Sometimes I quote the jokes from Buzzfeed videos that no one has watched since 2012.

I still think pasta with butter is a spectacular meal. And I do not understand how the stock market works. How am I an adult?

But I have had several jobs. At one of them I was a supervisor. I presented at an academic conference. This school is about to give me a bachelor’s degree. And I just started applying to grad school. Shouldn’t that count as adulting?

So after careful consideration I have developed a theory That real adults don’t actually exist And we’re all just almost adulting.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Madeline is a senior at Fairfield University. She is a triple major in Politics, American Studies, and Political Anthropology (which is an individually designed major). She has minors in Anthropology, Religion in America, and Women’s, Gender, & Sexuality Studies. Madeline is a Student Fellow with the Humanities Institute doing research on American civil religion and the evangelical right. She is the Co-Editor in Chief and Managing Editor of the Apollon undergraduate e-journal and the Opinion section editor of Fairfield University’s student newspaper, The Fairfield Mirror.

She is trying her best to be an adult, and now you get to laugh about it with her.

CREATIVE NONFICTION

Renée Levesque

Lessons in Love from A Man in Pearls

The dating scene at a PWI in suburban Connecticut is far from glamorous–it’s appalling. Men who want relationships are unicorns, Tin der is for hookups only, and I can count on one hand the number of times guys have flirted with me at the bar.

Once, too many drinks in, I literally winked at someone and asked if they wanted to buy me a White Claw. They shot me a pitying glance before turning away.

Better yet? I offered to buy a guy a drink who explained to me he wasn’t drinking, waited twenty minutes at the bar to bring him a cup of water (let that sink in), and found him kissing a gorgeous blonde girl when I returned.

I once begged someone to make out with me at a house party (he didn’t). Another time, I complimented a guy’s baseball hat to “shoot my shot.”

“Hey, I like your hat,” I said. “Speak your truth,” he said.

To say I’ve been humbled as a college student looking for a relationship would be a laughable understatement.

Unluckily, I grew up watching rom-coms–religiously and to a fault. I confuse lust with romantic chemistry, mistakenly believe boys will fall in love with me if I stand solemnly in the corner at a party, and, when guys seem remotely interested in me, I freak out and pawn them off on my friends (“Oh! You saw Jessie on Bumble?! PLEASE tell me you swiped right!). It probably doesn’t help that I spend a decent amount of time studying the astrological compatibility between myself and every cute stranger I make eye contact with.

My boy criteria are as follows:

● Is a charismatic, charm-your-pants-off kind of guy

● Is sensitive and vulnerable around the people he’s closest to

● Is athletically inclined and musically gifted (I blame Troy Bolton, okay?)

● Rocks a flannel

● Has a witty sense of humor

● Looks vaguely similar to Chris Evans (or, better yet, is Chris Evans!)

But when alcohol’s coursing through my veins, all bets are off. Dignity? Gone. Self-worth? Never heard of her. Last I checked, my self-respect hitched a ride to the moon, only to be swallowed by a black hole and lost indefinitely.

While drunk, my boy criteria takes a dramatic nosedive: ● Has a pulse ● Is, obviously, consenting

I’m now a senior, and my hope of finding a college sweetheart is dwindling. But every weekend, I cake on mascara, wear my finest pushup bra, and–in an attempt to be sexy, because what else?–wiggle my eyebrows at attractive men who want nothing to do with me (and who definitely don’t find my eyebrow wiggling sexy). Life is so unfair!

One night, high on life and drunk off High Noons, I approached a boy named Max. Max knew nothing about me, but I knew enough about him; I had stalked his Instagram earlier that week and was instantly attracted to his “granola” aesthetic. Rock-climbing, Birkenstock-loving, pearl necklace-wearing Max seemed like boyfriend material, pretty close to the “real deal.” I marched up to him with liquid confidence. Tapping his shoulder for his attention, I said, “You’re Max.”

“And you are?”

“I’m Renée. We haven’t met, but I stalked your social media and I think you’re cute.” At this, he laughed. (See? Stalking is cute and not at all creepy!)

For a while, Max and I talked about our mutual connections. I was formerly colleagues with his older brother; two years ago, his best friend broke my classmate’s heart; and his dad–a professor at our univer sity–who assigns too much reading for my roommate’s liking. We moved on to hobbies, his (rock climbing, drawing, and playing guitar) and mine (song-writing, reading, finding new crystals to obsess over) and our areas of study (he’s an aspiring biochemical engineer who wants to change the world, and I’m a marketing major who wants to mooch off my parents until age thirty). The conversation was flowing and all seemed well.

After some time, my roommate and her boyfriend came over to let me know it was time to leave. Before I left, Max asked for my “infor mation.”

“My Snapchat or my phone number?” I asked. He shrugged, “Either works.”

“I hate Snapchat, but take my number.” He smiled like I had said the right thing.

I waited a week for Max to call or text, but he never did. Pissed and channeling my inner Olivia Rodrigo, I wrote a song about him.

Why’d you ask for my number

If you weren’t gonna call? Now I’ve got my hopes up For nothing at all

I’m dreading the weekend ‘Cause I know you’ll be there And I know that I shouldn’t But I’ll probably stare

(I look forward to being named 2023’s Breakthrough Artist of the Year.)

The following Friday, I saw Max at the local bar. Despite my friends’ advice, I walked up to him and said, “Climb any rocks lately?” To my pleasant surprise, he invited me to go rock climbing with a small group of friends on Sunday. Sure, it wasn’t a one-on-one affair, but I’ll take what I can get. Two days later, I anxiously awaited a text from Max, knowing full well I may never hear anything. Finally, at 3 p.m., my phone dinged.

Max: “The plan is still to go :)”

Me: “Ok! Just let me know what time.”

Forty minutes later, Max and his best friend’s girlfriend, Claire, picked me up. (Apparently, Claire qualified as his “small group of friends.”) I didn’t know whether to walk or jog to the car, so I did an awkward sort of jog that made it seem like I was limping. I plopped into the back seat, oddly feeling like a third wheel.

On our way to the rock climbing gym, I wouldn’t shut up. I kept babbling as if it would calm my nerves, but it only wound my stomach tighter.

“So, like, are you good at rock climbing? How long have you been doing this? On a scale of 1 to 10, how difficult is it? Will I be sore tomorrow? What’s the vibe at this gym? Do you think these leggings are okay to wear? Should I put my hair in braids, or would a low ponytail be better?” I sounded like a nervous wreck, and to be fair, I was.

Despite my inability to play it cool, I had fun. After teaching me the basics, Max went his own way and I went mine. He checked on me from time to time, offering words of encouragement when I tackled the more challenging courses, but overall, I was in my own little rock climb ing world for the next two hours.

It turned out Max was a rock climbing instructor at the gym and Claire had recently picked up climbing as a way to avoid other forms of exercise. They both made climbing look effortless while I lathered myself in bouldering chalk and forced myself not to compliment Max’s beautiful back muscles. At one point, he shared with me some climbing jargon: “beta,” for example, refers to specific advice on how to ascend a climb. But in my brain, “beta” will always be a slang term for the weak. So, naturally, I said, “Are you calling me a beta right now?” Was it a terrible joke? Absolutely. Did Max laugh? Of course not.

In fact, the more jokes I made, the more his smile twisted into a frown. Every attempt at flirting was ill-received, so by the time we left, I was deflated and confused. What was this guy’s deal? Flash forward and I’m sending him a thank you text.

“Thanks for inviting me today, I had a lot of fun!”

“Glad you had fun :) – that’s what it’s all about!”

Then, because I mentioned that I’d be watching a movie that night, he asked me what movie I was planning to watch. Pitch Perfect, obviously. But for the sake of keeping the conversation alive, I told him “any recommendations are welcome.” He didn’t disappoint:

1. High School Musical 2

2. Crazy, Stupid, Love

3. Mean Girls

4. No Strings Attached

5. Hercules

(Objectively, these are fantastic recommendations. I’m sure Max would make a wonderful Rotten Tomatoes critic.)

Having never seen Hercules (I know, sue me!), I gave him a layup: “I have a confession to make. I’ve never seen Hercules.” Which, in most languages, roughly translates into “Wanna watch Hercules together and maybe kiss a little?” Based on his response, I decided he’s either dumb or wholeheartedly uninterested–though most likely the latter. Max disliked my message, said “Go watch it,” and, as if I didn’t already sound desperate enough, I responded, “All by myself??”

And that, my friends, was the end of the conversation. He left me on read three months ago and I haven’t heard anything since. It’s a tale as old as time! That night, I laughed until I cried. I couldn’t decide whether the situation was hilarious, humiliating, or a little bit of both. My friends told me, “We tried warning you: never trust a man who wears a pearl necklace.” I want that on my headstone.

Dating in college is a lot like rock climbing. Fear is a natural reaction–in flirting, in climbing. But taking a chance on the unknown and embracing vulnerability, whether that’s complimenting a stranger or leaping for a tricky ledge, is always worth it. Failure is inevitable, and the sooner we accept failure as part of life, the easier it is to find humor in bad situations. If there’s one thing my love life (or lack thereof) has taught me, it’s this: Learn to laugh at yourself. Life is one giant shit show, but it makes for great laughs and greater stories.

And never, under any circumstances, admit to the guy you like that you’ve never watched Hercules.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Renée Levesque is a senior at Fairfield University. She is major ing in Marketing with minors in Sociology and Black Studies. In her free time, she enjoys reading, songwriting, watching romantic comedies, and baking Toll House cookies.

She lives on Cape Cod with her parents, two younger siblings, and an obnoxiously cute labra doodle. She aspires to work in the publishing industry and marry Timothée Chalamet.

A Walk To Remember

My favorite college memory serves as a great reminder of the simple things in life. My freshman year was tainted by the COVID-19 pandemic along with the rules and regulations implemented by my university. After staying on campus for the entirety of the year, meeting new people, creating memories, and learning new things each day, I was still lonely.

On the last night of my freshman year, my friend and I went on a walk to discuss our year. I truly could not believe that was it. I was left with the thought, “That’s all?” and felt as if much of what I had worked for had been for nothing. I was leaving the next day to go back home, apply for a summer job, and live a quiet and boring life–the opposite of what I was used to. I was disappointed. At this point, my friend and I were not too sure of our futures. We were not sure if our friendships would remain the same and questioned who would be in our lives going forward. After surviving a global pandemic, all while attending school and making the most of our time, we had beaten the odds. We had done the impossible, yet we were still consumed by the little things. We were still 19 years old and wondering “Do my friends like me?”

The innocence of our conversation always reminds me of how resilient our class has become. Overnight we adapted and made the most of our time. Yet, in all our growth we were still young people trying to find our place in the world. Trying to fit in, while simultaneously trying to stay alive and keep those around us safe and healthy. I think back to this moment often not because it was the most impactful moment of my college experience, but rather because it was one of the more meaning less ones. It was a conversation filled with innocence amidst chaos and it was a night filled with disappointment rather than celebration. My friend and I have taken many walks since then, yet no conversation will explore such a simple and innocent concept during a time of total unrest.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Molly Cotjanle is from Hamden, Connecticut. She is a member of Fairfield University’s Class of 2024 and is currently pursuing a degree in Marketing and Business Analytics. Molly hopes to pursue a career cen tered around market research and to improve the conditions of consumers in whatever way that may be.

Writing and sharing stories are two of Molly’s favorite pastimes. She believes that when we share, we learn not only about ourselves but each other. Molly hopes others can relate to and find a part of themselves within what she has shared.

Losing 2/3 of Myself

Looking back at my childhood, I realized that I had always tried to differentiate myself from my triplet brothers and sought to become someone separate from them. I despised being a triplet and did not even want to be associated with them. I stopped playing the same sports they played and never interacted with them at school. I even fought to get my own room at home to physically separate myself from them.

It wasn’t until I started my first semester at college that I realized how essential they are to my identity. They are a large part of who I am, so much so that I can’t help but tell my friends all about what they’re up to and how their college basketball careers are going. Being a triplet is always my go-to fun fact for any icebreaker.

Even though I was referred to as the “other triplet” my whole life, I couldn’t help but miss that sense of belonging I had—I missed the comfort of going through a new experience with two built-in friends. That is what my mom describes them as, and she even hung up a poster in our childhood room that says “Because I have a brother, I’ll always have a friend.” No matter how much I hated that, or how corny it was, that saying will stick with me because of its truthfulness.

As I entered college, this part of my identity that I took for granted became a key part of who I am, as I was left to navigate college without the two people who I had relied upon my whole life.

I have found that—like most other college students—being re moved from one’s siblings creates a feeling of emptiness within oneself. In my case, I thought separation was what I wanted, but I found that I didn’t actually realize how much I relied upon them. I regret that I spent the only time I would always be around them, wishing I wasn’t.

College made me reflect on who I was without my brothers and create an identity that was solely my own, free of their influence. I never escaped being a triplet until I got to college, but it wasn’t until I got here that I wished I hadn’t pushed away that part of myself.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Max is currently a sophomore at Fairfield University studying English and Spanish with a minor in Educational Studies. He is the Head News editor for his university’s newspaper, The Fairfield Mirror. Max also works as a tutor to local Bridgeport students and plans to pursue a career in elementary education.

Max wrote his piece as he reflected on the relationship he has with his triplet brothers, Brody and Cooper. He hopes that as you read his story, you reflect on the relationship you may have with your siblings or family members.

Clarification of My Comparison

Comparison will not only kill you, but it will eat you alive. Com parison will make you aware of the worst things about yourself, allowing you to forget the best. Someone will always be smarter than you, prettier than you, nicer than you etc. Who the fuck cares? If you keep looking for “more than” you, then you will never believe you are enough for anyone, including yourself.

I’ve spent the entirety of my life comparing myself to everyone else. Growing up I was the only one with jet black hair and olive skin around a sea of beauties with blonde hair, light eyes, and skin of snow. My thighs were bigger, my face was rounder, my hips grew wider, and my insecurities escalated.

I yearned to be close to those who looked like me, but even then I felt isolated. My eyes were too big, my speech seemed to be “too” American, I didn’t have “the look.” I was too whitewashed to be Asian. My hair was too dark, my skin was more pigmented, and my features were too oriental, I was too Asian to be White. The constant obsession of comparison.

The little girl who faced the mirror and cried when her sec ond grade crush said he would never marry her because he didn’t want “Asian babies.” The middle schooler that was told she never would be his type because he liked “paler girls.” The highschooler who’s ex boyfriend’s mother said “interracial relationships never work out.” The young woman in college who is often reminded, “you’re really pretty for an Asian girl.”

I compared myself to other girls, but through the eyes of what people would see. I reduced myself to less than I was in order to validate the parts of myself I hated. The anecdotes I used to have about myself have always become memories of what someone else has thought about me, said about me, or acted towards me.

I was so enthralled with what people thought of me, when the only person that really mattered at the end of the day was myself. Perception became tricky because I perceived myself the way others’ chose to perceive me. I compared myself to everyone in the best and worst ways. Comparison killed me, it ate me alive, tore me apart, because I let it. I was the person who created the comparison, I built it from the ground up, entertained it, tore myself apart over it, and fueled it.

I came to understand that comparison is inevitable, but ruining yourself over it is preventable. I recognized what I needed from myself, I started listening to how I felt, and what I needed, rather than absorbing what others thought or felt I should be.

The little girl, the middle schooler, the highschooler, and the col lege girl are still alongside the woman I am today. They taught me love. They taught me to hate. They caution my perception, and assure me that I am enough.

Through time, the skin that has taken unkind words has thick ened. The eyes that endured the nasty looks, have teared up. The mind that processes the opinions, now understands the cruelty.

Most importantly, the heart that has taken all of it, has forgiven. The comparison has been tamed. Comparison will kill you, only if you let it.

20 Things I Want the Girl Searching for Prince Charming to Keep in Mind

Prince Charming’s Gaze. Your Maze. Different Phase. Their Ways. Ego Raise. Confidence Delays. His Praise. Societal Clichés.

Prince Charming’s Gaze. Your Maze.

All of my life I have wanted a Prince Charming. A guy to save, protect and honestly love me. Some may think it’s helpless, some may think I’m weak, but who cares?

“Be your own Prince Charming.” I heard this many times; every single time someone would say it I would smile and laugh, and secretly thinking fuck off in my head.

I always wondered what I could do for the guy that I was seeing at the time, but I never truly asked myself what they could be doing for me. I never considered what they were bringing to the table or how it would impact me.

The more guys that I have met, the more I have learned about myself and my needs. I never truly was able to understand how import ant a relationship with myself was before getting into a relationship with someone else. I began to only focus on my relationship with myself, and finally prioritized my needs, my ambition, my goals, and my future.

Up to the wonderful age of 20, I have received a plethora of ad vice and learned substantial lessons about myself, relationships, and men.

Through personal and secondary anecdotes or experiences, I have cultivated 20 things I want the girl searching for Prince Charming to keep in mind.

Love yourself. I know it’s a cliché, but I spent so many years not loving myself the way I needed to. As a result, I tried finding the love I was lacking through someone else.

News Flash: Relationships do not work unless you love yourself. If he wanted to he would. Okay, but really. I never believed this until I experienced the better side of it. Not to stereotype men, but they are pretty simple. They may mince words, but effort shines through. If a guy wanted to, he would. If he wanted to date you, you’d be dating. Things are more simple than they seem. No more excuses or giving the benefit of the doubt. Do not settle. You deserve the most, if they can’t give it to you, move on.

Relationships are not always linear. A really close friend taught me this (shoutout KS). In our minds we think we talk, date, fall in love, get engaged, get married, and live happily ever after. WRONG. I’m not say ing the relationship needs to be inconsistent every day of the week, but sometimes change is good for a relationship. If two people are brought back together after being apart then that’s worth recognizing. (PS. This is absolutely NOT a sign to get back with your toxic ex that makes your life miserable!)

Don’t Chase, We Attract = Bullshit. Don’t adjust your level of crazi ness, emotion, distance, etc. for anyone. Yes, I totally support manifes tation and putting things out into the universe. However, if you change your mindset to be someone you’re not, then you’re giving a fabricated sense of yourself to someone. Do not do that. If you want to chase, then chase, because the right person won’t run away. A boyfriend isn’t a necessity. This took me so long to realize. “I want a boyfriend” and “I want–as my boyfriend” are two different things. You’re not ready for a boyfriend if you have the first mindset. Enjoy being single. “Single” may mean talking to no romantic interests, it may mean a new guy every night. Whatever your prerogative. Don’t be the “I have a boyfriend girl.” Don’t bring your boyfriend up in every conversation, no one cares, it gets annoying, and your friends will start to resent you. You’re not going to marry every guy you meet. I mean, this one is self explanatory.

Independence is key. Never become dependent on someone, especially someone you’re in a relationship with. In a relationship, you need

separation, if you’re with someone 24/7 the relationship will become unbearable.

Never compete. If it’s between you and another girl, or multiple girls, Bow out. Walk away. Maybe you love them, maybe they’re your soul mate. But maybe they’re not, because someone who loves you and is your soulmate would never put you in a position where they would need to choose between you and someone else. FWB does not work. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but this just doesn’t work. There’s two options, 1. Date 2. End everything and friend ship is over or will never be the same. If you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned. Every single person I have known that has participated in this type of situation has either ended up dating their FWB or they hate them and do not communicate. Good luck …

Older guys don’t like your personality. Again, sorry to break it to you … Many of my close friends “dated” guys three to four years older than them when they were in eighth or ninth grade. Thinking back on this, it’s gross. I once knew a girl that was eighteen dating a man in his thirties. This is not a message to say don’t date older guys, but keep in mind the difference in age and motives. Understand that an older guy noticing you won’t make you more beautiful, worth more, or valued more. It makes him sick, and you prey. A quote that I always refer to is “Guys that can’t date girls close to their own age, go for younger ones.”

Sometimes, words have intention. Hearing “I love you” may make you weak, but be careful of the words you hear. Understand the motives behind them. Intuition. If you have a gut feeling about something or someone, ac knowledge it. Call your mom. Tell her about your life. I spent so many years hiding stuff from my mom because I was ashamed of the things I wouldn’t tell her. Feel like you can tell your mom things truly going on in your life. Put your needs first. The only explanation I’ll give is you control your life; prioritize yourself over everything. You’re never too much or too little for the right person. It is perfectly okay and valid to be alone.

Actions speak louder than words. Everything that’s meant to be will be. This one took me the longest to understand and accept. We want immediate gratification and immediate results. The timeline doesn’t matter because at the end of the day the timing, the ability, the person, the moment–the everything–will play out as it should.

As much as I hate saying this, which I really do, because I hate being wrong … be your own Prince Charming, know and love yourself. And when you’re ready to find the other Prince Charming, keep the list in mind.

Prince Charming’s Maze. Your Ways. Confusion Phase. Unfazed. Progression Delays. Walk Away. Your Praise. His Gaze. Prince Charming’s Maze. Your Ways.

MEET THE AUTHOR

MK Kalenak is a sophomore at Fairfield University double majoring in Public Relations and Digital Journalism with a minor in Finance. MK is from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In her free time, she serves as a writer and section editor at Fairfield’s chapter of Her Campus. She finds inspi ration from her family and friends. MK also loves dogs and the beach!

This Is How I Took Flight

In my 18 years of life, I’ve never watched or followed profes sional sports. To be more brutally honest, the only games I have seen are those during the FIBA qualifier games in which Puerto Rico was playing against other countries to earn a spot in the World Cup. So, you can be lieve me when I say that it caught me and my friends by surprise and off base when I joined the dysfunctional family of the New York Jets.

My curiosity for the Jets started when I met this kid, Alexander, during a university summer program we were both participating in. From my perspective, he was a hard-core fan who breathed, dressed, and lived as a J-E-T-S follower and I was determined to be friends with him.

At first, I would try to make fun of him by saying things like “Aren’t the Jets supposed to be the worst team in the NFL?” or “Bro, I’m sorry you have to live a life like that.” Interestingly enough, I was saying all of this to him without any actual knowledge about who or how bad the Jets as a team were. I was probably repeating things I’d heard before and as I later learned, I was not completely wrong about it.

It was not until the fall semester of classes began that we started to hang out more and expand our friend group. As more people joined our circle, the conversation also moved from our normal talk to more general things, like football and the Jets. Naturally, I was lost in that discussion! As so, I was determined to stay engaged with Alex and get to know him better, so I started to watch some Jets games with him, but if I’m being honest, I was not completely following up on what was hap pening in the game, but I kept watching it anyways.

I became more interested in the Jets out of boredom. It was fall break weekend, and I was staying alone in my room as traveling back to Puerto Rico for four days was not possible. There were literally no guys on my floor to hang out with that Sunday afternoon, so I went to Streeme and pulled up the Jets vs. Dolphins game just to learn more about the sport and at least have something to talk about for the week. I was not ready for what was about to happen.

The Jets were having one of the best games since the start of the season against the Miami Dolphins, who had just lost their star QB Tua Tagovailoa. However, that didn’t factor in my decision to watch or talk to my friend about the game.

Alex: ARE YOU WATCHING HERMANO BREECE THE FUCKING BEAST

Me: I AM BROTHER IN-CRE-DI-BLE

Alex: I’m geeked

The Jets are fucking back

The Jets are over 500

Me: Slow down w the stats … I’m not there yet.

We just kept texting for a while, and I ended the conversation by saying “I guess I picked a good day to start watching the Jets.” Indeed, I did start watching the Jets and following them on all my social media accounts at a great moment. Still, it did not feel right at the moment to call myself a “fan” of the team as I was missing key information and experience to be at that level.

Two weeks later, I fell prey to the Jets for the first time. I was entering a Lids store at American Dream mall and checked out the Jets apparel. I ended up spending almost $75 on a hat and a long sleeve shirt. I spent the rest of that Sunday morning wanting to cry because I couldn’t believe I had spent that much money on those two things just to wear them on Sundays.

Later that day, transferring between subways in New York City to finish some pre-winter shopping on my way back to campus, Alexander texted me on Snapchat inviting me to the Patriots and Jets game that next weekend. Initially, I was extremely excited as I had never been to a live football game. Then, after telling him that I was more than happy to go with him, panic and disbelief filled my head.

I spent that entire week watching football games, YouTube tuto rials on how to play football, and film on the Jets and its QB.

I had to be sure I could watch a game without some announc er telling me what was happening. I mean, in the end, I was going to a football game with one of the most passionate guys I’ve ever met, so I wanted to feel the same enthusiasm and pride he was having.

Not only was it my first time watching a live football game but also my first encounter with the tailgate culture. The game started and I couldn’t have been more excited.

During the first half of the game, the Jets were winning, and we had hopes of winning the game. The atmosphere was all about the “J-E-

T-S, JETS, JETS, JETS” chants, and the first and third down announce ments (which I still say when I watch the games on TV). I was tweeting about the game and taking pics and videos. Painfully, we lost the game. We were all in some type of “funeral vibes” and I was so depressed. My first-ever Jets game that I attended ended 22-17–with the Patriots winning. We all knew we could have won that game, but now we just wanted to escape the New Jersey traffic and be back at Fairfield. No one in the car talked on our way back.

That night I did two things: I ordered a Sauce Gardner jersey and uploaded an Instagram post showing pictures of that day with the caption “Yes, I’m a Jets Fan.” That weekend with my friend and brother taught me what being an actual Jets fan meant and I was ready to commit to it (even when my bank account had, and still has, a different opinion).

MEET THE AUTHOR

Julian Nazario Martir is an 18-year-old student at Fairfield University studying Digital Journalism and International Studies. Born and raised in the capital of Puerto Rico, Julian has lived through many interesting and challenging events that inspired him to pursue journalism as an extra curricular activity and now as his college major. Events like the landfall of Hurricane Maria in 2017 and the sociopolitical unrest of 2019 on the island motivated him to merge his passion for reporting with politics. Julian hopes to become a political and Latin American reporter for one of the national news organizations in the United States.

Learning To Let Go

When I was younger, I often got in trouble for little things, like taunting my brother or talking back to my mother. I wasn’t truly sorry for what I did because at seven, eight, or nine years old, I believed that my actions were justified. However, being the oldest and having a lot expect ed of me day in and day out from such a young age was challenging. I was always expected to “know what I’m doing” or that I should “know better” just because I was born first. Therefore, as a child I was falsely apologizing and not meaning or learning what true forgiveness was.

Growing up, I believe I had many friends. As funny as this may sound, inviting people to my birthday parties was one of the most stressful things I ever had to do. I never knew where the cut-off was and always wanted to invite everyone. However, I never felt like I had a best friend or a close connection with anyone. At the time there was never someone in my life that I completely trusted, including my own family. The closest thing I had to someone I fully trusted was a girl named Lac ey. Lacey and I met in first grade, and we became fast friends. We were close friends from first grade to sixth. We had disagreements here and there, but it was always something we could talk about, work through, and overcome. Yet, I never fully trusted Lacey. Granted, yes, this ebbed and flowed throughout our friendship but something was never quite right. From the very first time we ever hung out, she said something along the lines of “I thought you were so annoying before my mom made me hang out with you.” This line–“I used to think you were so an noying before I knew you”–has become a constant thing people have said to me throughout my life. This has led me to constantly think I am the problem when things go wrong. Lacey would often tell our other friends what I said or how I felt.

One of the prime examples I have of this was when we were in third grade and I told Lacey I was upset with our new friend Summer. Summer had been leaving me out at recess, and I wished she never moved to Newtown. I hurt Summer’s feelings, and I could not take back what I said. I didn’t realize it at the time, because I was eight, that I was just jealous that I wasn’t getting all of Lacey’s attention. I ended up hurt ing not only Summer’s feelings but my own feelings were hurt from the person I thought I could sort of trust: Lacey. After Lacey told Summer this, I remember confronting Lacey at our next playdate. I asked her why she told Summer what I had said. Lacey told me she was sorry and that

she was trying to include me more by telling Summer how I felt. I told her I forgave her, and I honestly did, but I still held onto the feeling of betrayal. This was my first time experiencing forgiveness in this way.

Fast forward to middle school and I walked into Miss Nucifo ra’s classroom for the first time. In homeroom, I was placed at a table in the front of the room. Almost immediately after I took a seat, someone walked into the room in a gray and blue West Virginia sweatshirt and sat down right next to me. I quickly learned her name was Samantha and her oldest brother went to the University of West Virginia. Samantha became one of my closest friends from seventh grade until my sophomore year of high school. Samantha and I were inseparable. She became the first ever person I felt to be my best friend. Samantha was loyal, funny, kind, and always knew how to keep me in check.

When our sophomore year of high school rolled around, we were so excited, no longer the freshman, the “newbies” of the school. We knew our stuff, and nothing could bring us down–or so I thought. I began to develop feelings for a boy I had met through our younger brother’s sports team. This boy and I started talking every day and hanging out every weekend. But what I didn’t realize was that I was slowly cutting Samantha out of my life. One December day, Samantha texted me say ing, “I can’t be friends with you anymore. I need my space.”

Receiving this message broke my heart into a million pieces. I had no idea where it came from, and I didn’t know what I did to deserve it. I remember sitting on my bedroom floor and repeatedly calling and texting her asking her to talk, but she never responded, and I never heard back. Because I was never able to get full closure, or even an explanation as to what went wrong, I had a tough time moving on from this and forgiving her for leaving my life. She was my best friend. She ended our friendship with two sentences and was never to be heard from again. It all seemed very unfair to me. I could not forgive Samantha, and I could not forgive myself. It was my fault, I should’ve been a better friend, and I should’ve known better.

Fast forward again to my first year at Fairfield University. Coming into school, I was already super nervous, this was my first time away from home for an extended period of time; I needed to make all new friends, and I honestly didn’t know if I even wanted to go to college at the time. Let me tell you, starting college during a global pandemic was not ideal. However, I quickly made friends and immediately thought I had found my group of people. Now, if becoming a New Student Lead er (a mentor for freshmen students) has taught me anything, it is that first-years have a warped sense of friendship coming into college. Now

don’t get me wrong, I also partook in this mentality. Whether it was that my roommate was going to be my best friend, my forever friends were the people I met the first day, or the people I hung out with for the first month of school were going to be my bridesmaids. While that may be true for some, it isn’t for all, and it certainly was not for me.

Upon starting my first year here at Fairfield University, I quickly found myself in a group of friends, and I was very happy. Things were falling into place. I was making connections with people around me relatively easy, and I had high hopes for the years to come. All was well during my first month of college until the inevitable happened. That October, a few of my friends and I got into an argument. Names were called, things were said, feelings were hurt on both ends of the spectrum. I ended up going home for a week to take time and think, but also to give my friends some space. I came back from my week-long sabbatical and had a conversation with my friends. We recognized that some things got lost in translation and nobody wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings. We de cided to move on. However, two weeks later, a similar situation occurred, and one of my friends, who I considered myself to be the closest with, at the time said to me: “we do not want to be your friend.” Although I knew they were doing what was best for them, this was a hard situation to face. I felt as if I had no one, in this new place with no familiar faces, and fell into a very deep downward spiral, with no understanding of how to break out or how to break free.

After the fallout, I struggled with how other people would per ceive me. I ended up moving home and commuting to campus for the second semester of my first year and heavily considered transferring. I would drive to campus worried about what people thought or said about me because I knew at a small school, word could travel fast. A lot of the same feelings came back from what happened with Samantha. I felt betrayed, alone, and like I was the entirety of the problem, again. For a long time, I felt like I was in no place to forgive my friends. My repu tation is something I thought a lot about every day. Although I thought about my reputation in elementary, middle, and high school, this time, it seemed much larger because, as I said above, I was in a new place, and quite frankly, I knew no one. Going from high school, where I had al ways felt like my connections weren’t meaningful, and not having many real “friends,” I was excited to go someplace new and establish bonds with fresh faces. But the same situation played out yet again, and it was exhausting. I remember repeating to myself, “am I ever going to get this right?” or “am I ever going to be able to keep friends?” I couldn’t forgive them, and I couldn’t forgive myself. I just didn’t know how.

It wasn’t until last semester that I started to learn about letting go. Experiencing true friendship for the first time last semester was life-changing. I became close with a few people during the second semester of my sophomore year. One of the people had been in my life since the beginning of my career at Fairfield and our friendship only grew after this. My whole life, I had felt like I came second to others. Or, that I was too annoying, or that I was just a problem, and nobody want ed to be my friend because of that reason. But upon spending time and building a relationship with them, I felt peace in friendship for the first time. I had three friends who loved me unconditionally and supported me. I never felt like I had to give more than I was getting. I found a com munity with walls of trust and never questioned if I was being judged. Even though all four of us had gone through different things and experi enced various events, knowing that I could mess up and make mistakes, but still have people in my corner has changed my perspective on what I have come to determine as self-forgiveness. If they loved me no matter what, I can love myself no matter what.

The strong and comforting connections that I made have also helped me on my journey to forgiving others. I finally stopped thinking about what went wrong or what could have been. Why would I dwell on that past when I could enjoy what I have now?

My friends helped me figure out that life isn’t perfect and people come into my life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. The person I have hurt may not forgive me, but forgiving myself for hurting others or for others hurting me is the first step in the right direction toward self-for giveness and self-love. As I have developed wonderful relationships with loyal, caring, and loving people, I feel less apologetic for being myself and find myself more willing to forgive others who I feel have wronged me in the past. I no longer feel alone.

So if I could say anything to the nine-year-old girl who would constantly apologize and who didn’t understand what forgiveness was, it would be to choose redemption. I don’t need to live for the past and hate myself for it. I can choose to start again. Forgiveness is a weird process that ebbs and flows, and it’s okay to still be figuring out what it is. My journey to forgiveness is all my own. My happy ending is up to me.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Abby is currently studying Accounting and Data Analytics with minors in Spanish, Communication, and Accounting Info Systems at Fairfield University. She is a New Student Leader through Fairfield’s Office of Student Engagement. In doing this, Abby co-facilitates a seminar for first-year students to help them transition to campus life while incor porating communication skills to present to 30 students in a classroom setting. Abby also hosts a weekly radio show where she discusses current events and plays popular music. Alongside this, she helped build and de velop a company website using Shopventory to increase brand awareness and visibility for a local shop in downtown Fairfield, CT.

Abby aspires to pursue a career in Data Analytics/Accounting while incorporating her passions of learning new languages, reading books, traveling, and learning about new cultures globally.

An Argument for Authenticity

Middle School

In the sixth grade, I sat across from Harper Jacobson in English. We had gone to school together since kindergarten, but that was the first time I really looked at her. Harper would put her hair in ponytails so tight the front pieces of hair on the crown of her head began to break off to form tufts that stuck out. To address this, Harper would heavily hairspray these hairs down firmly to her scalp. I imagine her washing her crisp, hard hair out every night, only to begin the solidifying process again the next morning.

We attended a Catholic private school, so we all had pretty much the same clothes on. Yet, Harper’s shirt was far too big and her skirt far too long. She looked like a young Amish woman.

Harper was seemingly very uncomfortable with her body. The way it moved. The attention it might receive if people noticed she actually hit puberty before everyone else. Most specifically, the fact that it may distract from the loads she had to say. All the time.

I remember in second grade Harper explained with hand-drawn evidence all the reasons that fairies couldn’t plausibly exist when the class decided to pretend they each had one as a pet. She did a five-page report on Cleo patra unprompted and gave it to our teacher in third grade after deciding to dress as her for Halloween. The teacher made us all read it.

She wrote a play called “Fox Trot”’ in fourth grade and decided to hold casting at recess. She sat behind a backless park bench and used it as a desk between herself and the auditioners à la American Idol. No one was good enough. The play was postponed.

She didn’t seem to understand the appropriate volume of speech, social graces, or typical desires of an adolescent girl. She told jokes to make the teacher laugh. Yet, Harper was admittedly kind. Not nice for sure, but kind. The type of kind that makes other people feel like a piece of shit.

Harper talked to those she probably shouldn’t. She did those “demented yet social” clubs Bender was talking about in The Breakfast Club. Math letes. Quiz Bowl. Battle of the Books.

Her social awkwardness peaked outside of the academic setting though. In class, to quote Jane Austen, she gave her opinion very decidedly for such young a person. Yet on a personal level, she would often shut down. Cry when she made mistakes. Smile like she was in pain. Ignore you entirely.

How this all comes to impact me is she also didn’t really have any friends. In fact, she didn’t seem to want them.

However, my mom worked with Harper’s mom. Harper’s mother thought it would be a good idea that I become friends with Harper. Harper had a hard time inviting others over, so instead her mom told my mom that she needed a friend.

I went over to Harper’s house when we were both 12. Big age 12.

Harper’s room looked like a museum that hadn’t yet organized its work into sections. Vintage Spiderman comic books sat next to Vogue issues with images precisely cut out. Her bedding had bright pink flowers on it but the t-shirts scattered around her room featured alternative rock bands. She played on her father’s club softball team. There were ballet slippers in the same bag as some 100,000 year-old large men’s baseball glove.

There were small plants on a windowsill next to a speaker quietly play ing film scores. She expressed she wanted to see if they grew better than the ones in her bathroom who didn’t get to experience Hans Zimmer’s work.

Despite all these appealing yet conflicting interests she seemed to have, I did not want to be her friend. In fact … she made me very uncomfort able. I thought maybe she could grow from some social criticism. Until we graduated eighth grade, I made this known to her.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear. I honestly don’t think anyone looks at you like that anyway.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t ever know what you’re talking about.”

“That was so embarrassing. What the hell is wrong with you?” “If you didn’t exist it would make very little difference, to be honest.” “I know your family says they love you for who you are, but they have to say that. If they met you on their own you know they wouldn’t like you.”

High School

We came back from the summer into our freshman year of high school and Harper didn’t look or talk the same. She cut layers in her hair and always wore it down. Her clothes were certainly much tighter.

We were the only two people who went to our public high school from the same private lower school. I guess this gave her an opportunity to recreate herself, and I gave her the chance to do it. Maybe we could final ly be friends. Maybe she’d finally get it.

And to my surprise, she did. Harper joined the dance team and spun her way through different social circles. She was Editor-in-Chief of the year book and took pictures of athletes on the sidelines while they ran a little slower past her than they should for athletic purposes. She went to prom as a sophomore. I never thought she’d go at all.

Her smile was bright. Her record was perfect. Something in her eyes got locked away though. It would leak out when she’d cry in the bathroom stalls.

She never ate lunch. She’d laugh and tap her foot on the ground. Wrote whole essays in 45 minutes while watching a Vogue makeup tutorial on YouTube. Never ate anything.

No one really noticed or commented on this except her boyfriend at the time, who she only really had to have one. He suggested she eat more because her boobs were getting smaller. She felt too skinny on his body.

I should have loved her. I should have seen the changes I always thought would do her some good. But I didn’t.

I knew Harper would sit on the bathroom floor and make up lies to avoid school. Her skin wasn’t right. None of it was right. She had over a 4.0 but enough absences she might not graduate. She would fall asleep at 9:30 p.m. and dread waking up again. She passed out during a lap around

the track. Blamed it on her period.

She would look in the mirror and see a stranger wearing her skin. Talking to her family. Hugging her little sister in photos.

College Part I

Harper went to college for half a semester before she started to fall apart. Her mom told her she was drinking too carelessly. She told her mom to f-off.

It took an effect on her grades for Harper to come home. And when she came home, we hung out again.

College Part II

Of course, we is just me. I am just Harper. When I was remote my second semester freshman year, I spent some time with myself.

When I was in middle school, I said all those things I listed before. To me. I was my biggest bully at school. In high school, I was desperate to silence that voice in my head and ended up losing my voice entirely. Then when I started college, the metaphorical shit hit the metaphorical fan.

It actually turns out what we say to ourselves does matter. And according to my therapist, it’s effective to imagine if someone else spoke to you the way you speak to yourself. Thus, this piece of work.

I started seeing a therapist because I didn’t know how to cope with panic attacks at college, among other great reasons to speak to a therapist. But here is the Schmoop of what I’ve learned.

When you start college, there’s all this empty space and time that you have to fill with you. How you dress. The music you listen to. The classes you want to take. You fill your hours and hours of gratuitous free time with what you enjoy. You’re surrounded by substances to help mask your discomfort with who you are.

When you’ve told yourself the genuine you isn’t worthy or valuable, fill ing your life with you is a little hard to do. When your worth comes from

the validation of others, there’s no hope in moments alone.

What I have learned and come to understand is that authenticity is far more important than perfection. Make mistakes. Make them in front of people. Learn from them. Grow unabashedly because doing otherwise is stupid. It’s also a waste of your time and money. College is expensive.

Take the time in college to find yourself, or recover yourself, and cele brate that person. Find out what your values are. Figure out who you are during this time, and love them more than anyone.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Jackie Campbell is a junior English major with a concen tration in Education at Fair field University. She also has minors in Education Studies and Editing & Publishing. Jackie enjoys volunteering and spending time with family.

After graduation, she hopes to become an elementary school teacher while continuing to ac tively volunteer with non-prof it organizations.

Jackie hopes this piece will connect with other college students who have struggled with self-acceptance.

Thoughts of a Student: An Adaptation of “Frankenstein”

“I am not of nature–I mold it!”

The grandeur of this thought excited Victor even in his tired state. The time had just reached three in the morning, and Victor could not remember if he had slept the day before. It had just begun to rain when Victor rushed to the window, shut it, and closed the drapes. He did not want anything to get in.

As he turned he glared at the lifeless form, lying on the table in the center of the room, covered in his white bedsheet. Victor then walked back to the table and looked over the rolling hills of white.

“What can now be said of limits? Limits, unmet, I have already broken! They cannot even foresee what I now take for granted!”

A frightened voice then appeared. “But who is to control it? What if it disobeys me?”

The original voice returned. “Disobey–Ha! Ha! Disobedience could only come from misinterpretation or some other folly. Such a grand creation, of such noble construction, only makes its creator all the more surpassing. Well done!”

His paced thoughts made him breathe heavily.

“None of them understand. The whole lot of them would nev er even conceive that I–a student–could ever do anything; they never thought for a single second that I had genius! That I was worthy of my own opinion, of their own attention! They never thought I could do any thing!”

Victor’s thoughts paused for a moment as he caught his breath. “They never thought I could do anything. All they ever did was talk down to me.”

Victor’s thoughts then paused for a long while when suddenly, “What is that? A voice? The creature speaks. What is that it said? No, no, nonsense. No foul breath could have been exhumed from this limp flesh. Oh, but this flesh that is so fine is the future–my future! What shall it be but servile for I can already see it now. I foresee the greatest of humility and nobility all contained within one body. The body that I form and that is loyal only to me! The wind shall be nothing more than the swiftness of my moving hand.”

Victor then shook and was thrown back by his own imaginings, clattering against the plates and stands of his room, falling atop a naked

by Mary Shelley

mattress.

“You can’t do this, it’s not right! What if–how could–we shouldn’t be doing this.” His head then turned.

“How can you presume to know what is right and what is wrong, blasphemer? I can create anything that I want. I will be able to give life to the dirt–to black flesh! And with this you will save me–you will live for me! Oh, I wouldn’t doubt me, or what I am doing, for those are the ones who will be made fools.”

Victor paused again.

“You are beginning to sound like Professor Marcus. I hate that man; the way he approached me only yesterday. What is it that he said to me?

“You seem tired, Victor.”

“Well, professor, nothing of consequence was ever accomplished between bed sheets. I believe Dante said something like that.”

“Did he really say that?”

“Something like that, yes, sir.”

“Well, I think the parents of all the great people of history might disagree with you.” And then he laughed vulgarly, like an old man.

“Remember you are just a student here, Victor, you are here to learn the rules. Then you will leave and go out there, and that’s when you will apply the rules, and you will be thankful that you did. Because to fail to learn those–.”

“Oh, just a student,” he says.

Victor then leaped off of his mattress, moving towards the center of the room, and looked back onto the veiled, lifeless flesh on the table. The room seemed to be made cold by the body in its center. The fireplace did nothing but cast orange, flickering light onto and away from the un animated form.

“How could you help me anyway?”

The rain outside grew heavier as the campus remained complete ly silent. Standing over it, Victor then took the edge of the bedsheet and pulled it towards himself to reveal the hewn face of his creation.

“Just a creature,” he thought.

But as his glare carried down onto its face he noticed that it had begun to change. The nose and the eyes were shifting, seemingly end lessly, into an endless array of faces. It was mutating and changing into faces–faces of strangers who he had passed on the street the day before, and those of his classmates and family; until it finally became the face of Victor’s friend, Henry.

“My Henry!” Victor thought.

Immediately Victor then threw the sheet over the creature’s face and pulled the power switch.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Thomas Senesac is a junior at Fairfield University. He is currently studying English while specializing in Creative Writing, and has a minor in Mathematics. Thomas has written for his university’s newspaper, The Fairfield Mirror, and plays tennis for Fairfield’s club team.

Thomas wrote the following short story Thoughts of a Student based off of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. In writing this, he wanted to represent the struggle to succeed while in a harsh academia setting like college.

Locked In

The cursor on my computer laughs at me, almost in a taunting “you’re no good” kind of way. It’s like it knows I’m unfit to write a story about romance. I let out an exhausted sigh, put my laptop down, and check my phone for the second time in less than a minute. Still nothing, and I’m still procrastinating. My eyes wander over to other students, shamefully hoping there are others who share my sense of failure.

A pair of girls sit together chatting and giggling as they jot some thing down in their notebooks. One swings her feet under the desk while the other twirls her thick hair. From across the library floor, I can hear their butchered Italian and laughter. I think back to my similar struggles in my freshman-year class. It was a miracle I ended with an A. Not too far from them, a lanky boy looks down intently at his notebook, his bushy eyebrows are furrowed and pink lips pursed. Al though he’s not swaying or fidgeting, he does have on a pair of head phones. I never understood how people can focus while listening to music. He unlocks his phone and I watch him skip over a few songs until he lands on one he’s satisfied with. He goes back to his work. Maybe I should too.

I pick up my laptop, determined to finish a few pages. I can do this. My fingertips rest along the keyboard in the standard position, something I learned in middle school, and I prepare for a rush of inspira tion to strike. But instead, I just stare. And stare. And stare some more.

A crinkling noise comes from behind me, like a wasp invading my personal space. I look up from the screen and slowly turn to look for the source. I meet eyes with a stout-looking boy holding a partly opened granola bar. For a few seconds, the noises pause. Until he starts to peel back the wrapper once again while holding my gaze. I blink at him and turn back towards my screen somewhat annoyed but also partly im pressed he didn’t seem phased by my irritation.

My foot taps anxiously as my document remains empty. I check my phone again. No notifications. I decide to shut it off and just stuff it in my bag. Quietly, of course. I finally type, and my confidence starts to pick up. A satisfactory smile appears on my face as I reach the end of the paragraph, but once I reread it, I instantly grimace. My pinky slams on the ‘delete’ button and I hold it there for a while as I debate just start ing my script from scratch. No, I’m almost there. After a few months of writing, I’ve actually made it to the final act of my film. For some reason,

I just can’t seem to think of an ending that fits. It’s infuriating.

A sniffle and a soft sob bounce off the high ceiling. I glance around and find a girl who’s crying into her sleeve. People nearby offer her looks of concern as she packs up her stuff and leaves with her head down.

“Poor thing,” I whisper. That was me after my religion professor wrote me a rude comment on the eight-page paper I spent two full days writing. He had left multiple notes, but the one I will never forget was “to say that this is adequate would be an error.” I thank God every day that class is over.

I look towards my bag with a sense of longing, tempted to re claim my phone, but I tear myself away and put my energy back into my screenplay. I decide that it might be best just to word vomit, and so I do. I type. I type furiously, faster than I have ever typed before. My fingers keep the intense pace even though my wrists and abs start to ache due to the intense, unintentional flexing.

Finally, a cramp shoots up my right arm and I consequently break. Somehow, I managed to write 15 pages. I sit back and admire the rows of new dialogue and descriptions that are probably (definitely) in need of a rewrite. Nevertheless, it feels rewarding to have at least added a good portion to it tonight.

I inhale a deep, extended breath and look up to take in any other sight besides my laptop for the first time in who knows how long. But as I glance around the room, I discover that there’s no one near me. I instantly turn back to check on granola boy. All of his things, including him, are gone–except for a pile of crumbs. The pair of girls and slender boy who were camped out shortly before are nowhere to be seen. I survey the room and realize that I’m entirely alone. Quickly, I touch my mousepad and see that it’s 1:03 a.m. A shiver shoots up my neck.

I shove my laptop into my bag and exchange it for my phone. As I pack up, my cell wakes to a surprisingly (actually very predictable) empty lock screen. Still no messages. I roll my eyes, which is followed by an extensive yawn, and trot down the stairs to the main floor of the building. While the library is always silent, it’s almost eerie now that it’s completely empty.

Nearing the front doors, my pace falls short and I pause. On the outside of the entrance, a thick chain is wrapped around the door handles. “What the–,” I mutter to myself. I slowly walk towards the front of the building and attempt to pull the handles. On the opposite side, a hefty lock remains in place. I pull harder, trying multiple times on different sections. None of them budge.

My chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster. “Hello,” I scream as I push at the doors once more. “Is anyone out there?” I im plore.

I swing around and rush back into the main lobby hoping to find an employee. The lights are dim but I can see that there isn’t anyone in sight. The front desk, ITS department, and other offices are all closed. I scurry around the perimeter of the library, scouting for any doors that could possibly be open. Most rooms lead to dead ends, but after a few hallways, I find a single exit in the back. It’s lit up with a bright red sign and I smile with relief as I extend my arm and yank the handle. Although there’s no chain, the door still doesn’t move an inch. I pull harder for good measure. Nothing.

“Come on!” I yell.

I slide to the ground and let my body rest on the aged carpet. A long sigh escapes my body and I drop my head in the palms of my hands, closing my eyes. I widely consider my options. Should I smash the door and hope I don’t have to pay for it? I could attempt to call the police, but then would I get in trouble? What would happen if I just fell asleep right here, right now? I groan as I use my backpack as a pillow and stare up at the ceiling.

In the distance, I hear a soft rumble but I dismiss it as a possible far-off car engine. No. I rise from the ground and swing my bag on my shoulder. Not an engine. I follow the sound which grows louder with each step I take. In the maze of desks and chairs, I find a boy slouched over a table in a deep sleep, drooling all over his arm and snoring. With out a second thought, I shake his shoulder.

“Hello?” I continue to push his upper body. “Wake up,” I plead. He opens his eyes with a lack of urgency and moans with a sense of annoyance. Then, his eyes close.

I push him harder. “Hello, do you work here?”

Like a statue, he’s fixed in the same position but he responds with a simple, “No.” He slumps back onto the tabletop, determined to sleep despite my questions.

“Well, I would really appreciate it if you helped me.” I tap my phone and sigh. “Please. I thought the library was open for 24 hours but I guess it isn’t. Who knew? Anyway, I just want to go back to my room.”

“It closes at midnight,” he barks with a scratchy voice. “They changed it after someone stole those computers.”

“Well, no one told me!” I argue back in defense. “How do I leave now?”

“The front door,” he mocks.

I scoff. “Yeah, well the front door’s locked, smart ass.” I turn to walk away, but the boy jolts up behind me.

“What time is it?” he asks.

I face him and tap my phone. “Almost two.”

“Shit.” He slides his textbooks into his bag and throws on his jacket. I follow his quick pace. He stops abruptly at the front door and stares at the lock for himself.

“I told you,” I say smugly. He ignores me and tries to pull the door open. “I already did that. It’s locked.”

“They’re supposed to do rounds before they lock up,” he states.

“Are you sure there’s no one else here?”

“Yep,” I smirk.

“Did you check the other exits?”

“Mhm.”

His eyes meet mine through his shaggy blonde hair. “Did you call for help?”

I stand there, dumbfounded. “I–, well. No, but–”

He shakes his head and pulls out his phone. “Mine’s dead,” he shares as he stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He holds out his hand towards me, raising his left eyebrow. I reluctantly unlock my phone and hand it to him.

“Who are you calling?”

“The campus police,” he responds and he punches in the mem orized number. The phone rings. And rings some more. And goes to voicemail. “Are you serious?”

“That is so wrong in so many ways,” I say under my breath. After the beep, he calmly explains the situation and hangs up.

“So what now?” I ask. He looks around the room, planning out his strategy for however long we’re set to stay.

“I guess we just go back and find a more comfortable spot. We’ll probably be here a while,” he suggests.

I nod my head and we walk to the back corner together where there are beanbags. Our bags and coats drop in unison as we both sink into the cushions.

He yawns. “I’m Nate by the way.”

“Sam,” I offer a weak smile. I roll around the bean bag, trying to get comfortable. The beads make it hard to settle in. “What year are you?” I figure it might work in my favor if I distract myself with stupid questions. Then I might be able to fall asleep.

“Sophomore. You?”

“Junior,” I respond. I wait for him to ask me a question back,

but only the hum of the heater can be heard. “Good thing they don’t turn off the heat when they close,” I say jokingly. He groans and I take it he doesn’t want to talk to a strange girl. What a nice boy. I turn over, attempting to find a cozy position while also shying away from someone who appears uninterested in getting to know me. As I settle in and look at my cell, my stomach roars angrily and a trail of gurgles follows.

“Are you okay?” Nate asks in disgust. That’s embarrassing.

“Yeah. I planned on eating when I got back to my room,” I say. “I’ll survive.”

I hear him search in his bag, pushing around papers and heavy books. He sighs and lays back. A few seconds later, he sits up and rustles again. This time, he picks something out.

“I’ve got a dollar,” he proudly reveals. I roll over to face him and we share eye contact. “For the vending machine.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say bashfully. Internally, however, my organs are screaming at me to take the money. I didn’t realize my intense need for food up until my lower belly sang–and now that it has, I feel as ravenous as a starved hyena.

“It’s just a dollar.” He stands up waiting for me to rise with him and we walk to the side of the library where the snack machine sits. A case full of pretzels, M&M’s, and Fritos lights up.

“Do you want to split something?” I offer. It seems only right since I am the recipient of his last single.

“No, it’s okay,” he says. I continue scanning the endless options. “I wouldn’t be mad if you got the cool ranch Doritos, though.”

We laugh together and I insert the dollar into the machine. After I press the button, the claw lowers our chemical dinner, and we walk back to the rough bean bags with our prize.

I open the package, the overwhelming seasonings causing im mediate salivation. “Thank you, Nate,” I say with obvious gratitude. He shrugs. I take a handful of chips out and tilt the bag toward him.

He smiles and grabs a few. “You can have the rest,” he notes while chomping on his chips. Flakes fly everywhere, similar to the granola boy, causing me to sneer. We both chew in silence. I tap my phone, checking for messages I know won’t come, and decide to distract myself.

“So you’re studying law,” I ask.

He squints his eyes cocking his head. “How did you know that?”

“I saw your textbooks earlier,” I gesture toward his backpack.

Nate sighs with relief. “Oh, that’s right. Yeah, I’m Pre-Law. It’s riveting,” he says sarcastically and tosses out a weak chuckle.

“You don’t like it?”

“Absolutely not. But my parents are both lawyers–they actu ally met here. So, you know,” he fidgets with his fingers exposing his chewed-up nails. “It was just kind of always going to lead to this.”

I nod in my response. I don’t need to tell him that if I was forced to go into my mom’s profession I would fake my death, change my name, and flee the country.

“Let me guess, you’re nursing? Or Pre-med?” Nate theorizes. I laugh hard enough to feel it in my stomach. “Oh God, no. What makes you think that?”

He shrugs. “Why else would you be in the library so late?”

“Okay. Understandable,” I attempt to piece back together his ego. “I’m a film major. I was trying to finish my movie script but I’ve kind of hit a wall though so it wasn’t much use.”

His icy blue eyes lock with mine, holding an intense stare filled with curiosity and envy. My chest flutters and I feel my heart drop as I wait for him to speak.

“What’s it like?” he asks.

“What’s what like? Writer’s block?”

“No,” Nate says firmly. “What’s it like to pursue your passion?”

My face softens a bit. “Oh, I mean it’s great. I love it. The pro fessors rock and my classes are super interesting.”

He looks down. “I hate my classes,” he responds.

“Oh. Well, did you say that to your parents?”

Nate groans. “Of course I did. They say that learning isn’t sup posed to be fun. It’s hard work and perseverance.” He goes quiet, con tinuing to stare at his feet. “I always wanted to do journalism but they say it’s a dying career.”

“That’s not true,” I roll my eyes. “It’s just turning more digital. We’ll always need people to inform us about what’s going on in the world. Don’t they watch the news?”

“That’s what I say!” Nate laughs. “At this point, I’m just going to switch my major without them knowing. I’m failing all my classes. I don’t like anything about what my professors are teaching. The only court case I found remotely interesting was when a reporter was sued for invasion of privacy.”

“So do it then,” I say.

He meets my gaze. “What? Oh no, I couldn’t. I just–”

“Why not? Don’t let them force you into a miserable life. They might be mad at first, sure, but if they truly care about you they’ll be happy for you.” Nate stays quiet and I recall back to when I declared my major. “My parents may not have been the most excited when I said I

wanted to do film, it’s justified to be worried about whether or not your kid is going to get a good-paying job after graduation. But my mom is my biggest supporter, and I’m sure your parents will be too. You know, after a few months.”

I slide out my laptop from my backpack and go on the school’s website. Typing in “major declaration,” I push the screen toward Nate. He looks at the screen and then up at me.

“I don’t know, Sam,” his voice shakes.

“Why don’t you just apply for Digital Journalism while keeping your Pre-law track? Next semester you’ll be allowed to take news writing courses and if you hate them, then you still have all of your law credits and can go back to what you’re doing now. But if you love it …” He sighs and grazes his fingers along the laptop. His eyes fill with a mix of fear and longing, and ultimately, he pulls the computer onto his lap. A smile starts to spread on both of our faces. Nate types in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he takes a deep breath and does one last click on the mousepad.

“I did it,” he whispers, “I did it.” His eyes close, as a long sigh emerges and he leans back for a moment in silence. “Thank you,” he hands back the computer.

I shove the start of his new life back into my bag and tap my phone’s lock screen. “So does that mean I should help you with your problems now?” Nate asks.

I chuckle, “I don’t have any problems.”

“Oh yeah? What’s up with your constant need to check your cell then?”

My eyes move to the barren device glued to my hand while Nate tilts his head impatiently.

“I don’t,” I argue back.

“Please. You’ve been stuck to that thing all night long,” Nate scoffs. “Who is it?”

“What? It’s no one.”

He turns over on his beanbag and sighs. “Okay, fine.”

I flip over on mine in response. “Fine,” I echo. I stare off into the dark hallway nearby and listen to the blow of the heater once again. As an instinct, I turn my phone over to see if there are any new messages. Blank. Frustrated, I throw it off to the side. “It’s this guy,” I groan.

I hear him rustle behind me but I stay put, embarrassed to show my face. “I thought that he liked me but ever since I brought up the ‘b-word’ he stopped talking to me.”

“The ‘b-word’?” Nate asks.

“Boyfriend.” I flip over and see his emphatic lip tuck and eye brow raise. “Yeah, I know. I’m lame,” I say.

“Screw him. Why are you pining over someone who doesn’t think you’re worthy of a stupid title? From the past couple of hours, I can already tell you’re caring and smart,” Nate comforts me. “There are so many other guys here that won’t drive you crazy to see if they texted or not. I actually have a friend that would probably really dig you.” I burst into a hearty laugh, “I’m okay, thank you though.”

“Okay, yeah maybe just take this time for yourself. But seriously. Don’t waste your energy on someone that can’t see what an amazing per son you are,” his voice softens. “I went through the same thing last year. I get it, it sucks and it takes time. In a few months from now though, you’ll be thankful you dodged a bullet.”

I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I know.” I look toward my phone and grab it.

“What are you doing?” he asks. I scroll through my screen and find the contacts app.

“Deleting his number. I don’t need it anymore,” I reply. He grins, impressed. For the first time in weeks, I completely shut my phone down.

“Thank you,” I say to Nate.

We finally settle in side by side, allowing our exhaustion to fully take over. No more law textbooks and no more emotionally unavailable crushes clouding our minds. Nate begins to snore, just as he did when I found him a few hours before. I smile to myself and somehow manage to doze off at the sounds of his sputters.

…

I wake to someone shaking my shoulder, leaning over my body. “Sam wake up.” I open my eyes to see Nate and a library employee behind him. I bolt up, taking his rough, calloused hands for support. “It’s unlocked. We can leave now.”

We both laugh as the worker’s eyes bulge in horror knowing that she failed to adequately do her rounds. “It’s okay, I won’t report you,” I reassure her. Nate looks at me and we howl together once again. He bends over, grabs my backpack and coat, and hands it to me. Almost in a skipping, awkward race, we find ourselves bursting through the front doors.

“Fresh air!” Nate screams.

“That was definitely the weirdest thing to ever happen to me,” I admit.

“Just more material for your movies,” Nate suggests.

“Yeah,” I nod. “It is.” I stand there picturing just that.

“I’m going to grab some breakfast in the dining hall if you want to join.”

I look up at him, “I think I should probably go sleep in my own bed. But thank you.” Nate nods. “Maybe another time? You can tell me about your journalism classes,” I smirk.

He beams, “Yeah, totally. Thank you again, for that,” he says sincerely. “I’ll see you around then.”

Nate and I part ways before I could also thank him, and for the entire walk back to my apartment, I think about our night together. Once I arrive at my building, I unlock my doorway, rush to my bedroom, toss my stuff on the floor, and joyfully jump into my bed. I sink into the soft ness of my mattress which feels even more luxurious after spending the night on a lumpy library bean bag.

But instead of easily falling back asleep, my mind continues to race. Just more material for your movies. Within moments, I throw off my covers, grab my computer, and effortlessly start typing.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Brooke is currently a junior at Fair field University, studying English Cre ative Writing and Digital Journalism, with minor concentrations in Film, Television & Media, as well as Editing & Publishing. She is the Head Entertainment Editor and writer for her university’s newspaper, The Fairfield Mirror, where she has published over 100 articles. Brooke also works as an intern reviewing scripts for The Robb Company and serves as an Assistant Editor for the literary journal Dogwood. She hopes to pursue a career in screenwriting and other opportunities that involve writing.

Brooke created the plot of Locked In as she was drifting in and out of sleep at two in the morning. Thankfully, with her handy, dandy voice memo app, she was able to get down her thoughts and execute them on paper in the following weeks. She hopes that you find the story as inspi ration to follow your dreams, just as she pursues hers.

LETTERS

Abigail White

A Letter to The Girl Who was Scared to Leave Home

To the Girl who was scared to leave home,

You’re doing it. You’re leaving home for college. You’ve been anticipating it all summer and the time has finally come. A college education is an opportunity. It is a choice. It is a privilege. It is exciting. Why then, do you feel so sad?

No one talks about just how hard it is to leave your childhood life behind. It’s difficult. It’s heartbreaking. It’s scary. When your entire world is enclosed in the borders of your hometown, yet you are asked to leave. Actually, you decide to leave. To leave behind the only life you’ve ever known and dive headfirst into a completely new reality.

The once exciting prospect of higher education, of new friends, of “the best four years of your life,” turns sour as you wave goodbye to the ones you love, biting back the tears you never expected to come.

Doubt slowly creeps in as the familiar places, the places you have known your entire life, pass in a blurry haze as you pull onto the highway, car packed, your dad occupying the driver’s seat. The anticipation that has built up throughout the summer slowly slips away, leaving room for anx iety and fear to take over. You are afraid of change.

Despite this fear, change is inevitable, and you must say goodbye to the people and places you love.

You say goodbye to your hometown: your library, your favorite ice cream shop, and your beach. Goodbye crashing waves and seaside sunsets. Goodbye late-night walks and talks. Goodbye countless hours of reading beneath the beating sun. For years, the ocean has served as a place of refuge for you; a place to escape reality and create long lasting memories. And now you must say goodbye.

You say goodbye to your high school friends. The friends that took you so long to make. The friends who were always by your side. The friends who would stay out past one a.m., singing songs and making jokes along

side the glow of a burning campfire. The friends who made you feel safe and loved and happy.

Finally, you say goodbye to your family. Your biggest support system. The people who encouraged you, annoyed you, and saw you through your failures. These are the people you have to thank for where you are today, yet you can’t seem to say goodbye.

It feels like forever. You hope that you will make new friends and form new connections, but you can never be sure.

The anxious feeling creeps back into your chest as you hug your parents goodbye for the final time. This feeling has been building all day, but your mind has been shutting down the inevitable truth: you are on your own after today.

You have never been on your own. That is not to say you don’t enjoy your independence. But you have never truly felt this alone: when the closest thing you have to a support system is a roommate you have known for less than twenty-four hours. You will cry yourself to sleep that night and think, “College is not for me.”

But you will meet one of your closest friends the next day. You will say “hi” after walking next to her in silence for over twenty minutes. You will eventually build up the courage to speak to her and as a result, you will become lifelong friends.

And the roommate you barely knew will become your biggest support system in time. She will become someone you are excited to see every day, someone you create inside jokes with, someone you share your feelings with, and someone who will make you feel just as safe, loved, and happy as the friends you have at home. She will become the person you cannot imagine your life without. You will continue to room with her throughout your entire college career.

Do not worry, your friends from home will not simply vanish into the background. They will always be around for late-night FaceTime calls. They will always be waiting for you when you return for holiday and summer breaks, ready for more spontaneous road trips, more beach days, and more midnight campfires.

You may feel that you are leaving home forever when you first leave for college. But your home will always be there. And in time, you will learn to meaningfully combine your home life with your school life. You will introduce your friends from home to your friends at school. Your family will come to love your roommate just as much as you do. And your parents will always be willing to visit you on the weekends when you need their support.

Your home will always be a part of who you are. It will always be what shaped you, what got you where you are today. And maybe one day, you will be able to accept that there is a newfound home in the life you are creating for yourself.

It will all be okay.

Sincerely, The Girl who has achieved happiness in her college experience

MEET THE AUTHOR

Abby is a junior at Fairfield University studying Communication and Digital Journalism, with a concentration in Editing & Publishing. She works for the university’s school student newspaper, The Fairfield Mirror, as an Assistant Editor for The Vine (arts and culture section). She is currently interning at Meryl Moss Media Group, a literary publicity and marketing firm as a part of the editorial/publicity team.

On top of her work at The Mirror and Meryl Moss Media, Abby is also a member of the Fairfield University Dance Ensemble (FUDE) and the string orchestra on Fairfield’s campus. She has always had a passion for reading and writing and one day hopes to pursue a career in the publish ing field.

If Not Now, When?

As a second-semester senior (that sounds so scary to type out), I feel pretty confident in giving advice to college students. I’m almost there, out in the big scary ‘real world’. While I am excited about the next chapter, this is such a strange time in my life. I love college. I love almost everything about it in fact. The friends I have made, the classes I have taken, and the opportunities I have been given. I feel so lucky and it is bittersweet. But my time is winding down.

I could go on and on about the things I have learned these past years, however, the one piece of advice I would give to any college stu dent (to-be or current) is: Just do it.

Let me explain why.

The opportunities that college offers are endless. There is something for everyone. From clubs to sports, services, or relationships. Anything can happen to anyone, that is if you are willing to put yourself out there.

I think I am a pretty good example of this. COVID-19 began to spread my freshman year and coming back the following year was tough. I felt stuck and like I fell behind. However, I had somewhat of a mid-col lege crisis. Perhaps that is dramatic, but I remember thinking to myself about all that time missed and asking myself “what do I want to do to make the rest of my experience count?”

So, I came back and put myself out there. I reached out to a class friend and joined the school newspaper. I had never written for them before but I applied anyway. I became a part of something. It turned into so much more than a resume builder, but instead an experience I got to make some of my best friends and make a real impact. I learned so much more about myself, the people around me, and even gained some profes sional skills.

The only thing I wish I did was do it sooner.

Now, I may not be pursuing a journalism career but looking back, college is the one place you can do something like write for a newspaper, run for student government, or join any group of students that feel passionate about something that you do. And if you don’t like it, you can have the satisfaction of saying you tried.

If you’re thinking about doing something like talking to a new group of people, going up and talking to a cute boy, or joining an organi zation you feel like you would enjoy working for or with, just do it. If not

now, when?

Before you know it, your time to just do it will be gone and a new chapter will begin

MEET THE AUTHOR

Maddy West is a senior at Fairfield University from Stoneham, MA. She is a Politics major with minors in American and Black Studies. Currently, she is the Editor-In-Chief of the university’s independent school news paper, The Fairfield Mirror. Post-grad, Maddy hopes to work a public service-related job and go to law school within the next few years.

Julie White

Why I Switched My Major and Advice To Those Who Are Thinking the Same

Within the first month of my sophomore year of college, I switched my major from Biology to English. It was a decision practically anyone who knew me predicted.

I took a lot of science classes in high school, and not only did I enjoy the content of each course, but I was able to succeed in them. When it came time to fill out my college applications, I thought biology was a great choice for an intended major, and it was—until it wasn’t.

The summer before college, I received lots of questions from rel atives and family friends regarding what I planned on studying. When I replied biology, I was always asked what I wanted to do with that degree. “Research” was my reply, a response that I hoped disguised my “I-haveno-idea-what-I-want-to-do-with-this-major-but-I’m-hoping-I-will-fig ure-it-out-unless-I’m-screwed” syndrome. I never had dreams of being a physician or an ecologist, and although the subject of biology and the sciences as a whole interested me, there was never one topic that really sparked something in me.

I am someone who is very driven by passion, something I only figured out when I was not motivated to study for any of my biology exams and was desperately trying to make sense of why. I reflected back to my time as a high school student who would pull all-nighters for extra curriculars like Mock Trial. I asked myself why I was so capable of put ting in an extensive effort toward something so low-stakes but couldn’t bring myself to care about my major.

By the end of my freshman year and a series of poor exam grades in biology, I concluded that I wanted to, needed to, switch my major. I could care less about my grades; I was bored. I love learning and felt as though I was not even retaining information because I was so un interested in the subject. But this realization left me with a bigger prob lem—I didn’t know what I was interested in, and I sure didn’t know how I was supposed to figure it out. I remained registered in science courses for the fall semester, though I didn’t know what other paths to take or where else to go.

I spent the summer reflecting on what energized me, and all I could come up with was learning and talking to people. The only thing I knew I liked learning about was philosophy, but I did not want to declare that as a major, as it was already a minor of mine. I knew there had to be

something else that I liked.

As soon as I got an email with the Organic Chemistry syllabus on a Sunday afternoon in early September, I burst into tears. It was so much work, and it wasn’t that I doubted my abilities to do well, but I knew I was not going to graduate with a biology degree. Putting in an extensive amount of labor for the course would be a waste of my time and energy. I decided to remain enrolled in my biology course though, giving the major one last chance.

I emailed my academic advisor and asked if there were any other courses that I could switch into. I drearily scrolled through a lengthy list of full classes until I found one with only one seat left, titled “Creative Writing: Nonfiction.” My mind flashed to my elementary school library’s nonfiction section stuffed with biographies and scientific material. I did a quick “Rate My Professor” search for the professor just to make sure she was not awful, and readily emailed my advisor that I would like to enroll in the course. I thought it would be interesting.

Tuesday morning rolled around, and I made my way to an out door tent where my professor was holding class. She took attendance, introduced herself, and passed out a small slip of paper with a tweet by author Chuck Wendig printed on it.

“TUESDAY. The day you realize that nothing can stop you, be cause you are a MAGIC SKELETON packed with MEAT and animated with ELECTRICITY and IMAGINATION. You have a cave in your face full of sharp bones and five tentacles at the end of each arm. YOU CAN DO ANYTHING, MAGIC SKELETON,” it read.

I smiled and placed it in the front of my binder, where it remains today.

The professor briefly explained the course, and I felt foolish, as I realized my conceptions about the course were incorrect—this was Creative Writing Nonfiction, a genre I never heard of.

My professor tasked us to create lists, which we shared with each other after completion. I learned that essays can be written in the form of a list; that essays are a form of nonfiction writing. Making lists is writing. To conclude class, my professor handed each of us a miniature composi tion notebook that she asked us to fill out by the next Friday. She did not care what we wrote; she just wanted us to write.

In high school, I turned to writing as a way to process my emotions—sadness, anger, confusion, whatever it may be. I found it comforting, and I felt frustrated and restricted when writing papers for my classes. I longed for the creative liberty to write small paragraphs or prose. For so long, my idea of writing was confined to a practice only

done in academic contexts or by authors who published novels. It wasn’t until this first class that I realized there was a whole other world of writ ing I had yet to explore, a world I wanted to explore.

I walked out of class feeling a mix of joy and relief. Over the next few weeks filled with reflection, a few more enjoyable Creative Nonfiction classes, and many boring biology lectures, I realized I wanted to switch my major to English. It just felt right.

When I was little, my mom would take my books away from me until all my homework was completed. I won a gift card in fifth grade because I read the most books of all my classmates. I had forgotten about these things, the comfort I felt from burying my nose in a novel. I lost my love of reading as I grew older and busier, but I knew I wanted to rekindle my relationship with it.

Not only was changing my major a weight lifted off my shoul ders, but it has made me a better student, as I am actively working to be a better writer and better reader. I love my classes; I love the assignments I am completing, and I am doing well in school.

Of course, it was hard to lay down the ego that being a woman in STEM had given me. When I hear about something science-related that intrigues me, a little part of me wishes I was still studying the sciences so I could better understand it. But then I think about how miserable I was every day during my first year of college, completing loads of work with no reward or satisfaction, and I feel confident in my decision.

If you are thinking about changing your major, my advice is to give the one you are in a fair chance like I did. Take another course, and see how you feel. But study what makes you happy. You don’t have to be the best at it, but you should feel motivated to do well because you care about it.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Julie White is a student at Fairfield University studying English Creative Writing with minors in Philosophy and Editing & Publishing. She enjoys reading contemporary fiction and the last book she read is Writers & Lov ers by Lily King, to which she gives a rating of 4 out of 5 stars.

Julie resides in New Jersey with her family and loves spending her sum mers at the beach. After graduation, she plans on attending law school; but really, has no idea what she wants to do. Julie hopes to publish some of her fiction and creative nonfiction pieces in the near future.

Dear Younger Self

It almost feels like yesterday when I was sitting in the backseat of my parents’ car on the five-hour ride to Syracuse University for fresh man move-in day. The rest stops were few and painfully far between and, thinking back, I’m even more appreciative (and wistful) of the resilience of my younger bladder. More than 35 years and two kids later … well, enough said.

But there is so much more I wish my younger self valued and, although I try to share this wisdom with my own kids, I figure I have a better audience with young people who don’t associate me with one of those anxious, over the top mom types who are featured in hourly (or more like nano-second-ly) Tik Tok videos. I hate to admit it, especially in writing, that I find these videos absolutely hilarious, if not disturbingly accurate. Sigh.

So what would I tell my younger self? Granted it’s nothing earth-shattering or life-changing, but here are some simple learnings that hopefully will make a positive difference.

Majors – are a major PIA. No one at age 18 is going to know what they want to do for work in the future. Plus, consider the fact that by the time you graduate, there will be new jobs that don’t even exist today. So how do you plan for that? Simple. Study what interests you and learn as much as you can about different topics. The purpose of going to college is to get exposure to different things, perspectives, and experi ences. Take advantage of that. After your first job, employers most likely won’t pay as much attention to your major because experience will play a bigger role.

Stop wasting your time comparing yourself or envying others. Appreciate you. What a boring world this would be if everyone was the same. You bring something unique to the table. Embrace it.

I honestly believe things have a way of working out. Whether it’s a bad grade, rejection, a layoff, or a health challenge, repeat one of my favorite quotes from John Lennon: “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

Don’t expect to meet your long-term partner in college. I blame movies and books that create this unrealistic expectation. In fact, don’t define “love” based on the movies or shows you watch or the books you read (I admit, I was sadly influenced by the story of Cinderella). It’s

not about feeling butterflies in your stomach as you wait and pray for that person to text, which by the way is all caused by anxiety and insecurity. The person should call and text and want to be with you. It should be that easy. And no, that doesn’t make it boring or mean. It also doesn’t mean that something is wrong with the person for liking you so quickly. You need to be able to connect intellectually – beyond a physical attraction –and talk and laugh together and just feel comfortable with one another. Opposites may attract initially because the differences are exciting but having more in common with each other results in a deeper connection.

Be responsive. And if your brain read that as “be responsible,” then be that too! In one of my earlier jobs, our slogan was “back to you in under two,” meaning two hours. That applied not only to our external customers but also to our internal customers – our colleagues. This can apply to your professors and classmates, too.

Nothing is more refreshing and valued than a person who is responsive. And if you don’t have the information or answer that some one requests, simply let them know you haven’t forgotten about them and provide an ETA for providing it. It’s all about communication. And trust me, people will notice and reward you for this.

It’s easy to misinterpret excitement as anxiety since our bodies react to both feelings in similar ways. Whether you have a presenta tion to give, an interview, or a difficult conversation, one trick to remem ber to help alleviate a shaky voice is to take in a deep breath and as you breathe out, hum. Repeat this several times. I still do this today and you can catch me humming before an important call or as I’m walking into a meeting with a client.

A good handshake with eye contact makes a lasting impression. Practice it – seriously! I’ll always be grateful to my dad who taught me.

Always remember that only you control your happiness. Re gardless of how others treat you or speak to you, only you have control over how you react or respond. Say it Michelle Obama – “when they go low, we go high!”

Be proud to put your name on your work. Don’t do things half-ass. Everything you do, and how you present yourself, is a reflec tion of you. I still cringe when I think about a yearbook “article” I wrote back in college when I was trying to be involved and build my resume. I overextended myself by volunteering my time as a writer and did a very lame job on the article in a rush to complete it. Luckily my last name has changed since then!

To quote my friend, Maryann, a happy life is a HEALTHY life. Simply put. No matter what job you have, where you live, which car you drive, or how much money you have saved, good health is the key to a happy and fulfilling life. Eat right, stay active, and do your annual health checkups. (Cue the sound of moms cheering and clapping.) And finally. Just breathe. Be present. Notice and be thankful for something every day – your health, your family, your friends, your experiences, the sunset, being able to see the sunset. As COVID taught us, there is more to life than just school or work. It’s all about balance and enjoying your time on this planet.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Lisa majored in Advertising at Syr acuse University with the dream of working at an ad agency as a copywriter for The Limited or Co ca-Cola (Diet Coke, to be exact). Upon graduating, she regrettably turned down a secretarial job at an agency, dutifully following the warning of a professor who claimed: “once a secretary, always a secretary.” And after discovering that many local agencies had far less glamorous companies as cli ents, well, she eventually entered the workforce in market research.

Lisa later spent several years managing an in-house ad agency at a trade association, then ended up in sales in the financial industry. Her biggest achievement, however, is being a mom to three amazing people! As an official victim of the mid-life crisis, Lisa is starting to reclaim her creative side by pursuing new passions like golfing, pottery, and writing.

Late-Night Library Review is a literary journal that is founded, edit ed, and designed by Brooke Lathe and Jackie Campbell, who are both curently junior English students at Fairfield University. We got the idea to create The Late-Night Library Review for our “World of Publishing” final course project as we have been learning about different forms of publication and wanted to try our own hand at it. We are excited to have immersed ourselves in editing, designing, printing, and distribution.